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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

































BOB CRATCHIT AND TINY TIM 


[See page 26b 














































































XO/UA. 


iA^ 


3^^ \. [ sdL 




V£c. 


INDEX BY STORIES. 


A Chase for a Wife. T. C. Haliburton .479 

A Christmas Carol. Charles Dickens .266 

A Christmas-Eve Experience. Miriam Coles Harris .. .249 

A Deadly Feud. Rudolph Lindau .352 

A Farewell Appearance. . F. Anstey .458 

*. ** 

A Fight for a Wife. William Black .241 

A Hidden Witness. Charles Dickens .115 

A Luxurious Bohemian. Mel. R. Colquitt .103 

A Mesmerist of the Years Gone 

By. Mrs. Henry Wood .373 

A Modern Delilah. James Payn .424 

A Modern Knight. John Habberton . 63 

A Night of Terror. Katherine S. Macquoid ..298 

A Pair of Dramatists... A. von Winterjield .463 

A Postal Courtship . Litchjield Moseley .322 

A Sailor’s Yarn. W. Clark Russell .332 

A True Story.“ Mark Twain ” .456 

An Accident.. .'. Francois Coppee .371 

An Amateur Letter-Carrier. T. C. Haliburton .552 

By the Night Express. Mary Cecil Hay .565 

Cromwell’s Statue. Edward Everett Hale .... 7 

Denis... From “ Blackwood"... .235 

Mamond Cut Diamond. From “Temple Bar".... 18S 

Doctor Marigold.‘. Charles Dickens . 5 I 9 

ts and Fears. Anon .557 

1' pj - * \ry Crazy Work. Ferd. C. Valentine .281 

! '<■ d. Florence B. Hallowell... .294 

ither s of Ballymoy. Anon .381 

> ' Deh e Case. Anon . 547 

. ; s Has a Cod?. ... T. C. Haliburton . 57 

How 10 Mrke Home Happy.... Mark Lemon .201 

John Inglefielcl’s Thanksgiving. .Nathaniel Hawthorne... .163 
John Smith ; or, Two Thanks¬ 
givings. Ella Wheeler .165 

Keep My Secret. Anon .308 

Lady Eleanor’s Mantle. Nathaniel Hawthorne... .127 

La Rabbiata. Paul Heyse .149 

pgal Metamorphoses. Charles Dickens .411 

Le Tombeau Blanc. .John Dimitry .499 

“ Little Mrs. Haynes”. Margaret Verne .349 


STORIES. 

AUTHORS. 

r/.GE. 

Love and Lawn Tennis." 

Findlay Muir head .207 

Love Finds the Way. 

Besant and Rice. 


Ma’amselle Felice. 

Julia Schayer ... 

. 339 

Major Wagstaff’s Wig. 

.Anon . 


Misfortune’s Favorite. 

Carlotta Perry... 


Mother Antoine’s Lad. 

. Jean Richepin.. 

.113 

Mr. Flintshire’s Marriage. 

.From “ Truth ”. 

.561 

Mrs. Banwell’s Legacy. 

.Anon . 


My Aunt Jop. 

.Lucy Ledyard.. . 

. 398 

My Uncle’s Will. 

.J. Arbuthnot Wilson .. . .362 

Nance. 

. Ella Wheeler.. . 

. 39 

Neck or Nothing. 

Helen W. Pierson .223 

Ned Sprucington’s Umbrella.. 

. A non . 

. 7 i — 

Nettie Dunkayne. 

Mary Cecil Hay. 

. 135 

Olivia. 

.Harriet Prescott Spofford. . 12 

Our Governess. 

.Anon . 


Pete Shivershee’s Miracle. 

.Herbert W. Collingwood. ..257 

Rab and His Friends. 

. Doctor John Brown .1 - 

Rip Van V\ ! dele. 

. Washington Irving... . 

Roge . 

. Nathaniel Hawthorn 

She 1 ] 

''' Collins. . 

( 

Simpsoi. 

.James Payn - 


Something to be Than For 

. 


“ Snooper”. 

.Ferd. C. Valenti. 


Snowed-I Ip. 

. A non . 


Steer N.W. 

.Anon . 


The American Gentleman with 


the Moist Eye. 

.Archibald Forbes 

. 35 f 

The Ami Gh&st. 

. Lucretia P. Hale 

.191 

The Bit of Bread. 

. Francois Coppee. 


The Box Tunnel. 

. Charles Reade ... 

.232 

The Cask of Amontillado. 

.Edgar A. Poe ... 

. 35 

The Clown’s Vengeance. 

. Paul Bonnetain . 


The Damp Straw of the Cell.. 

. Jean Richepin .. 


The Denver Express. 

.A. A. Hayes.. ■ . 



The Devil and Tom Walker.... Washington Irving .144 

The Doomed Skater. From “ Chambers Journal" 367 

The Four-Fifteen Express. Amelia B. Edwards .388 

The G. B. C., a Tale of a Tele- 


Jatnes Payn 


* 


gram 


555 
































































































































4 


Index by Stories. 



STORIES. AUTHORS. PAGE. 

The Gentleman in the Plum- 

Colored Coat . Dutton Cook .216 

The Gold Bug. Edgar A. Poe . 84 

The Haunted and the Haunters..ZL Bulwer Lytton . 43 

The Iron Shroud. William Mudford .226 

The Jumping Frog of Calaveras. ''Mark Twain" . 23 

The Knightsbridge Mystery_ Charles Reade .485 

-—The Man in the Reservoir...... Charles Fenno Hoffman. .. 73 

The Murders in the Rue Morgue. Edgar A. Poe .443 

The Mysterious Sketch. Erckmann-Chatrian .195 

---The Old Coat. Francois Coppe'e .325, 339 

The Old Man’s Christmas. Ella Wheeler .261 

' The Philosopher’s Baby. From "Blackwood” .336 

The Pit and the Pendulum. Edgar A. Poe .473 


STORIES. AUTHORS. 


The Purloined Letter. 

.Edgar A. Poe . 


The Rock oi Quiot. 

.Eugene Blair at . 


The Scent of a Dead Rose. ... 

. A non .. . 


The Siege of Berlin. 

.Alphonse Daudet . 

5 

The Spectre Bridegroom. 

. Wis king ton Irving. . . . 

.... 1' 

The Story of Two Lives. 

.Julia Schayer . 

... yb 

The White Camellia . 

. //. Sayville Clarke. ... 

...536 

The Widow Merand. 

. * ‘From Temple Bar". .. 


To the Death . 

.Edmund Yates. .'..... 

....139 

True. 

. Rose Terry Cook . 

• • -527 

Two Pards. 


...27 

Uncertain Coy. 

Morris Benson . 

.•-328 

Widow Townsend’s First Love 

■ Anon . 


William Wilson. 

.Edgar A. Poe. .. 



1 


























































INDEX BY AUTHORS 


Anstey, F. 

Benson, Morris. 

Besant and Rice. 

Black, William. 

Blairat, Eugene. 

Bonnetain, Pitil. 

Brown, Dr. John. 

Clarke, H. Sayville. 

Collingwood, Herbert W. 

Collins, Wilkie. 

Colquitt, Mel. R. 

Cook, Dutton. 

Cook, Rose Terry. 

Coppee, Franfois. 

Daudet, Alphonse. 

Dickens, Charles. 

Dimitry, John. 

Edwards, Amelia B. 

Erckmann-Chatrian . 

Forbes, Archibald. 

Habberton, John. 

Hale, Edward Everett ... 

Hale, Lucretia P. 

Haliburton, T. C. 

Hallowell, Florence B... . 

Harris, Miriam Coles. 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel.... 

Hay, Mary Cecil. 

Hayes, A. A. 

Heyse, Paul. 

Hoffman, Charles Fenno . 

Irving, Washington. 

Ledyard, Lucy. 

Lemon, Mark. 

Lindau, Rudolph. 

Lytton, E. Bulwer. 

Macquoid, Katherine S... 

“ Mark Twain ”. 

Moseley, Litchfield. 

Mudford, William. 

Muirhead, Findlay. 

Payn, James. 

Perry, Carlotta. 

Pierson, Helen W. 

Poe, Edgar A. 

Reade, Charles. 

^Richepin, Jean. 

Russell, W. Clark. 

Safford, Mary J.. 

Schayer, Julia. 

Spofford, Harriet Prescott 

Valentine, Ferd. C. 

Verne, Margaret. 

Wheeler, Ella. 

Wilson, J. Arbuthnot. 

Winterfield, A. von. 

Wood, Mrs. Henry. 

Yates, Edmund. 

Anonymous. 


Page 

. 458 

. 328 

. 428 

. : . 241 

. 221 

. 422 

. 175 

. 536 

. 257 

. 435 

. 103 

. 216 

. 527 

.306, 325, 371 

. 25 

.115, 266, 411, 519 

. 499 

. 388 

. 195 

. 358 

. 63 

. 7 

. 191 

. 57 . 479 . 552 

. 294 

. 249 

. 127, 163, 403 

. 135 . 565 

.27, 313 

. 149 

. 73 

. 144 . 170. 467 

.•*. 398 

. 201 

. 352 

. 43 

. 296 

.23, 209, 456 

. 322 

.. 226 

. 207 

.278, 424, 555 

. 416 

. 223 

.35, 84. 287, 443 , 473 . 5^9 

. 232, 485 

. ior, 113 

. 332 

. 135 

. 76 , 339 

. 12, 159 

. 132, 281 

. 349 

.’•.39. i6 5> 261 

. 362 

. 463 

. 373 

. 139 

71, 97, 121, 139, 155, 180, 188, 203, 235, 308, 336, 347, 367, 381, 511, 544, 547, 557, 561 



































































































CROMWELL’S STATUE. 

BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 

I wish you would not make me responsible for the 
story. It is no story of mine. It is Joel Scroop who 
tells the story, as they are all sitting in that funny 
hotel at Brieg—waiting for a fine day, that they may 
gc over the Simplon. It is raining like fury—so that 
they cannot walk out, nor, indeed, see twenty feet 
from the house. They are all sitting, lazily, at the 
breakfast tables—as they have been for an hour and 
a half,—one dropping in after another, and fresh re¬ 
lays appearing of coffee, of honey, of bread, and of 
trout. “ Fizz-izz-izz-izz,” said Montgomery Myers 
to the pretty waiting girl, “pas bubble-bubble-bubble- 
bubble.” By which language he meant that the 
trout were to be fried and not boiled. And I need 
not say that she understood him. 

They had all come down, in various caleches and 
voitures, boots and shoes, from the glacier of the 
Rhone. And it was some discussion on the cohe¬ 
sion of ice under pressure, as to its capacity to 
bear great weights, which made George grin and ex¬ 
change glances with Joel. Then Mrs. Mason took 
it up and asked what he meant, and George grinned 
again, and said Joel would tell the story better than 
he would. And Mrs. Mason told Joel to tell it. 
And he said it would take an hour. And she said 
so much the better. “ Go ahead,” said Montgom¬ 
ery. “Pray go on,” said Mrs. Beard. And Joel 
went on. 

JOEL’S STORY. 

If anybody knows how much weight four blocks 
of ice will bear, George does, and I. 

You see it all began one day in Westminster Hall. 
We had gone in, with tickets from the Legation, to 
hear a debate in the House of Commons, and George 
stopped to see the statues. Their first plan was to 
.set the Kings of England and the Queens there, I 
suppose. For Mary the Good is there. I mean the 
one who dethroned her father—the Mary Stuart who 
is not Marie Stuart. She stands at one end, and her 
husband at the other. Next her is James I. Then 
comes Charles I., not realistic, for he had his head 


on. Then came Charles II. jmd James II. Next 
to him came William III., Mary’s husband. But no 
Cromwell. For reasons unknown the series stopped 
there. I suppose they gave Thackeray the contract 
for Queen Anne and the four Georges, and that he 
died before they were finished. 

Observe, I say there was then no Cromwell. 
Somebody said his bust was to be somewhere among 
the “ Generals ” ; but because he was only Sover¬ 
eign of England, and not King, they would not put 
him among their Kings and Queens. 

Daniel was with us—Dan. Dielmann, you know. 
He said they were afraid to trust Cromwell in the 
night with such a pack of Stuarts. As it was they 
had to have William and Mary flank them to keep 
them well in hand. 

Fitz said that there would not have been any 
“ Rule Britannia,” or “ Britons Rule the Waves,” if 
there had not been any Oliver Cromwell ; and that 
Westminster Hall was not perfect without some 
memento of the greatest thing that was ever done in 
it; and, as we went upstairs to the gallery of the 
House, I heard Donald Everard—he is a regular 
old Scotch Covenanter—muttering something about 
“ garring Kings ken that they had a rrick in their 
necks.” 

That was all that happened then. 

* * * B u t in the fall—it was after I had 

my studio in “ The Avenue,” you know, where 
those queer old trees are, on the Fulham Road, 
just in the edge of Brompton and Chelsea— 
we .were sitting in the dark, one afternoon—Mrs. 
Pride had been sitting to me till the light failed 
—Monty there started the whole thing. I \y r ould 
make him tell you what he said, but he would 
fall to preaching. Shortly, it was this: that it 
was a shame—the worst kind of shame—that there 
was. no statue of Cromwell there. That if Eng¬ 
land had not pluck or gratitude enough to put it 
there, New-England had. Cromwell made England 
what she is, and he made New-England what she is. 
But, as far as Mont, knew, there was no statue of him 
on our side ; and here these graceless islanders were 
not men enough to put up his statue in their own 
old Hall. What Mont, proposed was, that we should 
go to the American Exchange at Charing Cross, the 


Copyright, 1883. 











































8 


Treasury of Tales . 


next day, and call a meeting of Americans, and pass 
some resolutions. That then we should send round 
a subscription paper, and appoint a committee, and 
that the committee should give me the order for the 
statue. That then we should send a note to the 
Queen, or the Board of Works, or Lord Beaconsfield, 
or whoever was the right man, and offer it to them. 
I believe, in my soul, that Mont, thought they would 
accept it, and that he would b2 asked to deliver “ the 
oration ” on its dedication. 

You know they always say the oration in the news¬ 
papers, as if it were ready made, and the man reeled 
off an hour’s worth, like the ten commandments, or 
the cable of a ship. 

Well, I said that would never do. In the first 
place, they would not take the statue. In the second 
place, any one would say it was a “ put-up job ” to 
give me the order. Now, I was as much interested in 
Cromwell as any man. My mother was a Williams, 
and that always made me think I was a descendant 
or collateral relation.* Then we chaffed at Mont, 
about his oration, and the thing ended. 

But the next day, after Mrs. Pride went away, the 
fellows came into the studio again, and we were all 
smoking, and Donald took it up this time. We all 
agreed that it must be a free-will offering, and that 
it had better be made by Americans. It was rather 
delicate to make the Queen order a statue to a man 
who had a hand in cutting off the king’s head. And 
any one could see that there would be endless rows 
in getting through an appropriation. But we are Re¬ 
publicans. We never had any kings of our own. If 
a group of Americans gave a good statue of Crom¬ 
well, that would be quite another thing. Besides it 
would be a handsome thing to do. It would knit 
again the bond of sympathy and all that—“ language 
of Milton, etc., etc.”—as we say in speaking on the 
Queen’s birthday. It was clear enough that if any 
statue of Cromwell was to be put there, Americans— 
not to say New Englanders—must make it, and must 
give it. 

If New England was to make it—well, the fellows 
were good enough to say that I was the man to take 
it in hand. That may have been their mistake ; but, 
as I say, my mother was a Williams, and I liked the 
commission. 

Then we fell to talking about the costume and 
accessories. I said I would not make him a tired, 
worn-out old man, with a w r art, and one foot in the 
grave. I would make him in fresh middle life, as he 
was when he first spoke in Parliament, or when he 
first addressed his Iron-Sides. I said there was a 
deal of the picturesque about Cromwell, and that I 


* For the convenience of readers who have not Carlyle’s Cromwell at 
hand, the editor copies the following passage in explanation of Mr. 
Scroop’s oracles “ Another indubitable thing is, that this Richard, 
your nephew, has signed himself, in various law-deeds and notarial 
papers still extant, ‘Richard Cromwell, alias Williams’ ; also, that his 
sons and grandsons continued to sign Cromwell, alias Williams, and 
even that our Oliver himself, in his youth, has been known to sign so.”— 
Carlyle's Cromwell , vol. i., p. 31. 


was not going to have him an Obadiah Precise, or a. 
Praise-God Barebones. Somebody said something 
about “ Crop-Head,” and that no Puritan could be 
made presentable! But we got down Macaulay, and 
I showed them how a Puritan gentleman wore his 
hair longer than any man does in England or Amer¬ 
ica to-day. We got out Milton’s portraits, and some 
photographs from Vandyke, and I took a bit of char¬ 
coal—and John lighted up—and I drew on the wall 
a rough sketch of the statue,—well, not unlike what 
it is to-day. I do not think I ever held quite so 
close to the first dream of a thing. The fellows said 
it was fantastic and airy, and all that. But I do not 
think so. I tell you no man ever made an army out 
of plough-boys and hedgers, as he did, who had not 
a deal of vivacity,—yes, of fun and light-heartedness 
in him. And no man ever sat in the saddle foui- 
and-twenty hours—and was good-natured after it— 
unless he had that amount of “ go ” in him, push,, 
and dash, and pluck, that you see in my Cromwell. 
Whether it looks like him is another thing. All I 
can say is that I modelled the head from myself,— 
and, as I said, I believe, my mother was a Wib 
liams. 

[He had said it twice, as the reader knows, and 
here George intimated to him that he was miles ahead 
of his story. Joel recovered himself and went 
back.] 

Oh well ! the rest is of no great importance. The 
real thing was that I determined to make the statue, 
because the fellows all said so. I had more time then 
than I have now, and you know that is a capital stu¬ 
dio. It was clear enough that they would be more 
apt to accept the statue if it were finished, and were 
good, and approved of, than if it were only proposed. 
You cannot go to any Board of Works, or any Queen,, 
and say, “ Will you accept a statue if I will make it, 
and if you like it when it is done ? ” The Queen 
will say, “ When it is done I will tell you if I like it, 
and then I will determine if I will accept it.” Clearly 
it was better to have that part out of the way first. 
Besides, I did not mean to have them give the order 
to Simmons or Greenough or Story, who are all New 
Englanders. I did not mean to have any nonsense 
about a “ competition.” I bought the mask of 
Cromwell’s face,—but he was old then,—and I got 
some good photographs of pictures of him. As I 
said, the Mugfords made me a wig, of just the cut 
and curl of the beginning of Charles’s reign, and I 
bought three looking-glasses and arranged them so 
I could see my own profile, and model with the wig 
on. I don’t think any one else has done that. The 
other fellows never liked the model as well as I did. 
but I like it to this day. I had plenty of time, and 
enjoyed every dab at it. Though I say it, who should 
not, there have been worse statues. 

How long ? Oh, I was more than a year on it be¬ 
fore it was done. I began to have more orders. 

I hat was the winter I did Walter Raleigh, and I did 
no end of busts that winter. I’ll tell you, I did that 









Cromwell's Statue. 


9 


pretty Miss Avery, and I did the two Woodcocks 
that winter. But after the season was over I had 
absolutely no sitters. London was empty. I had 
run over here—I mean to Florence—in the Spring, 
just after Easter. It was in Genoa, at old Ricci’s 
yard, that I saw a good block. He was cross because 
the government man had rejected it, and he had it 
on his hands. He showed it to me, and I offered 
him half his price, and he closed with me. He 
shipped it to London and I had it in “ The Avenue ” 
before August. It was very good stuff; I hope I 
may never work on worse stone. That was the year 
I had Filippo with me, and that man you called Mas- 
aniello, because he was such an ass. But he was a 
very good workman, and we had a very good time 
over that block. 

But, as the thing grew, we were more and more in 
doubt about the presenting it to the Queen. You see 
a statue of a Regicide is not exactly the thing to 
give to a Queen. Everybody likes the Queen. I am 
sure I do. I would not hurt her feelings for the 
world. I would not give her the handkerchief Marie 
Antoinette carried at the guillotine. I would not 
give her Marie Stuart’s crucifix, even though Marie 
Stuart was her great-grandfather’s great great grand¬ 
mother or something. We wanted the nation to have 
this statue. We wanted it to be in Westminster Hall. 
But none of us meant to pain or worry her about it. 
We could not find out exactly whose business it was 
to receive it. Certainly not those buffers in red vests 
and black breeches who keep you out from the gal¬ 
lery of the House of Commons. Certainly not the 
orange-women who sit around the statues and sell 
oranges to the suitors in the Law-Courts, or did, 
before the Law-Courts were moved. 

I think if Donald had not been away in Australia 
we should have moved in the proper and methodical 
way. I think he told me that we ought to have 
memorialized the Home Secretary, or the Speaker, or 
the Board of Works, or somebody. But he was away 
and we did not know. The statue went on from day 
to day, and I hoped it would go in somehow. All I 
was anxious about was the likeness and the acces¬ 
sories. I know I went to the Tower three times to 
study swords and belts,—and at Clive Hall they have 
a genuine sword of Cromwell’s. I went out there, I 
know, and made a study of that. Oh, yes, the detail 
of that statue is quite accurate. 

* * * Well, there was no end of bother. 

These fellows here, and Tom, and Harrison, and 
Thorndike, they were all as good as gold. I know I 
got cross ; I said I would put the statue in the street— 
in the Brompton Road—and that they might do what 
they chose with it. But Harrison, he soothed me, and 
George was always serene and said it would all come 
out right. Only,—do you recollect, George, how mad 
you made me, asking if it could not be bored out, so 
as to be hollow, that it might not weigh so much ? 
And I did tell Filippo to hollow out all that stump 


he leans on—it is not an inch thick. But the legs are 
solid, and that statue stands well. 

What they determined on was this : they would 
not give it to any Board,—they would give it to 
“Westminster Hall,” in trust for the British nation. 
Fitz passed the examination and had himself sworn 
in as a Policeman. He was Policeman L., of the 
something division in Westminster. He made him¬ 
self very popular with the whole squad—and a very 
good set of fellows they were—and I dare say are. 
Fitz was quite a light among them. They used to 
call him “The Dutch Yankee.” 

Then it was Dan who got up the order from the 
“Commission.” On the whole, that was the crown¬ 
ing stroke of all. Dan invented a “ Royal Commis¬ 
sion of Sculpture.” There never was such a com¬ 
mission before, and never will be again. But Dan 
made it, and officered it. He had some stunning 
office paper, very large and thick, printed for it. 
It was headed “ Royal Commission of Sculpture ” in 
big letters. Dan said it might be useful, and so it 
proved. 

They had hit on the device of the blocks of ice, 
and they had tested them on that flagging in the 
back of the Studio. Oh ! if you lift your weight 
upon ice carefully and do not bring it down on the 
run, ice will bear a great deal more than the weight 
of my Cromwell. People exaggerate the weight 
of a statue. The specific gravity of marble is only 
2.34. So that a fac-simile of George or any one of 
you would only weigh two and a third times as much 
as you do, except for the clothes, the accessories, 
the support and the rest. For that we were all ready. 
I had undercut the stump, as I tell you, and the 
figure stands, if you remember, only on a thin plinth 
of stone, not two inches and a half thick beneath 
the shoes. Statues are not nearly so heavy as you 
think they are. 

We had determined to take it through the streets 
after dark—it is dark so early in December—and 
we did not care to have a crowd. Then, as soon 
as Van Stael heard of it, he offered us his horses— 
said we might go through the brewery and pick. 
Van Stael said that being brewery horses they would 
take to Oliver kindly, and so, indeed, they did. Tom 
had taken all that part of the thing on himself ; he 
picked out four noble creatures, big as elephants, 
and kept them in a stable we had in the mews be¬ 
hind my place. We had settled on Christmas night 
to make the present. They said that the courts 
would not sit that day, and we should not annoy 
any one if they were sitting late, and that there 
would be fewer people in the way. 

In fact, that was the reason we did not go in broad 
day-light. 

But the best luck of all was the snow. Once in ten 
years it can snow in London, and on that very day 
of all days it chose to snow—snow that was snow. 
You might have thought you were in the hotel at 
Tom Crawford’s, it snowed so hard and so still. 




IO 


Treasury of Tales. 


Really it seemed providential to have it snow so. 
It made us late, but we never cared for that. By 
noon we were sure it was going to snow all day. 
Dan came ‘round and Harrison, and We sent for the 
other fellows. We split up the floor of the stable, 
and it was good cedar plank, two inches thick, sound 
as a nut. We had all the tools we wanted in. the 
Studio. We took Dan’s old catamaran to pieces; 
it was a truck on low wheels he had fussed over. 
We mounted it on four runners, which were as well 
shaped, though not as well shod, as any sleds ever 
were which carried logs into Pittsfield. By nine 
o’clock the snow in the Fulham Road was nine 
inches deep, very little drifted, because there was 
not much wind. Cromwell had been lying on his 
back, lashed to his plank, and on rollers, for days, 
while we waited for the permit and while Dan was 
arranging about his horses. Fine creatures, they 
came out all alive into the street, with their sled 
behind them, and the statue rolled upon it, without 
the least hitch, in less than half an hour. My men 
were used to it. They had worked for other peo¬ 
ple in “ The Avenue,” and everything is ready for 
you there. Don’t you remember when we saw Glad¬ 
stone there, before his head was on ? 

Once in the Fulham Road and Brompton, every¬ 
thing was easy. Tom drove ; and, though all English 
horses are puzzled about snow, the brutes behaved 
very well. The charm of London is that nobody is 
surprised at anything. Nobddy asks any questions 
if he can help himself. But that night there were 
few enough people to ask any. Londoners are 
puzzled by snow as much as their horses. Besides, 
it was Christmas night, and if any man could be at 
home, why he was. Indeed on such a night as that, 
with snow still falling, you would not have met 
many people in Boston, where they are not puzzled 
by snow. Anyway, nobody said a word to us. John 
followed with my own team and the ice ; it was the 
ice I set out to tell you about. He had the ice, and 
he followed. 

Nobody said a word. The horses soon settled 
down to their business, and I suppose they thought 
Oliver Cromwell was XXX,—stout and heavy. I do 
not think we were an hour and a half coming to 
Westminster Hall. Fitz was on duty outside that 
night. We knew he would be. He had made an 
exchange, somehow, with the man whose turn it was, 
—who wanted to spend Christmas evening at home. 
Fitz brought us up all standing, and asked what we 
wanted. 

I told him he had better c f all the night janitor of 
the Hall, and he did. The man was a little sur¬ 
prised, but he said Fitz had told him the statue was 
coming,—but he supposed we had an order. I said 
Oh, yes, we had an order, but that I thought the 
Board ought to have sent some men to help us. I 
explained that we had come in the snow, because 
it was much easier to move so heavy a weight on the 
snow, and that the Secretary of the Board was afraid 


it would rain before morning. Meanwhile I went in 
with him, and by the light of his lantern he read this 
order from Dan’s “ Board of Sculpture : ” 

“ ROYAL COMMISSION OF SCULPTURE. 

“Westminster, Dec. 24. 

“ To the Door-Keepers at Westminster Hall: 

“ This Board has ordered that the new statue shall 
be moved at night , to prevent crowd and confusion. 
Give to the bearer every facility. 

“ By order of the Board. 

‘ ‘ Daniel Dielman, 

“ Secretary." 

Then there was a great seal on the corner, and the 
countersign, “Recorded. No. 3562. 

“ Thotnas Ackers.” 

I said to the man that I was sure the Board’s peo¬ 
ple would be there by midnight. Meanwhile would 
he bring us some beer, and we would get ready, and 
I gave him a sovereign for himself and the beer. He 
asked Fitz if it was all right. Fitz said he was sure 
it was—that he had known the statue was coming, 
for a month, and if the others had not known, it must 
be they had not heaTd, which was true. 

Well, you know all an Englishman wants is to 
know from somebody else that it is “ all right.” 
Then if there is a sovereign involved, and plenty of 
beer, he lets you do much as you choose. So was it 
with this man. He was provoked to be called up. 
But once here, he was good-natured enough, and 
leaving Fitz to open one of the big doors, he paddled 
off for the beer. One or two other policemen, glad 
of the shelter, came up, and proved very efficient 
whenever we wanted some one to lend a hand. But 
of ourselves we were eight, not counting Van Stael, 
and Fitz, who is a stout fellow you know, made 
nine. 

Tom got his team turned round and backed up to 
the door more easily than I would have supposed. 
By the time the one-armed old sergeant was back, 
with the pot-boy and the beer, we had the six steel 
rails laid across from the sled to the threshold, and 
Cromwell’s bed was lifted upon the first roller. I 
told the sergeant that it was very remiss in Sir Chris¬ 
topher Wren that he had not put in a stanchion, 
which I could haul upon, and I asked if he had 
heard nothing said about a stanchion. He assured 
me, almost with tears—for his Christmas had been 
pretty thorough—that he had no orders about any 
stanchion, and should not know Sir Christopher if 
he saw him. Well, I said, I could not wait all night. 
If they would all lend a hand, we would try without 
any block or stanchion. We fastened the lift-chain 
to Cromwell’s bed, I called the policemen into the 
hall, and all the fourteen, seven of them and seven 
of ours, took hold with a will. Dan and Tom fed 
the rollers as the bed ran up the rail, and in less than 
a minute Cromwell lay on his back on the floor of 
Westminster Hall. 






Cromwell's Statue. 


It was well-nigh two hundred and fifty years since 
he had been there last. 

Well, then I pretended to make a row. I said it 
was near midnight, and that the Board’s people 
ought to have been there. I even gave the old jani¬ 
tor another half sovereign, and told him to go to the 
“ Dean and Chapter” gin-shop and see if there was 
not a Mr. Tamberlikof the Board of Sculpture there ; 
and I asked him to wait there for him, if he were 
not there. As soon as his back was well turned, 
John took Filippo and two of the policemen and 
they handed in the four blocks of Wenham ice I was 
telling you of. They were good large blocks, twenty 
inches two ways, by two and a half feet the other 
way. John fastened them to each other on the floor 
of Westminster Hall, by tying one rope round the 
four. He had thus one united block of ice five feet 
by three feet four. It did very well. 

Mont, and the Jack-ass and Dielmann and I had 
been rigging the steel-rod derrick I showed you. 
That is really Donald’s invention, and he ought to 
have the credit of it. I put one man at each rod, to 
keep it from slipping. Cromwell rose, lightly, to 
the suggestion of the triple blocks—I put three fel¬ 
lows as guides at each end—and we soon had him 
high on the ice. Then, as I set out to say, all we 
had to move was a mass of not more than seven 
hundred and fifty pounds all told, on a bearing of ice 
of more than sixteen square feet, on those flags of 
Westminster Hall. We soon had Cromwell and 
Charles I. foot to foot—I came near saying face to 
face. 

And really, that is all about the ice. [And here 
Joel stopped, and made as if the story were done 
and he would fill his pipe. For the others had be¬ 
gun to smoke. But Mrs. Beard wanted to know 
what happened then ; and he went on.] 

* * * Well. The truth was that then came 

our only difficulty. We had brought no pedestal. I 
had thought of bringing an oak pedestal I had in 
“ The Avenue,” but we had not done it. It seemed 
as if the nation, or the empire, or whatever it is, 
ought to furnish the pedestal. So here we were, 
with the statue, and had no pedestal. 

Clearly enough, he wao to stand next Charles the 
First. I said, therefore—and Dielmann agreed—that 
the true thing to do, was to move Charles II.’s statue 
upon James II.’s pedestal, move James along one 
upon William III.’s, and leave William to the nation 
to furnish him a new pedestal. He was popular 
and they would like to do it. So I told the fellows 
to bring up my steel-rod derrick, and we would 
swing Charles II. down on the floor, and put Oliver 
in his place. After that, we could move the others. 

I do not think it was my fault. But somehow we 
made a mess here. I suppose we wound the lift- 
chain a little too low round Charles’s loins. I think 
the man who made him must have undercut his feet 
and support immensely,—more than I did Crom¬ 


1 I 


well’s. Anyway, what happened was this. The 
minute he felt the rope, and was well off his pedes¬ 
tal, he swung round rapidly, his head came down 
and his heels flew up. The heels struck Filippo 
and knocked him over. His leg of the derrick 
slipped, and in two seconds the whole concern, and 
we who were holding and lifting, came all smash in 
one heap on the floor. Why ! you have no idea how 
heavily it fell ! We broke—or it broke—three of 
those great flags in the floor,—I mean cracked them 
badly. 

It was lucky for us that Fitz had taken his police¬ 
men off with him, and that the old janitor was not 
back from the “ Dean and Chapter.” Englishmen 
do not understand such things, and they might have 
been annoyed. I was sorry, for that statue was 
really a good piece of work. And I saw, to my real 
regret, that it was smashed all to pieces. But after 
all, the main object was accomplished. Indeed, 
Charles seemed to have a prejudice, perhaps even 
terror, about Oliver, and had fallen quite wide of 
him. All we had to do, was to run the ice blocks 
close to the pedestal, set up the derrick again, and 
be careful this time about the centre of gravity; and 
really in less than an hour Cromwell was standing, 
just as you see him there now, between Charles I. 
and the Duke of York—I mean James II. 

The old janitor, as I said, had not come back. 
But he might be back at any moment. I was for ex¬ 
plaining the whole to him. But the others said, Tom 
in particular, that the man was naturally dull, and 
that to-night, what with Christmas and our beer, he 
was quite drunk and abnormally stupid. They 
thought he might be irritated if he found the broken 
statue there. And in fine, they were so urgent that 
I let them pick up the two arms, and the head, and 
the sceptre, and the boots, and the broken thighs, 
and carry them out and put them on our sled. Then 
six of them lifted Charles’s chest and abdomen on 
our ice slide, and took that to the door, and put that 
on the sled. And they drove out upon Westminster 
Bridge and heaved all that good marble into the 
river. And they did not come back to me. 

I took down the derrick, and, just as the old ser¬ 
geant came back, I got him and Fitz and Tom to 
help me, and we put the rods on Tom’s pung, that 
the ice had come in, and he took that back into 
“ The Avenue,” down the Fulham Road. Then we 
untied the blocks of ice and shoved them all out 
upon the sidewalk. And there they staid, I believe, 
till they melted. 

The old sergeant was a good deal dazed. But we 
had taken away all our lanterns. And when he said 
he had found no Mr. Tamberlik, I said, “Well, I 
have done all my part, and the Board must do as 
they choose in the morning.” And I gave him 
another sovereign, and bade him good-night, and 
went my way. I have never seen him since. 

I think I said I had no more orders in London, 
and I told Filippo that he might pay our rent to 




Treasury of Tales. 


I 2 


Flynn and join me in Genoa, with Thomas, and he 
did. As for Mont, here, and 1 'om and the rest, I 
found them all at the station early the next morning, 
and we came across by the early “ tidal.” And we 
did not go to England again, any of us, for two or 
three years. 

Monty there was afraid they might be displeased 
with the exchange of the statues. 

But I have never heard the first word said about 
it. 

I do not think there is much enthusiasm about 
the “ Merry Monarch,” Charles the Second, you 
know, anyway. 

Somehow or other, there was never the first word 
said in the newspapers about it. 

You will hardly believe me, but there has never 
been the slightest expression of thanks for my Crom¬ 
well. It may not be a good statue. That is not for 
me to say. But it is a good block. And there is 
good, honest, conscientious work in it. It was a 
labor of love from the first sketch to the last touch 
on the sword-hilt. Yet not a beggar of them all has 
even begun to say “ Thank you,” to the artist who 
made it. 

Do you know, Mrs. Beard and Mrs. Mason, I 
sometimes think that they do not look at those 
statues at all. They look at the orange-women who 
sit by them, and at the oranges. But they all hurry 
through to go into the House of Lords or the 
House of Commons. 

A few Americans stop and look, but there is not 
one in a hundred who knows or cares for the differ¬ 
ence between the Williams look in Oliver’s face and 
Henrietta’s nose in Charles’s face. 

As for the Englishmen, it is clear enough they 
never look at them, or they would never have left 
that Hall, as they did, for more than twenty years, 
wuthout any Cromwell at all. 


OLIVIA. 

BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 

The lawn sloped to the head of the cliff above 
the sea. What splendid sunshine broke its verdure 
into Dante’s emeralds, lay upon its flaming beds of 
flowers, gilded its great vases running over with 
blossoms, and wove the spray of its fountains into 
ribbons of lustre floating on the fragrant wind! How 
fair the water-scene below, where the bay rolled in 
its enamel of blue and silver ; large sails, like silent 
ghosts, slid far away into the horizon ; boats dipped 
up and down near at hand, or some stately yacht 
slipped by with music on her deck. 

And how fitting a part of all this brilliant morn¬ 
ing scene was the lovely white-gowned woman mov¬ 
ing along the terrace with young Desbourn, the sun¬ 
beams playing about her and her scarlet parasol, a 

Copyright, j88j. 


certain swan-like grace accompanying her as she 
moved! She was like some great tropical flower, 
the sister of the splendid things blooming for a brief 
season in the vases there beside her ; no mere usual 
garden growth, but a glorious and frail exotic in her 
bountiful beauty, filling you with a sense of tender¬ 
ness and of the need of love and care. The very 
flower of luxury, as you gazed she seemed the last 
expression of all the wealth and splendor in that 
place where men propitiated republicanism, as once 
they poured libations to the evil gods, by building 
palaces and calling them cottages, and living a life 
in them that kings might envy for its royal ease and 
swift-succeeding joys; the very flower of luxury, as 
if it were for the production of so perfect a creature 
that luxury had existence. Who would dream she 
was only Olivia Castle, the little bound-girl of the 
Varylls in old Warlockside ! As she stood now, 
young Desbourn, it is true, at one side, yet the ruler 
of the land was at the other, an English earl and his 
daughters were in the group advancing towards her, 
and coming down the terrace-stairs was a haughty 
handsome creature whom they called an imperial 
prince. “Tell me about it,” Olivia was saying to 
young Desbourn. “ I hear his story is as romantic 
as the story of any fairy prince.” “ Quite so,” said 
Desbourn, removing the head of his stick from his 
mouth just long enough for utterance. “And there 
he is.” 

Olivia slowly turned to glance that w r ay. Why did 
the damask fade upon her cheek, forsake her lip ; 
why did the white eyelids droop, shutting out the 
lustre of the eyes till the eyelashes swept the marble 
of the cheek; \Vhy did the hand that had held a 
rose to her lips fall nerveless, while every petal of 
the overblown rose drifted away in lovely ruin? 

Victor Hugo tells in one of his poems of a child 
with her duenna walking on the border of a garden- 
lake ; her father, the Spanish King Philip, looking 
out from the depths of the palace-windows, and 
thinking of his fleet at sea ; there comes a puff of 
wind foretelling storm, and the duenna calls her to 
come in, but the child dallies watching the wind 
(that dares affront her) scatter before it the petals of 
the rose she holds—that puff of wind which was a 
part of the gale that wrecked the Armada. I won¬ 
der why one needed to think of that in seeing the 
rose-petals drift that moment from Olivia’s hand. 

The marble Fate in the shadow behind her was 
not more white than she, while the person that 
young Desbourn designated as the prince stepped 
down to meet her—“ to meet and greet her on her 
way.” She could not have moved a step, but her 
thoughts could fly like the light; why must they 
hover only over that defile of the Warlockside vil¬ 
lage, which, except in memory, she w r as perhaps 
never to see again ; and what was the prince to her— 
the promised wife of this Desbourn ; and what was 
Warlockside to either of them ? Warlockside, a lane 
between the undulations of some hills, meeting other 










Olivia. 


13 


lanes from the lowly farms around—farms that were 
open grass-lands without mystery ; a place where 
now in her recollection, darkness added nothing to 
the scene but dreariness, and moonlight gave it only 
a deathlike glaze—a place where, shut (in the narrow 
outlook) from the life outside, Olivia Castle, like a 
bird beating against the bars, had failed to see soft 
beauty of green slopes fading to russet, and that 
again to violet distance, of the stream winding down' 
the intervale to a larger world, or of the vast sky 
full of windy flaws hanging over all. 

Yet to a farmer and his wife living on the last 
farm on Old Warlock this unlikely region was a land 
of romance; not merely because here they first 
found themselves all the world to each other, but 
doubly so from the day when, fortune denying them 
children of their own, the little son of some way¬ 
farers was born in their house and left on their 
hands—left with their full and glad consent, having 
been christened a string of strange outlandish names 
with outlandish rites beyond their comprehension ; 
and a sum of money for a sound education, and all 
other needs till his manhood, but no farther, having 
been put to the account of his adopting parents, the 
Khersons. When all was done, and the little son 
left in their undisturbed possession, it seemed to the 
good people as if a miracle had been performed in 
tneir behalf. They reared the little John to the best 
of their gentle-mannered knowledge ; they proudly 
saw him take the honors when graduating at the 
inland college that they chose for him on account 
of its connection with the missionary field, and they 
brought him home to live upon the farm with them¬ 
selves, gratified to the core of their hearts by him 
in every respect but that of his sharing some of the 
dangerous ideas of the day, which, however, like any 
vagary of youth, they were sure he would outgrow; 
and lingering at their door-stone at sunset or sun¬ 
rise, looking down the peaceful valley full of mists 
and color, they felt, with their pride and joy in this 
son who had come to them as if out of heaven, like 
people living on the border of a land of dreams. 

Not so with Olivia Castle. Nothing could make 
the place a land of dreams to a girl who would 
have had her home on the poor-farm had there been 
a poor-farm in the place. As it was, Judge Varyll’s 
wife had taken her as a sort of bound-girl; but, re¬ 
lenting at the charm of her childish brightness and 
beauty, had allowed her to do only such light tasks 
as fall to the daughter of the house in our civiliza¬ 
tion, had taken her into her heart, had given 
her such instruction as the village academy afforded 
and such accomplishments as she had herself ; and 
then, since Olivia would have it so, was seeking 
among her fortunate friends in the outer world some 
situation that would give her independence. For 
Olivia had a longing for that outer world, in which 
it seemed as though there were some part for her to 
play, longing born of a dissatisfaction which was as 
strange a freak of fortune as all the rest when in the 


heart of one in her condition, superb creature 
though she was, reminding you, in her perfect con¬ 
tours and colors, of a great sweet rose, with all its 
spice and honey, shining in the full June sun. 

She had not many friends in the village, outside 
whose limits she had never been ; some sense of her 
different estate from that of the fortunate children 
of homes had kept her largely aloof ; the young girls 
of the village did not regard her with eyes of favor ; 
and she herself despised the clowns. John Kherson, 
who, at school, had taught her to carry ten, to clear 
her equation, to construe her lines, who, when he 
was at college, had sent her word from that outer 
world of her dreams, John Kherson was a different 
being from the rest.. 

He was a different being from the rest. What 
odds did it make that he swung a scythe, as all the 
others did, in the hay-field? Not one of the others 
swung it as he did—with the royal breadth of motion 
that mighty shoulders gave—as some ancestor, if he 
had an ancestor, might have swung shortsword or 
scimetar on the battlefield. The clustering curls of 
yellow hair, the bold features, shapely as if carved 
in ivory—ivory tanned by many a summer sun 
everywhere save on the broad square brow—gave 
him to Olivia a look as if he were some young 
Olympian god. “ And he is nothing but a farmer’s 
boy,” she sighed, “ and his wife will skim milk and 
curdle cheese all her days, till she is worn out and 
he gets another !” And yet, as she saw him in the 
village church, or on the street, or crossing the long 
hay-field, rising dark against the sky, all her heart 
went out to him, and she knew there had never been 
a day when she had not loved him, snatch her heart 
back angrily and forbid herself as she would, unwil¬ 
ling to make one fetter fast to a life in this hill-pent 
space of earth. 

What was there in that world outside which 
so drew Olivia, that world which seemed to her just 
beyond the last hill of her outlook ? Men and 
women of a statelier sort, statesmen, nobles perhaps, 
historic women, wild opportunities, great fates. If, 
—possibly,—if John Kherson had cared to go out 

and tempt fortune and take her with him-. But 

no, she refused to think of it ! After all, the child 
of this narrow horizon, content to sit down here 
with his old people, this was not the one to breast 
unknown tides with any restless spirit like her own. 

“ It is a shame,” she said to him as he sat beside 
her on the hill that bright day, “ to live in this 
world and this age and not to be a part of it, to mull 
out a flat existence when one could figure in the 
great drama of the day !” 

“To figure in this drama one must be given a 
part,” said he. “ Our part is in old Warlockside.” 

“ Have you been much in the theatre, John ?” she 
asked abruptly. 

“Occasionally, you know.” 

“ I don’t suppose you ever had a fancy for playing 
a part there ?” 






H 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Wh) should I ? Why, when there are people to 
do it for me ? And it never moved me greatly.” 

“ It moves me !” she cried. “ Just the thought, the 
fancy of it ! The drama which is life, the opera 
which is the ideal drama, which is life set to music 
and poetry, music and poetry that refine it into an¬ 
other atmosphere and take it' out of this common¬ 
place into the region of rom lT ~ ^ and dreams-” 

“ Dreams indeed. No oper£' of the few I have 
heard touches me as some ballad does,—the ‘ Kerry 
Dance,’ for instance, where the exile who \vi:' r -‘ it 
perhaps to see the world, and staid there, recalls 
with anguish the dark and lonely glen where once 
the happy voices of old companions echoed, and the 
ring of the piper’s tune made the dancers long with 
wild delight. 1 Trovatore ’ does not make my heart 
beat except for the pleasure of melody, but I have 
heard Katharine, that child of seven, sing the ‘ Kerry 
Dance ’ so that the tears started. That is because it 
is a thing of the nature of operas, it may b..,” 
he went on, “ an immortal song, something that has 
roots in the vital warmth and heart of things and is 
imperishable. The ring of the piper’,s tune is alive 
in j an ' the loving voices of old companions, the 
sweetness of the summer night, the ghostliness of the 
deserted glen, and all the minor of melancholy.” 

“I should think you put it to music yourself !” 

“No. I only lay it to heart. However, this 
is rather fanciful. It is weakening to the mental 
fibre to indulge in such fancy, I fear.” 

“ If one had anything to do with one’s mental 
fibre,” she said, with an impatient movement of her 
lovely head. “ But here !” 

“ Here,” said John, gravely. “ There can be no 
better place to use it since you find so much to 
despise here.” 

“Oh, John,” sighed Olivia, with half a laugh in 
the sigh. “ If you were not so hopelessly great and 
good ! But I cannot understand it. You seem to 
me without an aspiration.” 

He turned upon her with what would have been 
indignation had she been any one else than Olivia. 
He did not look without an aspiration just then ; 
and she might well have quailed under the glance of 
the eagle gray eye but for the laughing consciousness 
of her beauty. 

“ I mean my sort of aspiration,” she said. “ For 
affairs, for state, splendor, space to execute ideas, 
attrition that strikes out ideas, beauty, luxury, the 
top of life. I feel it in me to live a larger life, the 
life of the leaders, the life of princes, to handle 
events ! ” 

He laughed. “ How differently we regard things,” 
he said. “ I feel this life of a free-born American 
to be a larger life than that of any prince possible ; 
and every time I cast a vote I shall be handling 
events, events of a type and breadth far beyond 
those that belong to the maintaining of their little 
hand’s-breadth princedoms.” 

“ Well, then,” said Olivia, laughing in her turn, 


“ say one of the princedoms of a larger sort. Russia 
for instance, which is every whit as interesting a land 
as this is.” 

“ Yes, there is something in Russia,” he confessed 
half musingly. “ It might be worth one’s while to- 
be a Russian ruler and give liberty back to the peo¬ 
ple, to turn wolves into human beings. The trouble 
is, though, that some of the wolf’s blood is in the 
princes there, and the wehr-wolf at that, I am afraid. 
It is just as well on the whole,” he said, with his 
calm smile, “ to be an American farmer, adding to 
the world’s wealth with happy toil, inheriting liberty 
and doing nothing to impair the inheritai ce for those 
to come after him. Especially as we can’t help our¬ 
selves. Come,” he added, rising, “ let us get to the 
top of Old Warlock befo. the sun sets, and see this 
great world that holds . enchantment over 

you.” 

And well it might hold an enchantment over her, 
$ jught, as, at the end of their climbing they sat 
? u nie broken rock and looked at the land below 
them, so wide, so far, so bathed in rubeate glow, over 
all its greens and purples, s alluring in the dis¬ 
tances, and folded away at last ith lingering twilight 
to utter tranquillity and the sleep of peace. 

“ Is it not enough to look on now and then, that 
wide world,” he said. “ Can you not form any idea 
of a happiness that takes no other part in it ? ” 

“ Do you know what I have been thinking of ? ” 
she said, turning on him in the dim light her beauti¬ 
ful glance, with a dimpling laugh in the blushes ; “of 
Satan on a high mountain, showing the kingdoms of 
the earth.” 

“ He came to some old saint or other in the guise 
of a beautiful woman, did he. not ? You seem to- 
think I have only to go out into the kingdoms of the 
earth and conquer.” 

“ I see your chance there,” she said hesitatingly ; 
“ and something about you—I cannot say where it is 
—tells me of your strer>' th to use it. You always 
seem to me,” she added, still hesitating as he made 
no reply, “ to have a power you do not know about 
yourself, as if a kingdom waited for you.” 

“ There is no kingdom where I would reign,” he 
cried out suddenly, “but the kingdom of your heart, 
Olivia ! and that you knew long ago.” 

She was silent. She was conscious that it was the 
fault of the personality in which she had indulged 
that had broken the slight icy barrier between them ; 
for, with all their friendship, she had not dared let 
him know the ally of her own inclination, lest com¬ 
bined strength prove too much for her. “ It will be 
dark,” she said suddenly rising, “ before we are 
down.” But she felt the thrill and tremor of repres¬ 
sion shaking through him as he gave his hand to help 
her. 

It was dark before they were down, and up there 
on the hillside, with the immense high heaven above 
her, and the far, cold, glittering stars, a strange lone¬ 
liness made Olivia shrink. She gazed up at those far 











yjuma. 


cold stars, and the magnitude and splendor of space 
stung her with conviction of the paltriness of her 
hopes and fancies, and overwhelmed her with a sense 
of nothingness ; she glanced down at her uncer¬ 
tain footing in the dark, and caught her companion’s 
arm to save herself fr^m a fall. And all at once the 
arm was about her whether she would or no, and she 
was standing still, drawn close to his strong heart, 
and, in the consciousness of his infinite protection, 
was looking at the remote, indifferent heavens as if 
they were nothing but the fields about her home. 

They v'ere joyous days that followed, joyous in a 
sort of nappy surprise to Olivia, too. The sun 
seemed to hang in the heavens only for the two lov¬ 
ers. They were up sometimes before the tender 
grey had turned it^ f ' ^ise to deepening gold, and 
mounting the hill ^ ea with dewy cobwebs that 
the first sun smote to a blaze of jewels above and 
below them, as John went to some duty in 9 A^int 
pasture ; the whole world was remade to \ (3 f 10 3- 
that hour—it had been remade to them, indeed, since 
the night when they came down Old Warlock. Often 
they had an hour a; loon together ; and every twilight 
was theirs till the vhole village lay dead with sleep 
in the moonlight or ihf dark. Perhaps the warmth 
and fervor of this happiness was like a tropical sun 
on the cold depths of John’s still nature, developing 
strange things. At any rate, Olivia thought she 
learned more of her lover in that intimate season 
than in all the summers before. Not that she heeded 
much such an adventure as that when the little Al¬ 
derney bull one day confronted her with tossing 
horns, and a blow from John’s fist felled him as if 
he had been struck with a sledge-hammer, for she 
had always known of John’s mere feats of animal 
strength ; but when, at another time, a man tramping 
across the fields, uttered some well-meant imperti¬ 
nence about her eyes, John sprung upon him and 
left him nearly dead, a horror seized Olivia that left 
her with a sort of terrified repulsion, and it was days 
before John could quite restore the old feeling. “I 
am a brute ! ” he said in his repentance, “ and I 
cannot help it. There is a strange strain ‘in me, 
which does not belong to this race and day.” 

“ You might have killed him. You might have 
been a murderer,” she said with half a shudder. 

“ I know it. Great heaven I know it ! It is the 
thing born in me. And you, only you, Olivia, can 
overcome it. With you I feel strong to reduce the 
earth in me, and without you, I think every day it 
is only hanging over ruin ! ” 

Such things were all as astonishing.to Olivia as if 
on these calm and placid grass-lands in the sun a 
crater had suddenly flamed and bellowed at her feet. 
And she felt it more strongly still when one day all 
the volcanic wrath, without an instant’s warning, 
burst upon herself because she had accepted a bunch 
of pond-lilies from one of the village youths with 
that radiant smile of hers, where the light made 
you think of sunshine, and the blush made you 


- 

think of flowers, and the sweetness of the wc 
dimpled and deepened and irradiated all ; a sm 
she could no more help shedding than the sun cat K 
help shining. So astounded was Olivia at the out¬ 
burst that she did not make the slightest reply, nor 
remember herself sufficiently to move an eyelash 
before he came > tw JX {^§ senses. And when he did 
come to his senses, the repentance was worse than 
the sin. He threw himself at her feet and was lost 
s lamentation. “No, no,” she said, bending to 
pur her arms about him, “ I will not hear it. I think 
I never really loved you till now. There is some¬ 
thing of the spaniel in all women, I believe. I never 
felt you were my master before.” And then with an 
odd self-contradiction she added : “ But I shall al¬ 
ways thank people who give me lilies, just the same.” 

. And feeling humbly obliged to submit to her thank¬ 
ing people who gave her lilies, he resolved that no¬ 
body should have the chance to give her lilies or 
"anything that stood for lilies, since he would be 
before all the world by giving everything himself. 
And yet Ije knew he had so little to give. And then 
the gracioi^ess, the gentleness of his der.bfiar .jv was 
like a subtle incense offered at a shrine, while some¬ 
times he seemed to have a faint awe of her, as if she 
were something just too impossibly sweet to believe 
in. And all the rest of the time there was a lofty air 
of honor in his manhood that was compelling, a 
knightly bearing that required her reverence, and 
made her feel as if any other behavior on his part 
were but a dream of the night. 

They were still wrapped in the present, and not 
yet formulating the features of the future, when Mrs. 
Varyll one day announced to Olivia that at length 
she was going out to see the world. An old friend 
of hers, who within the last decade had become one 
of the nouveaux riches , had invited her for a season 
at her splendid villa by the sea, where, if there was 
any world to see, there it was, and she was to take 
Olivia with her. Olivia heard her first with a throb 
of joy, and then with a pang of vague regret and 
foreboding. For the joy was rather in answer to old 
wishes than to to-day’s ; she had been so at peace, 
she had been so satisfied, she dreaded any change. 

But John put an end at once to hesitation. “It 
is best,” he said. “ Gold has to be tried in the fur¬ 
nace ; and our love is but half assured till absence 
has tried it, till you have seen the world you used 
to long for and weighed i.ts worth with the life we 
lead. But oh, if I should lose you by it all! ” And 
with his arms about her, arid with his kisses on her 
lips, how could she dream that anything could be 
sweeter and dearer than that love ? 

A brief day’s journey, a brief stay in the metrop¬ 
olis among rather modest drapers and milliners, and 
Olivia awoke in the Clendennen Cottage, and com¬ 
ing down in her white gown and. knot of red roses, 
tranquil, self-poised, beaming, as if palaces had al¬ 
ways been in her daily fare, she found herself the 
•fashion. 







Treasury of Tales. 


Nothing could more have delighted the soul of 
Mrs. Clendennen, whose house, the good lady felt, 
needed only this attraction of a beautiful young 
woman, and she made the most of it. It was use¬ 
less for Olivia or Mrs. Varyll to refuse or protest, 
presently toilettes of the most perfect, and for every 
occasion, were laid one by one on the sofas in 
Olivia’s rooms, and not to wear them and be 
pleased with them she found hurt Mrs. Clendennen 
more than the acceptance hurt herself. “ I haven’t 
any daughter to dress up. Why not give me this 
little pleasure?” the elder lady would urge, “when 
I wish to give you a great deal ? Is it the cost ? If 
it is, I think that would be unhandsome of you. 
But you know that is absolutely trifling to me, and 
it doesn’t matter anyway between friends, or between 
a child like you and an old woman like me. And I 
have my account in it. I assure you, I have my 
account in it.” And as Mrs. Clendennen so set her 
heart on the matter that her color mounted and her 
eyes filled at the thought of disappointment in the 
possibility she saw of making her house the one espe¬ 
cial house of the season, Mrs. Varyll urged Olivia to 
consent, and she laughed to see herself in the novel 
splendor. “This is Olivia Castle, the bound-girl of 
the Varylls,” she used to say to herself in the long 
mirror. “ She is assisting at a grand masquerade. 
Behold her dressed for her part of a fine lady!” 
and she lifted the draperies of her white silk em¬ 
broidered with gold, or of the salmon-lined damask 
that would stand alone, its great folds loosely 
looped with cables of mock-pearl, or of the night- 
blue velvet glittering with laid-work of night-blue 
crystals, curtseying to the glass, and again, maybe, 
to Mrs. Varyll, if she happened to be in attendance. 
If Mrs. Varyll heard, she would correct her. “ But 
it doesn’t trouble me a bit,” said Olivia. “I was 
your bound-girl before you made me your daugh¬ 
ter. Nothing of the sort could trouble me. John 
does not care; and when I go away I shall never 
see any of them again. It only amuses me to think 
what all the people would say if they knew. And 
so you see I am masquerading. And the rest of them 
are, too, for the matter of that, all in some disguise 
or other, I suppose. But it is a gay, lovely world, 
is it not?” 

“Is it all you thought it would be, Olivia?” said 
the elder, perfectly content herself with the world 
as she had found it, and her position in Warlockside 
as Judge Varyll’s widow. 

“All,” said Olivia, pushing the locks off her white 
forehead. “And when the President comes the 
pride of the flesh can no further go. Then we shall 
be in the midst of affairs. We shall be statesmen. 
Mrs. Clendennen will entertain him. She says that 
is because I am here. Do you know that I am the 
fashion?” she said, turning on Mrs. Varyll in her 
sweet inimitable way. 

“ Olivia, dear ! ” 

“ But indeed I am. So what is the use ! One 


would be a simpleton not to know it. And am I 
a simpleton ? Do you suppose I don’t know what it 
means to have all these people dancing attendance, 
these yachts, these horses, at my disposal ? Why, 
just look at my flowers ! I could walk on them ail 
the way, if I would. And do you suppose I care ? ” 
she cried, kissing the shocked lady. “ Sometimes I 
think I should like .to have John see it all,” she said, 
readjusting the poppies in her belt. “ But then I 
imagine there would be such an outburst of right¬ 
eous wrath that I should tie up my things in a hand¬ 
kerchief and creep back to Warlockside. Well, this 
sort of thing does not come twice in a life-time, and 
I shall see it out ! ” she exclaimed. 

“Oh, my dear ! It sounds so worldly-wise.” 

“ But it isn’t,” she said, gayly. “ It is the cup at 
the lip—am I going to dash it aside ? Were we ever 
in such surroundings before ? There is Lord Gwynn, 
—his father is a Marquis ; to be sure, his elder 
brother is a scamp of the first water—milk and water, 
and he himself a wreck of the Medusa-horrors, you 
know.” 

“ Olivia ! ” 

“ But doesn’t he bear about him an aroma of that 
higher civilization that all our young men are yearn¬ 
ing for. It is true that at Warlockside one would 
give the youth the other side of the road—dusty 
road,” with a little mock shudder. “ But here, 
if all the other girls are wringing their hands for his 
attentions-” 

“ Olivia ! I never heard you speak so at home.” 

“And never would if I had staid there.” 

“ Well, I saw you myself present him to Helen 
Straws, and arrange it so that he couldn’t help ask¬ 
ing Miss Mandever to drive.” 

“ Perhaps I shouldn’t, though, if he had not been 
a disappointment. He is the son of one of the 
greatest nobles of the British Empire, think of it ! 
His forefathers won their name and fame with tre¬ 
mendous deeds—and he is a fool.” 

“ Olivia ! ” 

“ Oh, but I must speak the truth up here, dear ; I 
have to take it all for granted so down stairs. So 
you see, when I had expected the air of courts and 
greatness, and all I had read about, it was discourag¬ 
ing to find some one like a dry-goods clerk on a lark.” 

“ Did you think he would go about with a cor¬ 
onet ? ” 

“ A coronet! Is there no other nobility than a gold 
band carries ? ” and she marched off with dignity to 
meet Sir Guy—Sir Guy of Warwick, they called him 
—a little fellow who looked as though he wore his 
younger brother’s clothes. “ They are so disap¬ 
pointing,” she said again by-and-by. “All of 
them. I am afraid—I am afraid the difference be¬ 
tween him and the old Sir Guy of fable only shows 
the decadence of the whole feudal system ! ” 

“And how about Desbourn?” a^k^d the junior 
Clendennen, as little Sir Guy toddled ^off, for the 
junior Clendennen was a youth whom, f all the new 






Olivia. 


i/ 


gold of his father could not polish, and who was 
fortunate when confused only in his metaphors. 
“ When a fellow has the shekels, that is a horse of 
another color, isn’t it ? ” and he toddled after him. 

Olivia went out into the gardens, where the men 
were transferring the tropical things that could not 
earlier leave their glass houses, and admiring the 
arrangement exchanged a word with the gardeners, 
who looked up something surprised, unused to have 
the grand ladies sweeping by observe their exist¬ 
ence, and one of them broke off a superb carmine 
tassel of a spray and offered it to her. As she took 
it with the smile that always deepened her color, 
the color flashed away again as instantly into white¬ 
ness, for with the act she remembered that work of 
a nature similar to this serving-man’s work was that 
which John was doing, and which he would be do¬ 
ing all his days, and be paid less for it. Neverthe¬ 
less, among the clouds of her white tulle that night 
she hung the wondrous carmine flower, and felt as 
if it were a gift that had come to her from John’s 
hand, and were a charm to keep off the evil eye, 
the evil eye of all this tempting wealth. 

It was tempting wealth. As she had turned back 
that morning and glanced at the house, with all its 
lovely windows, its galleries and balconies and tou- 
relles and countless roofs, a palace in palace gar¬ 
dens ; had gone into the pleasant shadow of the 
great hall with the dark glitter of armor and bronze 
and portraits and the soft dullness of tapestries ; 
had gone on and found the luncheon-room, where 
the stately servants waited, the gold plate glittered 
■on the buffet, in the dim strange light that fell 
through the window whose painted glass was a 
superb stretch of color, the copy of a fruit and 
flower-piece by Maltese ; had seen her own beauty 
fitly clad sweeping along in the mirrors as she as¬ 
cended the stairs, like a splendid vision,—yes, she 
had felt it was all tempting wealth—she enjoyed it; 
it seemed something natural to her ; she turned to 
its'luxuries as a flower turns and expands in the sun. 
And it was hers, if she chose ; hers forever ; she 
had but to stoop and take it. All this tempting de¬ 
light, a city home fit to lodge some princess of the 
Venetian republic, a place in this enchanted spot 
exceeding even the Clendennen’s, and a generation 
older ; a family name equal to any in the land ; 
wealth beyond the dreams of old adventurers seek¬ 
ing the El Dorado—it had taken only these few 
weeks to put it at her feet, would she stoop and 
take it; for stoop she must, since with it all was 
young Desbourn. There was no need of her run¬ 
ning over that Murano glass, as she put the flower 
that had come to her from John—by a sort of spir¬ 
itual telegraph—into water ; and she need not have 
fastened it into her lace quite so viciously before 
going down to dinner—a high and mighty dinner, 
as Clendennln phrased it that morning, with none 
but toploftital top-knots—for when one has been 
unkind to a ,erson, that person has the advantage 


in the magnanimous nature’s atonement; and in 
her thoughts, at least, Olivia had certainly been un¬ 
kind to young Desbourn. 

He sat beside her at dinner that day, and on the 
other hand was an Austrian, who owned indefinite 
tracts of territory ; either the whole of Transylva¬ 
nia, let us say, or one side of the Carpathian mount¬ 
ains, or was it all the riparian rights of the Adriatic, 
or the entire water-power of the Danube ? His 
pallid wife, further down the table, seemed to be 
clad only in pearls, so thickly netted were the won¬ 
derful things over her close-clinging dress. “ I 
shouldn’t look like her if I were clad in pearls my¬ 
self,” thought Olivia, “so tulle will have to do. 
Warlockside would open its eyes at the tulle.” And 
she did not cast a second glance at the countess. 
“ It is wonderful,” Mrs. Clendennen had said that 
day of Olivia, “ where she gets that savoir faire of 
hers. If she had been rocked in the same cradle 
with the Countess Ladislaw she couldn’t have mor<j 
repose of manner. I’d give a finger for it myself.” 

“ Nascitur non fit,” said her son, who regarded a 
set quotation as a loftier sort of slang. 

But if Olivia had repose of manner she had not 
much repose of mind as she sat there listening to 
young Desbourn’s inanities. Her mind was in a 
whirl and maze with all these new experiences ; and 
most of the time she was distinctly conscious of 
only two things—that this life was beatified, and 
that one could not live it without wealth. The glit¬ 
tering table with its embroidery of maiden-hair fern, 
and banks of flowers, the glass like soap-bubbles, 
the Sevres shutting under its glaze flower-petals and 
humming-birds’ feathers and globules of dew with 
the sun in them ; the lovely women, the gentle rip¬ 
ple of laughter, and voices sweet as singing voices ; 
every now and then the vibration through the room 
from the touch of a great golden salver or vase ; 
the magnificent unseasonable fruit, and the wines 
that shut into every drop a summer’s sweetness and 
spice and fragrance; — all this and other over¬ 
whelmed her with realization of the possibilities of 
the world, and her repose of manner was often the 
repose of perfect satisfaction—a state of social nir¬ 
vana. She would hardly have tasted the marvelous 
dishes as they went and came, if there had not 
crossed her the remembrance of a boiled-dinner at 
Warlockside, and the way the house smelled of cab¬ 
bage for a week. And she must go back to it all ! 
As she glanced down she saw that her carmine 
tassel of a flower had wilted and drooped ; it had a 
faded sodden odor, too, at variance with the fresh de¬ 
licious flower-scents all about ; she quietly plucked 
it away from its nest in her laces and let it fall 
into her lap and under the table. 

“Yes,” young Desbourn was saying, then she 
noticed ; “ and such a gait as that’s unusually fetch¬ 
ing, don’t you know ; passes anything on the road. 
When you let me take you out with her to-mor- 






is 


ireasury of 'icues. 


She started. In her abstraction she had perhaps 
assented to that ? 

“ Oh, you needn’t be afraid. Gentle’s a pet cat. 
Score of girls here would be giving one of their ears 
to sit behind her, I can tell you.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“Not my sort, that sort of girl, though.” 

“I should think not.” 

“ No. Don’t like fruit that drops into your mouth. 
Take some climbing in mine. Tasted this entree? 
Wonder what the deuce it is—sort of gallimaufry. 
By Jove, the dear old Clendennen has a chef! 
However,” he continued, with his impatient fork 
poised, “my old Roden raises him and takes the 
pot. How’s that? Eh? By Jove, there’s an idea 
now ! I’ll give you a little dinner. That old fel¬ 
low— that old Roman what’s-his-name, his little 
suppers—your’s shall see them out of sight. That’s 
a bargain now.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Olivia. 

“ I do. Of course, I’ll have the dear old Clen¬ 
dennen. All things properly and in order.” 

“ Of course,” said Olivia, not quite sure of what 
she said, but thinking it was only for once in a life, 
and she didn’t know why she might not as well take 
the goods the gods provided. 

“ Little Pintry ’ll gnash his gums,” said Mr. Des- 
bourn between his toothsome morsels. “ He never 
did have an idea.” And while he rambled on, be¬ 
tween his innumerable plates, Olivia began to look 
at him furtively. “Oh, why isn’t John in your 
place ? ” she sighed to herself. “Just think of John 
with a quarter of a million a year ! ” She forgot to 
listen to the young man, and was lost even to her 
satisfaction with things in a bitter repining at fate 
for not having arranged them in John’s and her 
possession—a mood that had been slowly coming 
on for some time. Desbourn was urging upon her 
a delicate French wine ; she tasted it and tried to 
shake off her thoughts and let gay things come to 
the top again like the bead to the brim. As she 
turned, she heard the Austrian next her saying to 
Mrs. Clendennen, who, as well as herself, under¬ 
stood French passably, “A romance of the most 
remarkable ! Should you read it you would cry, 
‘ Impossible ! ’ But then the impossible happens 
only in real life. It is impossible ; but it is true. 
This young man, of whom we speak, is an imperial 
prince. A marriage, forbidden by the Emperor, was 
concealed, and his birth is but just discovered. 
That is the way I have it. There is no doubt of 
the facts, the identity, the legitimacy. He has im¬ 
mense things in his power. He will be here for a 
conference with the legation-” 

“A real imperial prince !” exclaimed Mrs. Clen¬ 
dennen. 

It seemed to Olivia, as she listened, as she looked, 
as she enjoyed with all her senses and with this tang 
of melancholy, that she was living in the Arabian 
Nights. 


She went to drive with Desbourn, perched just 
under the sky as she felt, and riding on a shooting 
star. There was a wild exhilaration in it, too. She 
lost some of her repose of manner in the intoxica¬ 
tion of the swiftness, the triumph, the pleasure, and 
possibly Mr. Desbourn found her more approach¬ 
able in consequence. 

She accepted the little dinner, too, at Desbourn 
Place, that was to see Lucullus out of sight. Per¬ 
haps it did. There were no nightingales’ tongues 
or peacocks’ brains—I doubt if there was a peacock 
roasted and served in his plumage, although there 
may have been a swan from the reeds of the Chesa¬ 
peake. But the four corners of the earth were trib¬ 
utary to the dishes, the summer had been made to 
put a bloom on fruit before its time, and a cluster 
of electric sparks hid themselves in a fountain of 
claret of the comet year that flowed in the centre of 
the table. Gobelins that had been the chief treasure 
of a haughty cardinal hung over the doors through 
which they walked on flowers; palm-trees half a 
century old hid the walls ; the lights were stars in 
the deep blue glass of the domed ceiling ; the cups 
were jewelled—she scratched her hand on a sapphire 
in her spoon that would have bought all Warlock- 
side, all ignorant, presumptuous, disdainful War- 
lockside. How the wit flashed as the wine sparkled, 
how beautiful the women were, how beautiful she 
was herself, with the rose burning on her cheek, the 
light in her eye, in her white laces threaded in and 
out with gold, and Mrs. Clendennen’s rubies ! While 
they refreshed jaded palates with the frozen punch, 
a songstress, like whom the world does not hold an¬ 
other, sang a brindisi in an adjoining space, and a 
caged nightingale burst into an ecstacy of music 
when she ceased. As they rose from table the light 
softly glowed, and there came a gentle rain of single 
violets kept back from bloom till now, filling the air 
with intense fragrance. Before they rose from 
table, Olivia had promised to become the wife of 
Desbourn. 

“ When one has assisted at such a charming little 
orgy,” said the junior Clendennen, as he handed 
his mother and Olivia into the house that night, 
“ one forgets that he ever dined off a corned shoul¬ 
der of pork and supped on mush and milk ” 

It seemed to Olivia that night that she could 
never remember it, that the life behind this formed 
no real part of her experience. It was like some 
one already in a dream that she wrote to John be¬ 
fore she laid aside Mrs. Clendennen’s rubies. Her 
letters had been brief and infrequent enough ; this 
was the longest of them all. 

“ It is no use,” she said. “ I have found the world I 
longed for. I can never go back to Warlockside. Beside 
this.life that is squalor. I may be miserable, for a while, 
—I know I shall, John, for ever and ever ! And you will 
despise me,—you must. I hope you will. I hope you 
will hate me. It will make me angry and less wretched. 
Strange that I should be wretched about what I prefer to 






Olivia. 


19 


do. Oh, I see myself at some just such banquet as this 
I have left. And I know who will sit at the other end of 
the table, and how if I look at him I shall tingle with 
scorn. But there will be ambassadors and merchant- 
princes and railway kings on either side of me, and men 
who manage events, and women who play a part in them, 
and I shall be in the midst of the affairs of the world, and 
at the top of the wave, with the things I love about me. 
Oh, John, if only you were one of these republican princes, 
if your house were one of these palaces ! If I could have 
these things and you , too ! You will tell me that some 
day, possibly, the deep dark regret will start up like a 
ghost and be with me when I sleep and when I wake. 
But to-day I have weighed everything, and I do not be¬ 
lieve it. But you see it would be idle to go on now. I 
cannot ask you to forgive me. Only to forget me.” 

And then there were days of the mad pleasures 
when Olivia dared not stop to think, but flashed 
along from one thing to another, ate nothing, tossed 
off her wine like a bacchante, danced till she was 
ready to drop, and if fatigue did not put her to 
sleep at length, chloral did. And then as she looked 
at herself in the glass in the morning, with the purple 
hollows about the eyes, she would cry, “ And not 
even Desbourn will want me soon !” Bift she held 
Desbourn at arm’s length. “ It is enough,” she 
said, “that I have promised to marry you.” He 
might kiss her hand as a street-beggar, perhaps, 
might do ; he could not reach so high as her 
lips. 

But she did not falter in her determination, and 
the moonstone backed on an immense diamond, that 
Mr. Desbourn had placed upon her finger, was like 
the eye of fate holding her up to her purpose ; she 
turned it in sometimes, as if it were a live thing. 
But she never suffered herself to dwell a moment on 
remembrance of the love in old Warlockside. 

So they went on, driving, dining, dancing, lunch¬ 
ing on the flag-ship of the foreign fleet in harbor, 
sailing over sapphire-blue seas that broke into gilded 
bosses, the white sails swollen out against the blue 
heavens, laden as they went with flowers and song 
and feasting, or belated under the wide stars that 
she forgot to look at and shiver with loneliness in 
the looking just now. And then Desbourn’s yacht 
was coming round for a pleasure party of some days 
and nights, and the question was should they wait, 
and have the new imperial prince Avho was to be on 
hand, or should they go at once ; when they turned 
one morning to see him coming down the terrace- 
stairs. “ That is he,” said Desbourn, to whom he 
had been already pointed out. And the rose fell, 
scattering with the fierce throb of ruin that shook 
through Olivia’s fingers. 

“ Looks it,” said little Pintry. 

“ By Jove, he does ! ” cried Clendennen. 

“ Pure Sclave, don’t you know,” murmured the 
Earl. 

But Olivia took the President’s arm and moved 
on. One glance had fixed that superb stature, that 
heroic bearing, that eagle grey eye, that massive yel¬ 


low hair, a crown itself, as lightning photographs, 
searing her soul with the flame. Some strange words 
were ringing over and over in her ears—Ivan Paul 
Boris Roslavl, and all the rest. For a moment, 
although she breathed, and looked, and moved, she 
seemed to be insensible and unconscious. And then 
life rushed back upon her. If she had been faith¬ 
ful—And all these things shall be added unto you. 
And this wretched little Desbourn here ! “ Oh, 

John, John,” she could have cried, “come to me! 
My heart is breaking. And if I am base and alto¬ 
gether unworthy, there is nobody but you can com¬ 
fort me ! ” And instead of crying it, or of allowing 
the quiver of an eyelash, she was sweeping an obei¬ 
sance as the new comer approached and some one 
seemed to be presenting him, and looking like a 
flower over whose bloom the sudden ice has glazed, 
as she saw him take the President’s hand. 

“ I beg your pardon,” she heard him say. “ I 
have submitted to my kind friend’s introduction. 
But I must disclaim it. I am here only to do 
so formally. I am John Kherson, of Warlock¬ 
side.” 

“ Do I understand ”—the amazed reply began. 

“ It would be, perhaps, a pity to have come so 
far to say so little,” said John, with his quiet smile, 
“ if it had not given me the pleasure of meeting 
your excellency.” 

“ Thanks.* But you surprise me. It is not, per¬ 
haps, an international affair,” said the President, with 
his air of gracious courtesy that all kings cannot 
command, “ yet I must confess an interest in the 
motives that cause a man to renounce such possi¬ 
bilities.” 

“You are most kind,” was the reply. “I fear 
they are not worth your scrutiny. Possibly I am 
not fully aware of them myself. It may be that I 
am not satisfied with the evidence. If I were, it 
may then be impossible for me to forgive the wrong 
done me and accept the late expiation. It may be 
that I see my duty more plainly before me as an 
American citizen.” 

How lofty, how majestic, he appeared to her that 
moment, addressing the ruler of forty millions of 
men, as one addresses a companion, with no other 
reverence for him than that reverence for manhood 
and nobility of soul wherever met with, renouncing 
a princedom and all its powers and pleasures. And 
then, all at once, and to her own amazement, she her¬ 
self was speaking, as if the matter were impersonal 
to her as the politics of Cathay. “ Can you mean,” 
she said, so taken out of herself as not, at first, to 
be quite aware she spoke, “ that you see nearer 
duties on a hillside farm than those that lie in 
ruling vast provinces, bringing a great race, the 
greatest race, out of darkness to dominate the world, 
subduing the savage drop in their blood-” 

“ It may be,” he said in a low tone that she alone, 
if any, heard, “ that I have first to subdue the sav¬ 
age drop in my own blood.” 






20 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Oh,” she said, not heeding, “ it is a proud ca¬ 
reer ! Think twice before you throw it away. In 
state councils, on battle-fields, in courts, what a 
name to make, what a power to wield, what splen¬ 
dor to enjoy ! And you have thought that, at some 
time, there would be only this people and that peo¬ 
ple, to signify ; the people of that great land where, 
I have heard you say, the two extremes of the deep¬ 
est despotism and the loftiest liberty meet; where 
the purest communalism is at the base of life ; that 
land waiting to regain its borders, the borders of all 
Byzantium, and take its ancient dominion as the 
Empire of the East; needing strong leaders, needing 
men who love their race and know how to tear the 
fetters of Freedom and lift her to the throne ! ” 
You can imagine how beautiful she was with the 
impassioned speech. 

“You are a prophetess,” he said, bending as if 
she were a stranger, too. “ But you are in your 
own country. There have been, before me, boyars 
and hospodars, and even princes of the blood, who 
loved liberty and died of it. And nothing was done. 
If this is the blood in my veins, I will never humor 
it with either luxury or power. And for the rest,” 
he said, “ when I hold king or kaiser, tzar or sultan, 
all dominations, temporal or spiritual, that set them¬ 
selves upon thrones, things poisonous to humanity, 
will I make myself a part of the system that upholds 
them ?—I, who have even doubted if the conception 
of the omnipotence of God were not destructive to 
the development of man, who believe in no sover¬ 
eignty but that of the people, who trust that this 
great century will crown its greatness by the exter¬ 
mination of all other sovereignty? No, America is 
the last expression of the advance of mankind, and 
I am an American. I would not exchange my bal¬ 
lot for a sceptre ; would I then for less ? No, it is 
my business not to make princes, but to prevent 
them ; not to add to them abroad, but to hinder 
them here ! I feel it a prouder career to be a unit 
in this republic, to march with my mates, not yet 
wholly out of danger, you see,” with a motion of 
his hand about him, “ and do my utmost to help 
them up to the broad table-lands just under the 
stars, than to be first of all the princelings of the 
earth. I beg your pardon,” he said, then, bowing 
to her companion, “ I have said so much more than 
I intended.” And the light faded from Olivia’s 
face and left it grey. 

“ Under the circumstances, not too much,” said 
the President. “ You make us proud of our fellow 
citizen, whether it shall prove you remain so or not. 
I am proud myself to be the representative of a peo¬ 
ple made of men like you ! ” And in a moment or 
two he moved forward to meet the others who were 
approaching, and Olivia went with him. 

“ By mighty ! ” said Clendennen. “ That is the 
sort of talk, Desbourn. We can’t be princes and we 
are Americans, and we’d better make the most of 
it” 


“ Buying the princes out, though, you see,” said 
Desbourn, pausing in the sampling of his cane. 

“ The wind is coming round,” said Clendennen, 
presently. “ And coming up too,—a wind that fol¬ 
lows free. Are we bound for sea ? ” 

“ Going aboard at noon.” 

“ Suppose we take the hero of the hour along,” 
said the other, who knew what he was about. 

“ Well,” responded Desbourn, “ it’s a breeze that’ll 
blow some of the cobwebs out of his brain. Sup¬ 
pose we do. Going to be some pretty water to-night, 
or I’m no sailor.” 

There was some pretty water before them now, 
where a dozen rows of snowy breakers, rank after 
rank, came shouldering up the cliff, and the spray 
that sometimes rose in fitful showers, falling away 
in slow, uncertain grace like thin ghosts loath 
to leave the sweet sunshine, and waving soft 
farewells ere fading into mist and nothingness, 
now threw itself into the light with strong jets 
and shafts like the columns of some magic temple, 
always shifting, always there, a gateway of the 
storm. 

“ You are surely not going out on such a sea as 
this,” Mrs. Varyll had said to Olivia when in their 
own rooms a little later. 

“ Do you think I would miss it ? ” cried Olivia, 
utterly reckless now. “ Doesn’t the sun put out fire ? 
And shouldn’t one storm drown out another ? Be¬ 
sides, isn’t Mr. Desbourn going ? And musn’t one 
share one’s lover’s fate till ever the silver chord be 
loosed, and the golden bowl be broken,—that is, the 
engagement ? ” 

“ Oh, Olivia, why did I ever bring you here ? ” 

“ Why, indeed ! I don’t suppose, though, that 
you want to take me back to go out to service some 
day ? To be sure, I have learned how to be a very 
good lady’s maid, if any one wanted me here.” And 
she began to sing, in a certain sweet fierceness, 
“ Room for the beggar, room I say ! ” as she went 
about her toilet for the yacht. 

“ Wine for thee, for me a crust, 

King and beggar, they both are dust, 

And dust to dust shall be borne one day 
High and low on the king’s highway ! ” 

timing her step to the burden that had all a tramp’s 
freedom and defiance in it. “ That is, if it’s not 
drowned first.” And one might have had difficulty 
in reconciling this stormy young woman with the 
placid beauty sitting on the deck of the great yacht 
an hour or so afterward, and saying, with the little 
sea-slang she had picked up, something about its 
blowing half a gale and fetching rainbows out of the 
water. 

They were taking wine, some of them, down in the 
saloon. 

“ Didn’t you see the storm signals up, Des¬ 
bourn ? ” one asked. 

“Storm signals be blowed ! ” said Clendennen 




Olivia . 


21 


who was still too rear the soil not to relish a strong 
preterite now and then. 

“ What they’re made for. How’s that ? eh ? ” 
chuckled Desbourn. “ Hang this fellow ! Here 
Julius ! How many times shall I tell you you can’t 
get the champagne cold enough without salt in the 
ice round it ? ” 

The champagne must have been far from cold 
enough, judging by the way it had flushed them when 
they came on deck, and Desbourn sent for his sail¬ 
ing-master, ordering more sail. “ ‘ A wet sheet and 
a flowing sea,’ ” said he in answer to some expostu¬ 
lation, “ and a man that minds his master, at least a 
sailing-master that minds his business, and when he 
has a glorious sea on, shows what his craft can do 
with it ! There isn’t the thing afloat that can take 
the wind out of the sails of the Witch of War- 
lockside,—that’s what her name is now,” said Mr. 
Desbourn, “when there’s any sea to handle her 
in. Fair day, she’s just a swan on the water, just 
afloat-” 

“ Floats double, swan and shadow,” said Miss 
Mandever. 

“ Just so. But give us dirty weather and a swell to 
bite, and she spreads her wings like an albatross, 
and the wind can’t catch her. Oh, we’re right 
enough, old man. Shake all your linen to the gale !” 
And he began to hum something about the wind’s 
being in the sail and the thunder in the gale, and the 
good ship plunging to be free. “ We’ve a land-lub¬ 
ber aboard,” said he aside, “ that we’ll make things 
lively for.” 

With Olivia’s state, the wild rush of the wind, the 
bounding motion, the puff and strain and swell of 
the huge sails, the sweep of the sea-birds round the 
masts, were all in unison ; she could have mistaken 
her excitement for joyousness. “ If it would always 
last just so ! If we were never going back to port! ” 
she cried ; for John was pacing the deck with little 
Sir Guy—who was one of those liberal young noble¬ 
men that, born to everything themselves, are exceed¬ 
ingly democratic for the rest of the world,—and it 
was impossible that, for a moment, she should let her 
old lover think she wearied of the new. 

“ Perhaps we never shall,” said Sir Guy, smiling 
on her in passing, as no one could help smiling for 
pleasure of looking at her. “ Where are we bound, 
Desbourn ? ” 

“ Into space,” the other answered. “ Into the 
open. Anywhere from Iceland to the Windward 
Islands. Whole Atlantic to run in.” 

The music had long been blowing itself to tatters 
in the gale, and soon the roughness brought the 
dancing to a close, and they all went down to din- 
. ner, where, although a few withdrew to misery and 
seclusion, there were enough left to keep it very 
gay, for Desbourn’s parties were usually picked 
sailors. Down there in the lighted flower-hung 
saloon, with smoking dishes, sparkling wines, soft 
music, and wild merriment, one had small idea of 


the commotion of darkness and tempest outside, so 
evenly the Witch sat upon her keel, and so well was 
she trimmed and ballasted, taking the billows as a 
sea-fowl breasts the tide. There was no thought of 
danger, apparently, with any. Olivia glanced stealth¬ 
ily at John in his animated conversation. It hap¬ 
pened, as she did so, that the music slipped softly 
into the “ Kerry Dance ” ; and she sighed bitterly 
to herself, “ He regrets nothing ! He thinks he is 
well rid of a frivolous woman without a feeling in 
common with his own ! ” and then she was gayer 
than before. 

“ She’s a trump ! ” Desbourn was thinking in his 
turn. “ Coming out strong as a Mother Cary’s 
chicken, too.” He took her up on deck for a look 
at the weather near midnight, the young married 
chaperon of all the gay crew just behind. The im¬ 
mensity of the heavens was dark with the dead deep 
blue through which the stars sparkled as if the gale 
fanned them into white flame ; far and wide the 
great turbulent seas rose to catch the sparkle and 
toss it back in breaking foam ; there was nothing 
in all the great hollow shell of the sea and sky, far 
reaching in the solemn clearness of the dark, but 
this mighty blast of the south-wind which shook the 
stars and shook the seas, and which these swelling 
sails and bending spars defied. Olivia covered her 
eyes and shivered ; she could be regardless of them, 
she could be blind to them without him, but it was 
only with John that she could endure the sight of 
the awful things of creation and destruction. In 
this new life she was to lead she must forget eternal 
agencies and remember nothing but trivial pleas¬ 
ures, and when disease and death should come still 
go on dancing over graves. 

It was hardly to be expected that sleep should 
visit her eyes that night. The shriek of the wind 
in the cordage, its roar in the waves, the whole wild 
cry of the desolate night, might have kept a more 
tranquil spirit awake. Feet were trampling over¬ 
head ; now and then she thought she heard voices 
shouting even above the gale, and once there came 
a sudden report like that of big guns, and for a 
moment the yacht seemed to be flying through the 
'air itself. It was not the yacht, however, she might 
have known, but the main-topsail, under which they 
had been scudding, that had burst from its bolt-ropes 
and was gone. She was just dropping into the edge 
of a dream, after that, when suddenly a shock as 
if heaven and earth had come together, the lights 
went out in a flash of darkness, all motion had 
ceased, and there was nothing but resounding blows 
of rank after rank of waves leaping aboard in 
savage sport and tearing them to pieces. 

Wrapping themselves in anything at hand, or just 
as they were, instantly the guests had thronged to 
the saloon from their cabins; Olivia, who had but 
slightly undressed, throwing over her beautiful 
shoulders the fur cloak lying on her chair. There 
was no more music or feasting there. Desbourn 







22 


Treasury of Tales. 


was already on the spot, with Julius, distributing life- 
preservers, as well as he could make his way about 
in the darkness and with the lifting and pounding of 
the ship. 

“ Afraid it’s sauve quipeut” he was saying coolly, 
in a pause of the cry and exclamation and the re¬ 
peating bellow of the surge. “ The last thing I 
told that cursed fool,” he continued, recovering his 
balance from the last blow that hurled him aside, 
“ was not to shorten a rag, but let her run before 
the wind so that these ravening wolves shouldn’t 
overtake us. Doesn’t signify now,” reaching Olivia 
at last, “ but either the scoundrel’s been scudding 
under bare poles with a reefed main-topsail, or he’s 
lost his nerve and tried to wear ship, or he’s drunk.” 
“Very likely he’s drunk,” said Mr. Pintry, as if 
there were some consolation in that. “ Conse¬ 
quence is,” resumed Desbourn, “ we’re breaking up 
on a reef, down in none of the charts, and shall have 
to take to the boats.” 

“ No boat could live in such a sea,” said a deep and 
quiet voice ; and John had come in with Clenden- 
nen, and was trying to light a candle. “ It is more 
probable that we are off the coast of Maine on a 
well-known reef, by the light, and if we can hold 
together till morning help may reach us.” He was 
to Olivia that moment like a great archangel of light. 
Yet never had Desbourn appeared to her worthy of 
admiration as now, when, with so much to leave, he 
was leaving it so nonchalantly. Nothing did she 
seem to care herself then for wreck or drowning. 
“By Jove!” said Desbourn, “if it doesn’t trouble 
any one, I don’t mind if you give me a light, Clen- 
dennen,” and he kindled his cigarette. As they 
rushed and stumbled to the deck, she hung behind, 
for he lingered to puff the spark into firmer life. 
“ I must tell you,” she said to him, although she 
could hardly make him hear for the din of the gale 
and the voices ; “ because if we are going down, 
it cannot be in a lie. You deserve a better wife 
than I. I love another man. I always shall love 
him.” 

He staggered back against the door. “ You have 
hit me hard,” he said. “ I had rather we went 
down forever. By God ! ” he cried, “ I could sooner 
take you in my arms down into this black death, 
and welcome it ! ” But she had fled past him, up 
into the darkness that the grey was just penetrating, 
into the hiss and roar and thundering fall of the 
breakers, and the showers of spray that fell every¬ 
where on the steep deck and about the little group 
huddled forward and shaking, now to the blow of 
the surf and now to the report of the gun. 

Some one had taken her shoulder, with the first 
blast of the wet air on her face ; an arm was about 
her, helping her along the slippery incline off which 
she would have been swept like a leaf. “ Oh, John, 
John,” she cried, putting out her hands gropingly, for 
the spray blinded her. “ I know you do not care. 

I have seen you felt free of the burden of such a 


worthless thing as I. But oh, it is only for a little 
while! Take me back for just this little while, 
John ! Perhaps we shall die together. Oh, I hope 
we shall ! For I have seen the wretchedness of it 
all! I want nothing, nothing in all the world but 
just your pity, and then I want, I want to die, for i 
love you, John, I love you so ! ” And the wind was 
blowing the sound down her throat, and she was sure 
he had not heard a word. How was it then that she 
was hearing his murmur in her ear ? “ It is why I 

am here. To take care of you among this reckless 
crew. I knew you would come back to me. I 
waited for it. I knew it ever since I overcame my 
first black impulse, after your letter, to go down and 
put an end to you and me and all things. We have 
been tried in our furnace. Nothing, not even death, 
can take you from me now, my darling ! ” And as 
they stood there, one arm of his folding her to his 
heart, and the other clinging to the rail, she could 
hardly tell which was sweeter, in this revulsion, the 
glorious black and white of the sea about them with 
death in each other’s arms, or the eventides of long 
life together in old Warlockside. 

Desbourn was coming toward them, hand over 
hand on the rail, and through the dim grey, powdered 
with far-off receding stars, the yellow morning light, 
paling the lighthouse ray that fitfully laid its beams 
on the waters, streamed like a bonfire blown by the 
wind, the wind that almost tore them from their feet. 
“ Do you know,” shouted Desbourn, “ we’ve had a 
good wetting, and that’s all. Rocks here only out 
of water at low tide. No leak,—don’t believe she’s 
hurt to speak of,—lifting you see. Have the sails 
trimmed, and help her right, and get her off in a 
couple of hours. Have to beat to windward all day, 
but guess we’re safe. And, I say,—if you don’t 
mind keeping this bliss and that sort of thing to 
yourselves till we make harbor, I—I’ll call it a drawn 
game or throw up my hand,—that is, Miss Olivia’s 
hand, you know. How’s that ? Eh ? ” And he made 
off as he came. 

It was just at that moment that a huge oncoming 
billow, swollen with the sweep of all the others 
breaking into it, lifted itself, reared a mighty, dark, 
and shining wall in the mid air, and pierced by the 
first long golden shaft of the sun, fell, shattered into 
a wide-blown whirl of foam, and mist, and flying 
rainbows, and swept away. Safe in that strong grasp, 
and protected by the standing rigging as they were, 
Olivia shuddered at Desbourn’s danger. But when she 
glanced up little Desbourn wa£ nimbly making his way 
along, wet to the skin, but the spark of his cigarette 
unquenched, and all unconscious of the miracle of 
splendor into which he had so nearly been trans¬ 
formed. Perhaps she was relieved that his hurt in 
any such measure was not upon her conscience ; 
perhaps she was disappointed that nothing tragic had 
come to make and leave him heroic. “ Is his soul so 
small,” she said, half to herself, “ that it is not worth 
the taking ? ” 





The Jumping Frog of Calaveras. 


THE JUMPING Fl^OG OF CALAVERAS. 

BY “MARK TWAIN.” 

In compliance with the request of a friend of 
mine, who wrote me from the East, I called on 
good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and 
inquired after my friend’s friend, Leonidas W. 
Smiley, as requested to do, and I hereunto append 
the result. I have a lurking suspicion that Leonidas 
W. Smiley is a myth ; that my friend never knew 
such a personage ; and that he only conjectured 
that if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would re¬ 
mind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he 
would go to work and bore me to death with some 
exasperating reminiscence of him as long and as 
tedious as it should be useless to me. If that was 
the design, it succeeded. 

I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the 
bar-room stove of the dilapidated tavern in the de¬ 
cayed mining camp of Angel’s, and I noticed that 
he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression 
of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tran¬ 
quil countenance. He roused up and gave me good- 
day. I told him a friend of mine had commissioned 
me to make some inquiries about a cherished com¬ 
panion of his boyhood named Leonidas W. Smiley 
— Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, a young minister of the 
Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resi¬ 
dent of Angel’s Camp. I added that if Mr. 
Wheeler could tell me anything about this Rev. 
Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obliga¬ 
tions to him. 

Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and 
blockaded me there with his chair, and then sat 
down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which 
follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never 
frowned, he never changed his voice from the gen¬ 
tle-flowing key to which he tuned his initial sentence, 
he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthu¬ 
siasm ; but all through the interminable narrative 
there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sin¬ 
cerity, which showed me plainly that, so far from his 
imagining that there was anything ridiculous or funny 
about his story, he regarded it as a really important 
matter, and admired its two heroes as men of tran¬ 
scendent genius in finesse. I let him go on in his 
own way, and never interrupted him once. 

“ Rev. Leonidas W. H’m, Reverend Le—well, 
there was a feller here once by the name of Jim 
Smiley, in the winter of ’49—or may be it was the 
spring of ’50—I don’t recollect exactly, somehow, 
though what makes me think it was one or the other 
is because I remember the big flume warn’t finished 
when he first come to the camp ; but any way he was 
the curiosest man about always betting on anything 
that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody 
to bet on the other side ; and if he couldn’t he’d 
change sides. Any way that suited the other man 
would suit him —any way just so’s he got a bet, he 
was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon 


23 


lucky; he most always come out winner. He was 
always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn’t 
be no solit’ry thing mentioned but what that feller’d 
offer to bet on it, and take ary side you please, as I 
was just telling you. If there was a horse race, 
you’d find him flush or you’d find him busted at the 
end of it ; if there was a dog-fight, he’d bet on it; if 
there was a cat-fight, he’d bet on it; if there was a 
chicken-fight, he’d bet on it; why, if there was two 
birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one 
would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he 
would be there reg’lar to bet on Parson Walker, which 
he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and so 
he was too, and a good man. If he even see a 
straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet 
you how long it would take him to get to—to wher¬ 
ever he was going to, and if you took him up, he 
would follow that straddle-bug to Mexico but what 
he would find out where he was bound for and how 
long he was on the road. Lots of the boys here has 
seen that Smiley, and can tell you about him. Why, 
it never made no difference to him —he’d bet on any 
thing—the dangdest feller. Parson Walker’s wife 
laid very sick once, for a good while, and it seemed 
as if they warn’t going to save her ; but one morn¬ 
ing he come in, and Smiley up and asked him how 
she was, and he said she w r as considable better— 
thank the Lord for His inf’nite mercy—and coming 
on so smart that with the blessing of Prov’dence 
she’d get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought 
says, ‘Well, I’ll resk two-and-a-half she don’t, any¬ 
way.’ 

“ Thish-yer Smiley had a mare—the boys called her 
the fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you 
know, because of course she was faster than that— 
and he used to win money on that horse, for all she 
was so slow and always had the asthma, or the dis¬ 
temper, or the consumption, or something of that 
kind. They used to give her two or three hundred 
yards’ start, and then pass her under way; but 
always at the fag-end of the race she’d get excited 
and desperate-like, and come cavorting and strad¬ 
dling up, and scattering her legs around limber, 
sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side 
among the fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust and 
raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and sneez¬ 
ing, and blowing her nose—and ahuays fetch up at 
the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you 
could cipher it down. 

“And he had a little small bull-pup, that to look 
at him you’d think he warn’t worth a cent but to set 
around and look ornery, and lay for a chance to steal 
something. But as soon as money was up on him he 
was a different dog; his under jaw’d begin to stick 
out like the fo’castle of a steamboat, and his teeth 
would uncover and shine like the furnaces. And a 
dog might tackle him and bully-rag him, and bite him, 
and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, 
and Andrew Jackson—which was the name of the 
pup—Andrew Jackson would never let on but what 





24 


Treasury of Tales. 


he was satisfied, and hadn’t expected nothing else— 
and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other 
side all the time, till the money was all up ; and 
then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog 
jest by the j’int of his hind leg and freeze to it—not 
chaw, you understand, but only just grip and hang 
on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year. 
Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he 
harnessed a dog once that didn’t have no hind legs, 
because they’d been sawed off in a circular saw, and 
when the thing had gone along far enough, and the 
money was all up, and he come to make a snatch for 
his pet holt, he see in a minute how he’d been im¬ 
posed on, and how the other dog had him in the 
door, so to speak, and he ’peared surprised, and 
then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn’t 
try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked 
out bad. He gave Smiley a look, as much to say 
his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for put¬ 
ting up a dog that hadn’t no hind legs for him 
to take holt of, which was his main dependence in 
a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid 
down and died. It was a good pup, was that An¬ 
drew Jackson, and would have made a name for 
hisself if he’d lived, for the stuff was in him and 
he had genius—I know it, because he hadn’t no 
opportunities to speak of, and it don’t stand to 
reason that a dog could make such a fight as he 
could under them circumstances if he hadn’t no 
talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think 
of that last fight of his’n, and the way it turned out. 

“ Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers and 
chicken cocks, and tom-cats, and all them kind of 
things, till you couldn’t rest, and you couldn’t fetch 
nothing for him to bet on but he’d match you. He 
ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and 
said he cal’lated to educate him ; and so he never 
done nothing for three months but set in his back 
yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet he 
did learn him, too. He’d give him a little punch be¬ 
hind, and the next minute you’d see that frog whirl¬ 
ing in the air like a doughnut—see him turn one 
summerset, or may be a couple, if he got a good 
start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a 
cat. He got him up so in the matter of ketching 
flies, and kep’ him in practice so constant, that he’d 
nail a fly every time as fur as he could see him. 
Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and 
he could do ’most anything—and I believe him. 
Why, I’ve seen him set Dan’l Webster down here on 
this floor—Dan’l Webster was the name of the frog 
—and sing out, ‘ Flies, Dan’l, flies ! ’ and quicker’n 
you could wink he’d spring straight up and snake a 
fly off’n the counter there, and flop down on the 
floor ag’in as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to 
scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as 
indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d been doin’ 
more’n any frog might do. You never see a frog so 
modest and straightfor’ard as he was, for all he was 
so gifted. And when it come to fair and square 


jumping on a dead level, he could get over more 
ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed 
you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his 
strong suit, you understand ; and when it come to 
that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as 
he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his 
frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had 
traveled and been everywheres, all said he laid over 
any frog that ever they see. 

“ Well Smiley kep’ the beast in a little lattice box, 
and he used to fetch him down town sometimes and 
lay for a bet. One day a feller—a stranger in the 
camp, he was—come acrost him with his box, and 
says : 

“ ‘ What might it be that you’ve got in the box ? ’ 

“ And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, ‘ It 
might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, 
but it ain’t—it’s only just a frog.’ 

“ And the feller took it and looked at it careful, 
and turned it round this way and that, and says, 
‘ H’m—so ’tis. Well, what’s he good for ? ’ 

“ ‘ Well,’ Smiley says, easy and careless, * he’s 
good enough for one thing, I should judge—he can 
outjump any frog in Calaveras county.’ 

“ The feller took the box again, and took another 
long, particular look, and gave it back to Smiley, 
and says, very deliberate, ‘ Well,’ he says, * I don’t 
see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any 
other frog.’ 

“ ‘ Maybe you don’t,’ Smiley says. ‘ Maybe you 
understand frogs and maybe you don’t understand 
’em ; maybe you’ve had experience, and maybe you 
ain’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got 
my opinion and I’ll resk forty dollars that he can 
outjump any frog in Calaveras county.’ 

“ And the feller studied a minute, and then says, 
kinder sad-like, ‘ Well, I’m only a stranger here, and 
I ain’t got no frog ; but if I had a frog I’d bet you.’ 

“ And then Smiley says, ‘ That’s all right—that’s 
all right—if you’ll hold my box a minute, I’ll go 
and get you a frog.’ And so the feller took the 
box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s, 
and set down to wait. 

“ So he set there a good while thinking to his¬ 
self, and then he got the frog out and prized his 
mouth open, and took a teaspoon and filled him full 
of quail shot—filled him pretty near up to his chin 
—and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the 
swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long 
time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him 
in, and gave him to this feller, and says : 

“ * Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of 
Dan’l, with his fore-paws just even with Dan’l’s, and 
I’ll give the word.’ Then he says, ‘ One—two— 
three— git!’ and him and the feller touched up the 
frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off 
lively, but Dan’l gave a heave, and hysted up his 
shoulders—so—like a Frenchman, but it warn’t no 
use—he couldn’t budge ; he was planted as solid as 
a church, and he couldn’t no more stir than if he 






The Siege of Berlin. 


-5 


was anchored out. Smiley was a good deal sur¬ 
prised, and he was disgusted, too, but he didn’t 
have no idea what the matter was, of course. 

“ The feller took the money and started away ; 
and when he was going out at the door, he sorter 
jerked his thumb over his shoulder—so—at Dan’l, 
and says again, very deliberate, ‘ Well,’ he says, ‘ / 
don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n 
any other frog.’ 

“ Smiley he stood scratching'his head and looking 
down at Dan’l a long time, and at last he says, ‘ I 
do wonder what in the nation that frog throwed off 
for—I wonder if there ain’t something the matter 
with him—he ’pears to look mighty baggy, some¬ 
how.’ And he ketched Dan’l by the nap of the 
neck, and hefted him, and says, * Why, blame my 
cats if he don’t weigh five pounds ! ’ and turned 
him upside down and he belched out a double hand¬ 
ful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he 
was the maddest man—he set the frog down and 
took out after that feller, but he never ketched him. 
And-” 

[Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from 
the front yard, and got up to see what was wanted.] 
And turning to me as he moved away, he said : 
“Just set where you are, stranger, and rest' easy—I 
ain’t going to be gone a second.” 

But by your leave, I did not think that a continua¬ 
tion of the history of the enterprising vagabond Jim 
Smiley would be likely to afford me much infor¬ 
mation concerning the Rev. Leonidas IV. Smiley, 
and so I started away. 

At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, 
and he button-holed me and re-commenced : 

“Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yaller one-eyed 
cow that didn’t have no tail, only jest a short stump 
like a bannanner, and-” 

However, lacking both time and inclination, I did 
not wait to hear about the afflicted cow, but took 
my leave. 


THE SIEGE OF BERLIN. 

BY ALPHONSE DAUDET. 

We were going up the Champs Elysees with 

Doctor V-, gathering from the walls pierced by 

shell, the pavement ploughed by grapeshot, the his¬ 
tory of besieged Paris, when just before reaching the 
Place de l’Etoile, the doctor stopped and pointed 
out to me one of those large corner houses so 
pompously grouped around the Arc de Triomphe. 

“ Do you see,” said he, “those four closed win¬ 
dows on the balcony up there ? In the beginning 
of August, that terrible month of August of ’70, so 
laden with storm and disaster, I was summoned 
there to attend a case of apoplexy. The sufferer 
was Colonel Jouve, an old Cuirassier of the First 
Empire, full of enthusiasm for glory and patriotism, 


who, at the commencement of the war, had taken an 
apartment with a balcony in the Champs Elysees— 
for what do you think ? To assist at the triumphal 
entry of our troops ! Poor old man ! The news 
of Wissembourg arrived as he was rising from 
table. On reading the name of Napoleon at the 
foot of that bulletin of defeat he fell senseless ! 

“I found the old Cuirassier stretched upon the 
floor, his face bleeding and inert as from the blow 
of a club. Standing, he would have been very tall, 
lying he looked immense ; with fine features, beau¬ 
tiful teeth, and white curling hair, carrying his 
eighty years as though they had been sixty. Beside 
him knelt his grand-daughter in tears. She resem¬ 
bled him. Seeing them side by side, they reminded 
me of two Greek medallions stamped with the same 
impress, only the one was antique, earth-stained, its 
outlines somewhat worn ; the other beautiful and 
clear, in all the lustre of freshness. 

“ The child’s sorrow touched me. Daughter and 
grand-daughter of soldiers, for her father was on 
MacMahon’s staff, the sight of this old man 
stretched before her evoked in her mind another 
vision no less terrible. I did my best to reassure 
her, though in reality I had but little hope. We 
had to contend with hemoptysis, from which at 
eighty there is small chance of recovery. 

“ For three days the patient remained in the same 
condition of immobility and stupor. Meanwhile 
came the news of Reichshofen—you remember how 
strangely ? Till the evening we all believed in a 
great victory—20,000 Prussians killed, the Crown 
Prince prisoner. 

“ I cannot tell by what miracle, by what magnetic 
current, an echo of this national joy can have 
reached our poor invalid, hitherto deaf to all around 
him ; but that evening, on approaching the bed, I 
found a new man. His eye was almost clear, his 
speech less difficult, and he had the strength to smile 
and to stammer : 

“ ‘ Victory, victory ! ’ 

“‘Yes, Colonel, a great victory.’ And as I gave 
the details of MacMahon’s splendid success I saw 
his features relax and his countenance brighten. 

“When I went out his grand-daughter was waiting 
for me, pale and sobbing. 

“ ‘ But he is saved,’ said I, taking her hands. 

“ The poor child had hardly courage to answer 
me. The true Reichshofen had just been announced, 
MacMahon a fugitive, the whole army crushed. We 
looked at each other in consternation, she anxious 
at the thought of her father, I, trembling for the 
grandfather. Certainly he would not bear this new 
shock. And yet what could we do? Let him enjoy 
the illusion which had revived him ? But then we 
should have to deceive him. 

“ ‘Well then, I will deceive him ! ’ said the brave 
girl, and hastily wiping away her tears she re-entered 
her grandfather’s room with a beaming face. 

“ It was a hard task she had set herself. For the 









26 


Treasury of Tales . 


first few days it was comparatively easy, as the old 
man’s head was weak, and he was as credulous as a 
child. But with returning health came clearer ideas. 
It was necessary to keep him au courant with the 
movements of the army and to invent military bulle¬ 
tins. It was pitiful to see that beautiful girl bend¬ 
ing night and day over her map of Germany, mark¬ 
ing it with little flags, forcing herself to combine the 
whole of a glorious campaign—Bazaine on the road 
to Berlin ! Frossard in Bavaria! MacMahon on the 
Baltic! In all this she asked my counsel, and I 
helped her as far as I could, but it was the grand¬ 
father who did the most for us in this imaginary 
invasion. He had conquered Germany so often 
during the First Empire! He knew all the moves 
beforehand : ‘Now they should go there. This is 
what they will do,’ and his anticipations were always 
realized, not a little to his pride. Unfortunately, 
we might take towns and gain battles, but we never 
went fast enough for the Colonel. He was insatia¬ 
ble. Every day I was greeted with a fresh feat of 
arms : 

“ ‘ Doctor, we have taken Mayence,’ said the 
young girl, coming to meet me with a heart-rending 
smile, and through the door I heard a joyous voice 
crying : 

“‘We are getting on, we are getting on ! In a 
week we shall enter Berlin ! ’ 

“ At that moment the Prussians were but a week 
from Paris. At first we thought it might be better 
to move to the provinces, but once out of doors, the 
state of the country would have told him all, and I 
thought him still too weak, too enervated, to know 
the truth. It was therefore decided that they should 
stay where they were. 

“ On the first day of the investment I went to see 
my patient—much agitated, I remember, and with 
that pang in my heart which we all felt at knowing 
that the gates of Paris were shut, that the war was 
under our walls, that our suburbs had become our 
frontiers. 

“ I found the old man jubilant and proud. 

“ ‘Well,’ said he, ‘ the siege has begun ! ’ 

“ I looked at him stupefied. 

“ ‘ How, Colonel, you know ? ’ 

“His grand-daughter turned to me, ‘Oh yes, Doc¬ 
tor, it is great news. The siege of Berlin has com¬ 
menced.’ 

“ She said this composedly, while drawing out her 
needle. How could he suspect anything ? He could 
not hear the cannon nor see that unhappy Paris, so 
sullen and disorderly. All that he saw from his bed 
was calculated to keep up his delusion. Outside 
was the Arc de Triomphe, and in the room quite a 
collection of souvenirs of the First Empire. Por¬ 
traits of marshals, engravings of battles, the King of 
Rome in his baby-robes ; the stiff consoles, orna¬ 
mented with trophies in brass, were covered with 
Imperial relics, medals, bronzes ; a stone from St. 
Helena under a glass shade ; miniatures all repre¬ 


senting the same becurled lady, in ball-dress, in a 
yellow gown with leg-of-mutton sleeves and light 
eyes ; and all—the consoles, the King of Rome, the 
medals, the yellow ladies with short waists and 
sashes under their arms in that style of awkward 
stiffness which was the grace of 1806.—Good Col¬ 
onel ! it was this atmosphere of victory and con¬ 
quest, rather than all we could say, which made him 
believe so naively in the siege of Berlin. 

“ From that day our military operations became 
much simpler. Taking Berlin was merely a matter 
of patience. Every now and then, when the old 
man was tired of waiting, a letter from his son was 
read to him—an imaginary letter of course, as 
nothing could enter Paris, and as, since Sedan, Mac- 
Mahon’s aid-de-camp had been sent to a German 
fortress. Can you not imagine the despair of the 
poor girl, without tidings of her father, knowing 
him to be a prisoner, deprived of all comforts, per¬ 
haps ill, and yet obliged to make him speak in 
cheerful letters, somewhat short, as from a soldier 
in the field, always advancing in a conquered coun¬ 
try. Sometimes, when the invalid was weaker than 
usual, weeks passed without fresh news. But was 
he anxious and unable to sleep, suddenly a letter 
arrived from Germany which she read gayly at his 
bedside, struggling hard with her tears. The Colonel 
listened religiously, smiling with an air of supe¬ 
riority, approving, criticising, explaining; but it was 
in the answers to his son that he was at his best. 
‘ Never forget that you are a Frenchman,’ he wrote, 
‘be generous to those poor people. Do not make 
the invasion too hard for them.’ His advice was 
never-ending, edifying sermons about respect of 
property, the politeness due to ladies, in short quite 
a code of military honor for the use of conquerors. 
With all this he put in some general reflections on 
politics and the conditions of the peace to be im¬ 
posed on the vanquished. With regard to the latter, 
I must say he was not exacting : 

“ ‘ The war indemnity and nothing else. It is no 
good to take provinces. Can one turn Germany 
into France ?’ 

“ He dictated this with so firm a voice, and one 
felt so much sincerity in his words, so much patri¬ 
otic faith, that it was impossible to listen to him 
unmoved. 

“ Meanwhile the siege went on—not the siege of 
Berlin, alas ! We were at the worst period of cold, 
of bombardment, of epidemic, of famine. But, 
thanks to our care, and the indefatigable tenderness 
which surrounded him, the old man’s serenity was 
never for a moment disturbed. Up to the end I 
was able to procure white bread and fresh meat for 
him, but for him only. You could not imagine any¬ 
thing more touching than those breakfasts of the 
grandfather, so innocently egotistic, sitting up in 
bed, fresh and smiling, the napkin tied under his 
chin, at his side his grand-daughter, pale from her 
privations, guiding his hands, making him drink, 




Two “ Pards .” * 


2 7 


"helping him to eat all these good forbidden things. 
Then, revived by the repast, in the comfort of his 
warm room, with the wintry wind shut out and the 
snow eddying about the window, the old Cuirassier 
would recall his Northern campaigns and would re¬ 
late to us that disastrous retreat in Russia where 
there was nothing to eat but frozen biscuit and 
horse-flesh. 

Can you understand that, little one ? We ate 
horse-flesh.’ 

“ I should think she did understand it. For two 
months she had tasted nothing else. As convales¬ 
cence approached our task increased daily in diffi¬ 
culty. The numbness of the Colonel’s senses, as 
well as of his limbs, which had hitherto helped us so 
much, was beginning to pass away. Once or twice 
already, those terrible volleys at the Porte Maillot 
had made him start and prick up his ears like a war- 
horse ; we were obliged to invent a recent victory 
of Bazaine’s before Berlin and salvoes fired from the 
Invalides in honor of it. Another day (the Thurs¬ 
day of Buzenval I think it was) his bed had been 
pushed to the window, whence he saw some of the 
National Guard massed upon the Avenue de la 
Grande Armee. 

What soldiers are those ? ’ he asked, and we 
heard him grumbling beneath his teeth : 

Badly drilled, badly drilled.’ 

“Nothing came of this, but we understood that 
henceforth greater precautions were necessary. Un¬ 
fortunately we were not careful enough. 

“ One evening I was met by the child, in much 
trouble. 

“ ‘ It is to-morrow they make their entry,’ she 
said. 

“ Could the grandfather’s door- have been open ? 
In thinking of it since, I remember that all that 
evening his face wore an extraordinary expression. 
Probably he had overheard us ; only we spoke of 
the Prussians and he thought of the French, of the 
triumphal entry he had so long expected, MacMahon 
descending the Avenue amidst flowers and flourish 
of trumpets, his own son riding beside the marshal, 
and he himself on his balcony, in full uniform as at 
Liitzen, saluting the ragged colors and the eagles 
blackened by powder. 

“Poor Colonel Jouve ! He no doubt imagined 
that we wished to prevent his assisting at the defile 
of our troops, lest the emotion should prove too 
much for him, and therefore took care to say noth¬ 
ing to us ; but the next day, just at the time the 
Prussian battalions cautiously entered the long road 
leading from the Porte Maillot to the Tuileries, the 
window up there was softly opened and the Colonel 
appeared on the balcony with his helmet, his sword, 
all his long-unused but glorious apparel of Mil¬ 
haud’s Cuirassiers. 

“ I often ask myself what supreme effort of will, 
what §udden impulse of fading vitality had placed 
him thus erect in harness. 


“ All we know is that he was there, standing at 
the railing, wondering to find the wide avenues so 
silent, the shutters all closed, Paris like a great 
lazaret, flags everywhere, but such strange ones, 
white with red crosses, and no one to meet our sol¬ 
diers. 

“ For a moment he may have thought himself 
mistaken. 

“But no! there, behind the Arc de Triomphe, 
there was a confused sound, a black line advancing 
in the growing daylight—then, little by little, the 
spikes of the helmets glisten, the little drums of 
Jena begin to beat, and under the Arc de l’Etoile, 
accompanied by the heavy tramp of the troops, by 
the clatter of sabres, burst forth Schubert’s Tri¬ 
umphal March. 

“ In the dead silence of the streets was heard a 
cry, a terrible cry : 

“ ‘ To arms !—to arms !—the Prussians.’ And the 
four Uhlans of the advance gilferd might have seen 
up there, on the balcony, a tall old man stagger, 
wave his arms, and fall. This time Colonel Jouve 
was dead.” 


TWO “PAF(DS.” 

AN AMERICAN ENGINEER’S STORY. 

BY A. A. HAYES. 

Some one has called mine the “Cosmopolitan 
profession ; ” such I myself have certainly found it. 
Our pleasant club-house in New York contains a 
particularly pleasant library, in which silence is en¬ 
forced, and there is a large open fireplace. Now 
that fortune keeps me in a great city and surround¬ 
ed by bricks and mortar, I baffle her by frequent 
excursions into an ideal world. I often sit before 
this fire, and rarely fail to lose myself among visions, 
evolved from the blazing coals, of past days and 
scenes. I sometimes see the cis-Mississippi prairies 
as I knew them when we were running the lines for 
what are now Central, but were then far Western 
railways. Then, again, I find myself transported to 
distant lands, where, if not engaged in construction, 
I was charged to inspect it. I remember the first 
passage of the Mont Cenis tunnel, the building of 
the toy Japanese road from Yokohama to Tokio, 
and the plucky attempt to construct and maintain 
a line in China. During the years covered by these 
wanderings, I had my share of what might be called 
ordinary adventures, not unattended by peril, but it 
is from later experiences in my native land, after my 
last return thereto, that I draw a host of the most 
vivid and interesting reminiscences. My thoughts 
recur most frequently of all to the following strange 
episode of frontier life, of which I can almost say 
pars fui. From the manner of my first acquaint¬ 
ance with the principal actors therein to my last 
sight of any of them, the details stand out in my 







28 


Treasury of Tales. 


memory as altogether dramatic and essentially char¬ 
acteristic. 

When I was working as a youngster on the prairie 
surveys in Illinois, most of the region between the 
Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains was known 
as the “ Great American Desert; ” yet I have lived to 
see it traversed by lines of railway, great and small, 
and already supporting a large population. I had 
no experimental acquaintance with it until after the 
building of the “ U. P.” (as the Union Pacific Railway 
is commonly called), but from that time until quite 
recently I have had occasion at intervals to inspect 
both completed lines and the surveys for projected 
ones, and I have come to know most of the country 
from the Yellowstone Park to Paso del Norte. It 
is a region which I dearly love, and I am fain to 
interrupt the thread of any story I may be telling 
of days passed there to dwell on its rare fascina¬ 
tions. “ I had rather die there than live here,” ex¬ 
claimed the other day a poor fellow whom pecun¬ 
iary interests had brought from the Snowy Range to 
a desk in a New York office, and I could quite 
understand his vehemence. Some of the hardest- 
headed fellows I ever knew have been enthusiastic 
lovers of the “ Dome of the Continent,” and never 
tired of dwelling on the magnificent mountain 
scenery, the exhilarating atmosphere, and the free¬ 
dom of the life. I was joining mentally in such 
pjeans of praise as I journeyed one pleasant autumn, 
not many years ago, down the little narrow-gauge 
Colorado road from Pueblo to El Moro. When the 
beautiful Spanish Peaks are in sight, I can never 
take my eyes off them. “Wahatoya” the Indians 
called the two splendid mountains rising side by 
side out of the plain, and they were never more 
clearly cut than when I gazed at them from the rear 
platform. I have seen nothing in any land like their 
outline, and then they suggest all sorts of fanciful 
ideas, standing as they do like sentinels on the 
frontier of that southern region to which modern 
scholars are assigning a strange prehistoric past. I 
left the train at the little station, and was about to 
take an omnibus for a four-mile trip to an inn, 
when a driver suggested that three of the passengers 
should ride in his “carry-all.” Those who did so, 
including myself, were strangers to each other, and 
I could not even see the man who sat beside me on 
the back seat. While we were rolling over the sage¬ 
brush a voice came to my ears from the darkness at 
my side— 

“ I have seen rougher rides than this, sir.” 

“ Indeed?” 

“Yes, sir, I’m one of two sur.vivors of a coach¬ 
load in Arizona. The Apaches attacked us. We 
give ’em as good a racket as we could, but they went 
right clean through us—and they killed every man 
in that coach but me and my pard, and” (here the 
voice became a little tremulous) “ they put us in the 
corral to keep us till morning” (which meant a good 
deal in view of the way in which Apaches treat pris¬ 


oners). “ We managed to get out in the night, and 
we ran , sir, ran like—for our lives along the trail— 
and we were just dead beat out, sir—and we heard 
horses coming •—and we crouched down alongside of 
that trail in terror, and listened, with our hearts in 
our mouths. My God ! sir, I heard the rattle of the 
scabbards on the boots ! It was two co?npanies of 
cavalry. We jumped up—the major didn’t more 
than let me finish my story. Said he to us, ‘Get 
up behind a man, each of you, and show us the way 
in!' 

“Well, sir, them poor fellows in that coach weren’t 
long being revenged. Every one of them cavalry¬ 
men had a good sabre—and a good carbine—and 
a good six-shooter—and you bet he used 'em all!” 

Just then we came into the light of the little inn 
at Trinidad, and I turned with much interest to look 
at my companion. He was a large and powerful 
man with a light beard, in ordinary attire, and car¬ 
rying a small satchel in his hand. He was looking 
at me, too, and with a smile and a shake of the head 
he seemed to disengage himself from the spell of 
the grim experience he had been narrating. The 
excitement of the episode had only recurred to him 
in the silence and the darkness, and had needs make 
way for new dangers and difficulties, to be expected 
at all times in a life like his. 

“ I’ve told you quite a story,” said he. “ Some¬ 
how it comes back to me when I’m inside a carriage 
in the dark. Are you going to stop here? Yes? 
Well, allow me to introduce myself. My name’s 
James Pringle, engineer on the ‘D. & R. G.’ ” (Den¬ 
ver and Rio Grande). 

I shook hands with him and gave him my card, 
and as we registered our names I had a good chance 
to look at him. He had a very fine, honest face and 
blue eyes, and one would trust him at a glance. He 
entertained me much at supper, and accepted a 
cigar when we took our seats on the little verandah. 

“ So you’re going to Santa Fe,” he said. “ Like 
enough you’ll see my pard—him that was with me 
in the coach in Arizona. I didn’t tell you he was 
in these parts. His name is Charley Western, and 
he’s head of a section gang building the A., T. & 
S. F.” (Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe), “south, 
and maybe you’ll strike him somewhere near the 
Pecos River. I hope you will, Colonel ” (so every one 
insisted on calling me), “ for, though I say it who 
shouldn’t, seeing he’s my pard, there ain’t a better 
man this side of the States. Why, I have known 
him ever since we were boys together (he’s three 
years younger than me) way up in Vermont, near 
Lake Champlain. Both his father and mother died 
when he was a little shaver, and he’s always been 
just like my own brother. He was supposed to live 
with his uncle, but he was in our house most all the 
time, and we worked together in summer and went 
to school together in winter, and I tell you ”—he 
turned to me with his face beaming with good-will 
—“ he’s a pard worth having. I hope you’ll see 





Two “Pards." 


29 


him, and tell him you saw me, and I was first-rate, 
and wanted him to do anything he could for you. 
He knows this country well.” 

I told him I should certainly try to see his friend, 
and we talked together until quite late in the even¬ 
ing. I took a great fancy to my new acquaintance, 
and was glad to learn that we should probably meet 
again, as he was usually detailed for the “specials” 
(special trains), and I was likely to go over the road 
later on. He accompanied me to the station the 
next night, and I found that what he said to the 
men had accomplished quite as much for my com¬ 
fort on the journey as my official credentials. There 
were no regular passenger trains, but the men made 
me quite at home in a caboose at the rear of a 
long string of freight cars, and I was safely trans¬ 
ported over the Raton Mountains, and was sound 
asleep as we entered New Mexico. -From the end 
of the finished line at Las Vegas I rode to Santa 
Fe on the top of a coach, every one of us with his 
hand on his revolver, for the “ road agents ” were 
out in force, and had stopped the stage on its pre¬ 
vious trip. We did not encounter them, however, 
and on a beautiful moonlight night we drove into 
the Plaza of the City of the Holy Faith. Quaint 
and strange it was, indeed, when I saw it. Now the 
railroad has reached it, and I hear of brick build¬ 
ings, and gas, and a handsome hotel instead of the 
fonda, where I sat that night and sipped my Span¬ 
ish chocolate. No one contributes more to such 
changes than people of my profession ; but I con¬ 
fess to not a little sentiment as to the destruction of 
such mementoes of antiquity—even of pre-Colum¬ 
bian days—as were to be found in and about this 
old town. Brick is a better material for a city than 
adobe , but not half so interesting. 

I passed many pleasant days in New Mexico, and 
seemed to become more and more infected with the 
dreamy atmosphere and ways of Santa Fe. I used to 
sit for hours under the colonnade around the Plaza, 
smoking and languidly watching the quaint scenes 
passing before my eyes. Maiiana (to-morrow) was 
the motto of Santa Fe life in those days ; in other 
words, “ Do nothing to-day that you can put off until 
to-morrow.” At last I came to my senses, and booked 
myself one day for a seat in the stage for Las Vegas 
the next morning but one. That evening I was sit¬ 
ting on a bench in the Plaza, listening to the military 
band, when I heard voices, including a woman’s, 
raised above ordinary tones from a neighboring seat. 
I looked in that direction and saw (the moonlight 
being very bright) a beautiful girl. She was a 
blonde, apparently of medium height, and rather 
gayly dressed. She was sitting with two men of com¬ 
mon appearance, and evidently enjoying herself 
greatly. She might have been twenty years of age, 
and her handsome face, luxuriant golden hair, and 
fine figure would have attracted notice anywhere, 
albeit she was overdressed and in no sense refined. 
It was by no means because she made eyes at me 


that I paid her mental compliments, and recog¬ 
nized in her one of the women dowered with beauty 
of a kind and degree that, whether they reign on 
thrones or in mining camps, must give them a power 
at once undeniable and unique. I saw her again the 
next day, and learned that she had recently come 
from “The States,” was the daughter of a contractor 
on the railroad, and, in her “set,” easily the belle. 
Something about her brought to my mind those 
striking words of Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes:— 

“ But here is that terrible fact to begin with, a beautiful 
young girl, with the blood and the nerve-fibre that belong 
to Nature’s women, turned loose among live fnen. 

"Terrible fact ? 

“Very terrible. Nothing more so. Do you forget the 
angels that lost heaven for the daughters of men ? Do 
you forget Helen, and the fair women who made mischief 
and set nations by the ears before Helen was born ? If 
jealousies that gnaw men’s hearts out of their bodies—if 
pangs that waste men to shadows' and drive them into 
raving madness or moping melancholy—if assassination 
and suicide are dreadful possibilities, then there is always 
something frightful about a lovely young woman.” 

If such things could be said a propos of a gentle 
young creature sitting with her chaperon at a quiet 
boarding-house table, with what new force, thought 
I, would they apply to a handsome, bold girl, thrown 
among crowds of rude fierce men on the border. 

Next morning I took my place in the Southern 
Overland Mail Stage northward. The vehicle was 
an unusually small one, and the inside passengers 
were not pleased when it stopped, and a new claim¬ 
ant for a seat appeared. He was a man of about 
twenty-eight years of age, of vigorous frame, with 
black eyes, hair, and moustache, and as he came 
near we noticed that his arm was in a sling. Sus¬ 
pecting, perhaps, that we were not anxious to be 
further crowded, he quietly remarked : 

“I’ve been shot, gentlemen, and I must go to 
where I can find a doctor.” 

Greatly surprised, we made room for him, and 
asked if he were suffering. To this inquiry, repeated 
at intervals, he invariably replied in the negative. 
He accepted a cigar, laughed at the jokes and anec¬ 
dotes with which we sought to beguile the long 
drive, and chatted freely with us. We learned that 
he was in charge of railway construction, and that, 
in endeavoring to quell a disturbance, he had re¬ 
ceived in his arm the bullet intended by an Amer¬ 
ican workman for a Mexican. I talked a good deal 
with him, and all of a sudden it occurred to me to 
ask if he knew Charley Western, whom my friend 
James Pringle wanted me to meet. 

“ Why, sir,” he replied, “ I know him well, for 
that’s my name ! ” 

This singular encounter made quite an impres¬ 
sion on my mind. I was pleased to see my friend’s 
friend, but sorry to find him in such a plight, for I 
could not take the matter as lightly as did he. I 
could not tell him enough about James, and he 




Treasury of Tales. 


30 


seemed to love speaking of him. His face lighted 
up as he went on. 

“Now, he’s such a pard as few men ever had,” 
Said he. “ He’s been more than a brother to me. 
We’ve seen good days and mighty rough days to¬ 
gether, and we’re a-going to see each other through 
every time. I believe he’d give me all he has in the 
world, if I needed it, and he’s welcome to all I’ve 
got—and that ain’t much to be sure ; and what’s a 
sight more than that,” he continued, “ if one of us 
was in trouble, the other’d go to the end of the earth 
to stand by him. Why, once, when I was a boy, I 
went to the theatre, and saw a play called the—the 
‘ Corsican Brothers,’ where one brother knew when 
the other’d got something 
on his mind, or was hurt, 
or ”—he lowered his voice 
—“ was a-dying. It may 

be kind o’ foolish, but I’ve 
sometimes allowed that 
it’s about like that with 
me, and that if Jim got a 
call to pass in his checks, 

I’d—I’d somehow or oth¬ 
er—I can’t sort of put it 
in words— I'd know it!" 

He paused a minute, and 
as his excited thought took 
a new direction, he turned 
to me with a little flash in 
his eyes, and lips closely 
compressed, and added, 

“ And if there’s a living 
man harms my pard, the 
world won’t be big enough 
to hold him and me, and 
don't you forget it! ” 

Through fifteen long 
miles of a rough road he 
sat patient and uncom¬ 
plaining in his seat. Fear¬ 
ing that it would hurt him, 
despite his courage, to talk, 

I kept silence after our 
first conversation. With 
me was a particular friend, a clever doctor, dwelling 
by choice in the West, and when we stopped at Teco- 
lote to change horses, I called him off the box and 
asked him to examine my new acquaintance’s arm. 
He took him into the rude station, and shortly 
emerged, speaking some encouraging words to his 
patient. Taking me aside, he whispered, in his cool, 
professional way, that the poor fellow was in con¬ 
siderable danger, and that any interference with the 
wound, by an inexperienced surgeon would inevita¬ 
bly bring on lockjaw ! We rode twelve miles more, 
the brave fellow still insisting that he was not suffer¬ 
ing. Arriving at the end of the stage route, I found 
my car in readiness, with a special engine attached. 
I then told him that he must come with me, and 


that we would nurse him, and run fifty miles an 
hour for a surgeon. The cold perspiration was 
coming out in beads on his forehead, and his pulse 
was growing weaker, but he said, as firmly as ever— 
“ I couldn’t possibly leave, sir, without the boss’s 
permission, and he is not here.” 

I could do no more for him, for we were com¬ 
pelled to start. I bade him good-bye, and as I 
shook hands reluctantly with him, and sat at the 
rear of my car as we rolled away in the soft moon¬ 
light of New Mexico, it seemed to me that I had 
met as strong a soul as that Casabianca, whose name 
has so long been a household word. 

As the doctor and I sat looking at the sterile land¬ 
scape, I told him about 
the young fellow we had 
just left, and the “pard” 
of whom he was so fond. 
The doctor was sympathet¬ 
ic, but very professional, 
and he kept dwelling on 
the fact that the man had 
received what he called a 
“surgical shock.” I in¬ 
sisted that a fellow of such 
infinite pluck and spirit 
would live through more 
than that, and, after argu¬ 
ing to his heart’s content, 
he gracefully acknowl¬ 
edged that I might be 
right ; and so it proved. 
We learned some days later 
that, although he had been 
at death’s door, he was 
convalescent. 

I mentioned this remark¬ 
able experience to several 
railroad officials, and it 
came to have quite a little 
notoriety, and led, I was 
glad to discover later on, 
to some promotion for its 
hero. Engrossing occu¬ 
pation, however, and 
changing scenes caused it to fade from my mind, and 
I did not visit Santa Fe again for a long time. 

It was in the course of a pleasant September that 
I surmounted the Veta Pass, and took the newly 
constructed road south from Alamosa. I had been 
for some time in the Eastern States, and among con¬ 
ventional surroundings ; and I had consequently 
lost in a measure the mental attitude of prepared¬ 
ness for strange happenings which had been induced 
by previous experiences in the West. Indeed, I was 
habitually dwelling on some important private affairs 
which had occupied my attention at home, and I had 
not paid much heed to the landscape until we ar¬ 
rived, just about sunset, at a station called Antonito, 
where I was to remain for some little time. Never 



THE SCENE OF ACTION. 





Two “Pards 


shall I forget the sight that met my eyes, the strange 
combinations, the sharply accented contrasts. As I 
stepped out of the train I found myself on an arid, 
treeless plain. Close at hand were the railway 
buildings, from which a rude street, flanked by mis¬ 
erable “ saloons,” gambling places, and dance- 
houses, led to a group of adobe houses, forming the 
town proper. Around were strewn heaps of offal 
and garbage, deposits of rubbish, piles of cast-off 
tin cans. To the near horizon on each side desola¬ 
tion reigned; but, as I raised my eyes to the distant 
eastern sky-line, I saw such a glorious and majestic 
vision that in an instant my squalid surroundings 
were to me as if they had never been. On the sharp 
summits of a noble, sombre range rested the rays of 
the setting sun, bathing them in a lovely roseate 
light. In a second it flashed across me that at such 
a moment well might the pious Spaniards of old 
days, bearing the cross in one hand and the sword 
in the other, and with a reverent mediaeval symbol¬ 
ism ever presenting itself to their minds, have given 
to these mountains the solemn name they have ever 
since borne, Sangre de Christo —“ the blood of Christ.” 
I forgot all that was about me, and stood gazing 
until the light faded. Sitting here to-day, long after 
that time, and more than two thousand miles from 
that place, the transcendent spectacle comes back to 
me, fresh, grand, and moving as ever ; and to the 
most blast of sight-seers, to the men for whom Nat¬ 
ure seems to have no sensations left, I say with en¬ 
tire confidence, “ Go and see the Sangre de Christo 
from Antonito at sunset! ” 

I found quarters for the night in one of the rail¬ 
road company’s buildings. After supper I was told 
that a man wished to see me, and I had the pleasure 
of meeting James Pringle. I asked him about his 
“ pard,” and learned that he was well and prosper¬ 
ous, and that the two friends had met quite often of 
late. Pringle thanked me heartily, and with genuine 
warmth, for what I had done—or rather tried to do 
—for “Charley,” and heard my commendation of 
his friend’s pluck with, I am sure, far more pleasure 
than any praises of himself could possibly have 
given him. The next morning, to my satisfaction, 
the doctor with whom I had before traveled made 
his appearance ; a special train, with my friend 
Pringle in charge of the engine, was placed at our 
disposal, and we began a series of trips in different 
directions, and of varying length. From Antonito 
a division of the railroad runs westward to Chama 
and towards Durango, and on this we spent some 
time. Then we made our headquarters for a while 
at Alamosa, on the Rio Grande. I noticed that 
Pringle seemed much pleased when told of this latter 
choice, and I was not long in discovering the reason. 
The night of our first arrival the doctor and I were 
invited to a dance given at the hotel, and a truly 
motley party did we find there assembled. We were 
late, and the festivities were at their height. The 
“ gentlemen ” were railroad men of various degrees, 


3 r 


stage officials, local tradesmen, miners, and “ cow¬ 
boys.” The “ ladies ” were mainly of Mexican blood, 
but there were a few Americans. In the matter of 
costume there was clearly much liberty allowed—or 
exacted—and a large variety prevailed. About the 
dress of some of the men there was a certain pict¬ 
uresqueness. I noticed one in particular of very 
striking appearance. He was a large and powerful 
man, fully six feet in height, with keen grey eyes, 
dark hair, and no beard or moustache. He wore a 
short coat, open over a grey flannel shirt, under the 
rolling collar of which was loosely knotted a gay 
scarf. He was belted, booted, and spurred, and 
had a large grey sombrero with a gilt cord around 
the crown. The face was of a type which I know 
well on the frontier—cold, cruel, Mephistophelean— 
the face of an actual gambler, and easily possible 
desperado. As I looked at him, I saw his eyes 
turned, with an exceedingly unpleasant expression 
in them, towards a corner of the room. Following 
their direction I saw my friendly engineer, his 
honest face suffused with pleasure, talking eagerly 
to the very girl whom I had last seen in the Plaza at 
Santa Fe. She looked as handsome as ever as she 
sat there, playing with her fan, and raising her eyes 
from time to time to the face of the good fellow 
talking to her. I saw him unfold a paper and hand 
her a bunch of flowers, and then I turned to look at 
my fierce neighbor. His face had grown even more 
savage than before, and his look boded no peace for 
Pringle. I seemed to see trouble ahead, and I looked 
around for our well-known scout “ Pistol Johnny.” 
He was refreshing himself at the bar, and politely 
asked me to join him ; but, upon my declining, he 
readily gave me his attention, and answered my 
questions promptly. The man was a well-known 
“ sport ” and gambler, and the sobriquet by which 
he was known was “ Faro Sam.” Like many men 
of his class, he was born in a quiet rural district of 
New England, had fallen into evil ways, gone to the 
West, and become a professional desperado. 

“ He’s a mighty tough customer,” sententiously 
remarked Pistol Johnny, as he struggled with an in¬ 
famous cigar. “ There ain’t many of the boys’d 
like to tackle him, for he’s on the shoot every time. 
The gal’s pretty, ain’t she ? I tell you, she’s just a 
daisy. Lots of the boys are gone on her. Does 
she like Jim Pringle ? Well, I should smile. He’s 
got the inside track, and he’ll keep it, unless Faro 
Sam chips in. Looks as if he was a-goin’ to, don’t 
it ? ” 

It did indeed. The gambler walked slowly across 
the room just as the master of ceremonies was call¬ 
ing upon the “ gentlemen ” to choose partners for 
the next dance. The girl was apparently about to 
take the engineer’s arm, when the gambler abruptly 
pushed before him, and spoke hurriedly, and in an 
undertone, to her. I was watching the party closely, 
and to me she seemed to hesitate, but.to be strongly 
impelled to desert her late attendant, when he qui- 




Treasury of Tales . 


32 


etly drew her arm within his, and walked away. 
What might have happened I know not, but just at 
that moment a comrade of the gambler hurriedly 
approached him, whispered something in his ear, 
drew him away, and compelled him, apparently with 
great reluctance, to accompany him out of the room. 
A few minutes later I heard them ride away. I was 
right in thinking that only something very urgent 
could induce Faro Sam to leave the room at such a 
time. His comrade had brought him word that a 
strong party of miners from a camp in the San Juan 
country, one of whom he had robbed at a game 
played with marked cards, had started to find and 
punish him. With some of his companions he had 
managed to .get on a construction train bound South, 
and I hoped we had seen the last of him for a long 
while. Next day I met my friend Pringle walking 
with the girl who had been his partner, and he stop¬ 
ped and with a hearty good will introduced me to 
her. I talked with the pair for a few minutes, dur¬ 
ing which I had an excellent opportunity of observ¬ 
ing this beautiful young woman, for such she unde¬ 
niably was. She carried herself with grace, and with 
what one might almost call the grand air. Eyes, 
hair, complexion, figure were lovely, and hands and 
feet small and pretty. What was it, I asked myself, 
as I talked with her and as I walked on to the hotel 
afterwards, which affected me so unpleasantly as 
underlying all her charms ? It was not the rather 
unrefined voice and manner, nor the inelegant lan¬ 
guage alone—but something which I could not 
fathom had left a curiously unfavorable impression 
on my mind. That afternoon I started for Wagon 
Wheel Gap, and was gone for a week. I passed 
through Alamosa on my return, and chanced to 
meet Pistol Johnny. This worthy took a serious 
view of the little affair in the dancing-room, to which 
he alluded as having happened when we were last 
together. 

“ Jim got away from Faro Sam that night,” said 
he, “but Faro ain’t the man to let it pass. He’s 
drawed on a fellow for less than that before this— 
and killed him, too. Jim’s got plenty of sand (grit), 
but if I was him I’d always go well-heeled, and look 
out that no one got the drop on me.” 

A few days later I was at Antonita, and about to 
take my departure for the North. It was early after¬ 
noon, and the sun was shining brightly. There had 
been much doing on the railway, and a number of 
men, perhaps twenty-five or thirty, were in and 
about the buildings. On the track stood my car, 
with the engine attached, and my friend Jim had 
been oiling some valves, and had just gone into the 
“ cab ” again. I was standing on the platform, 
satchel in hand, and placidly smoking. Suddenly I 
heard a sound of wheels. A wagon, with four or 
five men in it, came in sight driving at high speed. 
Down the road it came, passed the station, turned, 
and was rushing even faster than before past the 
train, when a man lifted himself and fired into the 


cab. In another minute we took out our best en¬ 
gineer, poor Pringle, stone dead—shot through the 
heart. . 

Of what followed it is hard to give a clear 
account. In that region it is rare that a “railroad 
man” is molested by the ordinary “roughs.” The 
freemasonry among the craft is perfect, and, in¬ 
cluding graders, tie-cutters, &c., they make a for¬ 
midable body, and will show a united front against 
aggressors. What had happened was known in 
an instant, and but one thought ran through the 
minds of all. I had come to know most of the fel¬ 
lows, yet in that moment all whom I saw looked 
strange—the expression of their faces had changed, 
and the “ fighting glare ” had come into their eyes. 
There was a rush to quarters for rifles and revolvers, 
a hurried buckling of cartridge-belts. I defy any 
man who has lived on the border not to imbibe 
something of the “joy of battle ” at such a time. 
I went to the car for my trusty Colt’s revolver, and 
just as I came out with it a tall man whom I knew 
as a chief of construction stepped out in front of the 
gathering group, and in stentorian tones cried : 

“ All railroad men follow me ! ” 

Instinctively I stepped from the car, and was 
about to fall in with the party, when the chief en¬ 
gineer took me by the arm. 

“ You must not go, Colonel,” he said ; “there are 
plenty of the boys, and it ain’t your funeral. The 
Mexicans hate us, and the sheriff is in sympathy with 
them, but you may bet your life we’ll have those 
scoundrels. Keep out of the way, and don’t risk 
your life when you’ve got no call to do it.” 

Such advice is more easily given than taken. I 
could not have kept back altogether; but, even while 
he detained me, the men were well up the street, and 
running fast. We followed without gaining on them 
in the least, but we soon heard shots ahead of us. A 
strange scene met our eyes as we came up. At the 
right was a row of three adobe houses. At some 
distance to the left stood an ancient church sur¬ 
rounded by an adobe wall about six feet high, and 
at this moment I can almost see the rude white cross 
standing over the gateway and shining in the sun. 

The party had divided, and a number of men had 
made an attack upon the row of houses, in the fur¬ 
thermost of which, it seemed, all but one of the 
ruffians from the wagon had taken refuge. Several 
shots had already been exchanged with them, and 
an entrance had been forced into the nearest of the 
houses. Just before I reached the spot, the wall 
between this and the second had been broken down, 
and several resolute fellows passed through the 
breach. They were making ready to assault the 
besieged party, when a white handkerchief fastened 
to a stick was shown at the upper part of one of the 
windows, and the men inside called for a parley. 
Strange enough it was. They represented, with 
perfect coolness, that while they themselves were 
“ gone up sure,” several of the assailants would cer- 





Two “Pards 


33 


tainly be killed in the attack, as the besieged were 
thoroughly armed. Under the circumstances they 
would surrender, if guaranteed a respite of twenty-four 
hours before being lynched ! These terms the rail¬ 
road men decided to accept, and the surrender was 
accordingly made. I was not a witness of it, for my 
attention had been distracted by other proceedings. 
A number of men, their rifles at their hips, were 
cautiously taking up distance, with their eyes fixed 
on the wall surrounding the ancient church. I 
learned through a hurried statement that the ring¬ 
leader of the murderers, the man who had fired the 
fatal shot, had managed to get his splendid white 
horse (which must have been saddled and in read¬ 
iness), and sheltered himself behind the farther wall 
of the church. He was known to be heavily armed, 
and a dead shot. I could see nothing of him, but I 
saw the clever tactics of the West carried out by men 
who knew them well. Separating like skirmishers 
going into action, they were watching for a chance. 
In a minute there came hurriedly up a well-known 
sharp-shooter, with a heavy Berdan rifle. He had 
hardly passed me when he stopped and set the 
sights as deliberately as if about to fire at a target. 
Then he proceeded rapidly in a direction that would 
soon bring the farther side of the church enclosure 
within range. 

“ If Steve draws a bead on him, he’ll drop him 
sure,” said excitedly a man at my side. “ Faro 
Sam’s got a fine Winchester, and shoots straight 
every time ; but Steve’s rifle can carry a long way 
farther.” 

Faro Sam ! The whole thing flashed across me 
in a minute—the ball at Alamosa—the beautiful 
girl—the look on the desperado’s face—the rencon¬ 
tre—and this was the sequel ! Even in these ex¬ 
citing moments there came back to me my ominous 
forebodings in the Plaza at Santa Fe. “ If assassi¬ 
nations and suicides are dreadful possibilities, then 
there is always something-” 

Crack ! 

Does any one ever forget that sound—the dis¬ 
charge of a loaded rifle at close quarters ? The ruf¬ 
fian must have shown his hat or arm above the wall ; 
and as I was looking in that direction, I saw a little 
dust fly from its top, so close had been the shot. 
Ere another minute there were half a dozen more 
reports, and a horse appeared clear of the corner of 
the wall. Beyond, and sheltered by him, was a man. 
In less time than it takes to write it, he had fired his 
rifle, resting on the saddle, thrown it down, sprung 
on the horse’s back, a revolver in each hand ; and, 
discharging them rapidly and driving the spurs into 
the fine steed’s flanks, he was off. Again a second, 
and Steve “drew his bead.” As I heard the report, 
I saw the man reel and drop his hand to his thigh ; 
but he did not. fall, and was soon out of range. 
Then there was a cry for horses, and a pursuit was 
speedily organized. 

“Steve’s kind o’ lost his grip,” said the man who 


had spoken to me before. “ Perhaps the sun got in 
his eyes. It’s mighty rough he missed the cuss’s 
heart. Never mind, we’re a-going to get him now.” 

“ Are you sure of that ? ” 

“ Certain. There ain’t no settlements except rail¬ 
road camps for miles and miles the way he’s gone. 
He couldn’t get a change of horses to save his life, 
and the boys’ll have all they want. It won’t take 
’em long to run him down.” 

I saw four or five horsemen, heavily armed and 
finely.mounted, ride away ; I saw a group of men 
caring tenderly for the remains of the dead engineer ; 
I saw the grim guard outside the door of the house 
in which were the surrendered prisoners. Then I 
went to the train, now in charge of a new engineer ; 
and, unable to postpone my departure, bade “ the 
boys ” good-bye, and stood on the platform as we 
ran rapidly towards the North. 

Away to the East there was the solemn Sangre de 
Christo looking down again just as when the pioneers 
of Spain gazed wonderingly thereon, and there were 
no jealousies and brawls and murders tainting the 
land over which the great range keeps watch and 
ward. 

“ There ain’t much show for them cusses when 
they come to try ’em to-morrow,” said a brakeman 
who came out to adjust the signal cord. “ They’ve 
been spotted, and they’re a mighty bad lot.” I 
knew he spoke the truth, and I ought not to leave 
this veracious narrative of a phase of frontier life, 
which seems so lawless to dwellers in other lands, 
without a word of comment. 

-As has been happily said, the wave of civili¬ 
zation creeping westward, and climbing higher and 
higher on the sides of the Sierra Madre, washes be¬ 
fore it a scum of villainy and vileness. Without 
entering into the ethics of the question as to how 
this should be suppressed, I would simply say that 
in the experience not only of myself, but of all the 
friends on the plains and in the mountains with 
whom I have talked, the wrong man has never yet 
been lynched. 

It must have been several months later than the 
events just described that I received in New York a 
letter from my friend the doctor, from which I will 
make some extracts :— 

“By the way, you remember that shooting affair at 
Antonito when your friend the engineer was killed. We 
ought to have had Gaboriau or Boisgobey to record the 
sequel. The boys didn’t catch the runaway after all, 
much to their disgust. The girl at Alamosa seemed 
dreadfully cut up, and she made her father take her away. 
Meantime that pard of the engineer that behaved so 
pluckily in the Santa Fe stage with us, came up to find 
out about his friend’s death, and I met him. He was 
mightily changed, and as silent as possible. He saw the 
girl, and gave her some little souvenir out of Pringle’s 
effects, which were handed over to him. Then, staying 
two or three days, he went around the place making in¬ 
quiries about the man that shot his pard. I was present 
when he was questioning some of the boys, and I can tell 






34 


Treasury of Tales. 


you that I would rather have a bloodhound on my trail 
than a man of his force, with such a look as I saw in those 
black eyes of his. In a few weeks we began to hear 
about the doings of a new desperado called ‘ Sam the 
Rustler,’ who was running a-muck through the mining 
camps and on some of the ranches. No one could appre¬ 
hend him for some time, but at last they did succeed in 
surprising him, and a sheriff and his deputy brought him 
handcuffed into Silverton. They left him in a room in 
charge of a man with a shot-gun, and went to dinner. 
All of a sudden the villain raised his manacled hands and 
struck the guard as dead as Julius Caesar. A darky was 
in the next room and he made him knock off the hand¬ 
cuffs. Then he waited until the sheriff and deputy came 
out, and shot them both with the shot-gun and got their 
revolvers. In another minute he ran out into the street, 
forced the people whom he met into line and covered them 
with his revolvers while he made a fellow bring a horse 
all saddled, and then he jumped on his back and was off 
unhurt! About two days later a man came into the town 
with an appointment to take the poor sheriffs place, and 
in two days more word came that he had met the ‘ Rus¬ 
tler’ single-handed, and had put a bullet through him. 

“And now comes the strange part of the story. ‘Sam 
the Rustler’ and ‘Faro Sam’ are one, and the newly-ap¬ 
pointed sheriff is our friend the plucky pard ! There is 
vendetta and poetical justice for you. Now, only yester¬ 
day, a friend of mine came in from the South and told me 
the strangest thing of all, which they managed to keep 
from the pard. That handsome girl was not only at the 
bottom of the whole thing (they found this all out from 
letters among the dead ruffian’s effects), but she had been 
‘ playing ’ the men against each other all through. She 
was deep in with Faro Sam when she was encouraging 
poor Pringle, and when the latter was killed Sam thought 
he had a clear field, and yet she was throwing him over¬ 
board too. She had written to him in a way which would 
have driven a better man mad, and done credit to the 
most accomplished coquette living. The man, strange to 
say, was desperately in love with her to the last, and she 
had told him that she was going to marry a miner who 
had made a tremendous strike at Leadville. I hear she 
has married him, and they are going East. I will give 
you the odds you will see her yellow hair and blue eyes 
on the Avenue at Newport next summer. Well, all I can 
say is, Woman , woman / ” 

Woman! indeed, I thought, as I laid the let¬ 
ter down. Dr. Holmes must have had a prophetic 
vision of her when he wrote about “ terrible facts.” 

-“ A card for you, sir.” 

I took it. “ Charles Western,” I read. I jumped 
from my chair and went into the reception-room of 
the club. There stood the man whom I had met 
with his arm in a sling on the Santa Fe road. He 
responded gravely to my greeting, and took a chair, 
putting his hat down, and making all his movements 
with a marked and curious deliberation. He declined 
a cigar, and then I waited some minutes for him to 
speak. At first he looked straight in front of him, 
but he turned towards me before beginning. He 
spoke slowly throughout, pausing at first between his 
sentences, but afterwards delivering them continu¬ 
ously. Very curiously, too, as a sort of subdued 
emotion gained upon him, he fell into an extreme 


Western dialect not at all habitual to him in time 
past. My interest and sympathy were riveted from 
the first, and increased as he went on to an almost 
painful extent. 

“ I’ve just arrived from New Mexico and Colo¬ 
rado, Colonel,” said he. “ The railroad people gave 
me your address, and I was bound to find you. 
Perhaps you don’t know what hard times I’ve been 
through since I saw you. I know you was at Anto- 
nito when my poor pard passed in his checks. I was 
down near Albuquerque a day before that, and 
somehow I got to thinkin’ about Jim—got kinder 
oneasy about him, as yer might say. I couldn’t get 
him off my mind, an’ when I went to bed I lay awake 
a long while thinkin’ about him—an’ when I fell 
asleep, Colonel, jest as sure as you’re a-settin’ there, 
I saw him in a dream, just as nateral as life, an’ 
lookin’ at me kinder anxious-like as ef there war 
somethin’ a-troublin’ him, an’ I tried to get to 
him an’ couldn’t, an’ I woke up in a cold 
perspiration—an’ then next day I was like a 
man in a dream all the time, an’ the boys not 
understandin’ what was the matter. When I’d 
had my dinner in the boardin’ car, I set thar 
a-thinkin’, an’ bein’ tired from not hevin’ hed sleep 
the night before, I fell a-dozin’, an’—Colonel, I’m 
a-tellin’ yer the livin’ truth—I see my pard cold an’ 
still; an’ I jumped up with a yell, an’ the boys thought 
I was mad—an’ they allowed I’d hed too much to 
drink, an’ I couldn’t make ’em understand thet I 
knowed somethin’’d happened to Jim. Then I got 
leave an’ went up to Santa Fe, an’ on to Espanola, in¬ 
quirin’, an’ I got to Antonito an’ found out what hed 
happened. Colonel, I wa’n’t surprised, nor yit, jest 
then, so wild ez yer’d think—fur, yer see, I was 
worst hit when I see him in the second dream, an’ 
somethin’ kinder went right through my heart then, 
and I couldn't suffer much more. But, Colonel ”— 
and here there was something infinitely pathetic 
about his voice and manner—“ did yer ever know 
anythin’ so hard—yer knowed Jim—an’ he thought 
a heap o’ yer—and thet’s why I can talk to yer 
about him. The Lord never made a whiter man— 
with his great big heart, an’ so kind an’ tender an’ 
strong. And only think, Colonel—him to be killed 
by that ungodly hound. It’s the roughest thing I 
ever see in all my life. Yer see, Colonel, I thought 
the world of my pard, an’ I ain’t seemed to myself 
to be the same man since he was killed. As for the 
man thet shot him—well, I never hed but one 
thought concernin’ him after I got the news. I 
won’t never go back on the railroad bosses as long 
as I live—they treated me white, give me leave of 
absence, an’ said as how they’d keep my place for 
me. As for the boys, yer know what great big- 
hearted fellows they are, an’ they couldn’t do enough 
for me. They took care of me, qji’ give me money 
an’ clothes, an’ a horse, an’ everything I needed. An* 
perhaps you didn’t know Bill that was fireman with 
Jim, an’ loved him like a brother. Poor Bill was 






The Cask of Amontillado. 


35 


kind o’ low down before that, hevin’ his wife and 
children bad with mountain fever, an’ his savin’s 
used up, but he come to me with the tears runnin’ 
down his cheeks, an’, sez he, ‘ Charley, I’ve got one 
good thing left, an’ I’m a-goin’ to give it to yer. It’s 
my rifle, an’ you know there ain’t a better one in the 
country. I wish it was my call to use it—but it 
ain’t—it’s yours—and it won’t go back on yer—only, 
Charley, mind yer shoot straight.’ 

“Well, Colonel, I said good-bye to the boys, an’ 
lit out. I kind o’ thought I had a tough job before 
me, but I didn’t mind, so long as I got on that fel¬ 
ler’s track. Yer see he knowed mighty well what he 
was about. The way he got away from the boys 
thet was chasin’ him was by hevin’ an order he’d 
forged on the graders’ camps to give him a mount 
’cause he was on railroad business. I got after him, 
an’ I follered on. I didn’t mind life nor yit death, 
an’ I didn’t feel hunger, nor cold, nor wet, fur I was 
kinder wild jist to catch up. I tell yer, Colonel, he 
was the deepest one yit. I lost the trail once, an’ 
couldn’t hear no more of Faro Sam. I hunted 
round a long time, an’ one night I was sittin’ in a 
saloon an’ heerd some cow-boys a-talkin’ about the 
new ‘ tough,’ Sam the Rustler. One of ’em asked 
what sort of a-lookin’ feller he was, an’ when I heerd 
the answer, it come to me straight thet he was my 
man. The next week I chipped in with some 
vigilantes that was after a gang for stealin’ mules. 
We caught one feller, but the boys thought he wa’n’t 
in it, an’ they let him go. I followed him when he 
was a-leavin’, an’ hed a talk jest outside the town.. 
‘ Young feller,’ says I, ‘ the boys has let yer off, 
an’ I ain’t a-goin’ back on ’em. All the same 
I know yer in Sam’s gang. Now when yer see 
him, jest yer say that yer met an old pard of Jim 
Pringle’s, an’ the old pard wanted to meet him— 
thet’s all.’ 

“ Yer see, Sam knowed me, an’ he’d understand 
what I meant. Well, I follered him up, but I was 
took with fever down to Socorro, an’ when I come 
round he’d killed thet thar sheriff, an’ then I allowed 
I’d get sworn in, an’ they give me the appointment 
an’ welcome, but I allow he didn’t know it. So I 
got on his trail in about two days, an’ I knowed he 
was a-comin’ up through a gulch, an’ I got behind a 
rock an’ waited for him. It come on to rain fearful, 
an’ I was wet through, thinkin’ only how to keep my 
cartridges dry. Then the sun come out, an’ pretty 
soon I heard horses’ steps, an’ he come along. You 
know, Colonel, how he come up on my poor pard— 
you know how he didn’t give him no show—jest 
clean murdered him. Well, I didn’t have no call to 
do thet. I come out an’ faced him, an’ he knew me 
in a second, an’ he drawed quicker’n a wink, but I 
saw his face change, an’ Colonel, I k?iowed jest as 
sartin as we’re sittin’ here, that he’d miss me an’ I 
wouldn’t miss him. An’ so it was. It was a close 
call for me, but the old rifle carried true. But only 
think, Colonel, of the difference between the life of 


this ungodly rough an’ my poor pard, thet you 
knowed, an’ he hevin’ so big a heart, an’-” 

For the first time he passed his sleeve over his 
eyes. In a minute he went on again. 

“ I knowed, Colonel, an’ the boys knowed, thet 
you thought a sight of my pard, so I’ve brought yer 
a little gold nugget thet we found among his things. 
We allowed yer’d orter have a little keepsake of him 
—an’ I come here to tell yer about what hed hap¬ 
pened, an’ to bring yer this. The boys sends yer 
their respects, an’ hopes yer’ll come out an’ see ’em 
again. An’ now I must go. No, thank yer, Colonel, 
I can’t stay. I’m a-goin’ to see Jim’s old father— 
an’ a tough job it is. An’ then I don’t know where 
I’ll go—bein’ yer see, kinder broke up since my 
pard passed in his checks. Well, Colonel, good¬ 
bye.” 

We had come out to the steps. He looked me in 
the face, gave me a grip of the hand, and walked 
down the avenue. It was a beautiful afternoon, and 
a gay crowd filled the sidewalk. Between lovely 
girls and “golden youth,” between dignified old gen¬ 
tlemen and hurrying messengers, my friend strode 
on, never once turning his head. I saw more than 
one person look after him, and smile at the rough 
clothes and the large sombrero. Then he turned the 
corner. 

I have never seen him again, but I wear habitually 
on my watch-chain the little nugget—a souvenir of 
as brave men as ever lived—the Two Pards. 


THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO. 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE. 

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne 
as I best could ; but when he ventured upon insult I 
vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature 
of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave 
utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged ; 
this was a point definitively settled—but the very 
definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded 
the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish 
with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retri¬ 
bution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unre¬ 
dressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt 
as such to him who has done the wrong. 

It must be understood, that neither by word nor 
deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good 
will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his 
face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was 
at the thought of his immolation. 

He had a weak point—this Fortunato—although 
in other regards he was a man to be respected and 
even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseur- 
ship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso 
spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted 
to suit the time and opportunity—to practice impos¬ 
ture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In 







3^ 


Treasury of Tales. 


painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his country¬ 
men, was a quack—but in the matter of old wines 
he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ with 
him materially ; I was skilful in the Italian vintages 
myself, and bought largely whenever I could. 

It was about dusk one evening during the supreme 
madness of the carnival season, that I encountered 
my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, 
for he had been drinking much. The man wore 
motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, 
and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and 
bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I 
should never have done wringing his hand. 

I said to him—“ My dear Fortunato, you are luck¬ 
ily met. How remarkably well you are looking to¬ 
day ! But I have received a pipe of what passes for 
Amontillado, and—I have my doubts.” 

“ How ? ” said he. “ Amontillado ? A pipe ? 
Impossible ! And in the middle of the carnival ? ” 
“ I have my doubts,” I replied ; “ and I was silly 
enough to pay the full Amontillado price without 
consulting you in the matter. You were not to be 
found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain.” 

“ Amontillado ! ” 

“ I have my doubts.” 

“ Amontillado ! ” 

“ And I must satisfy them.” 

“ Amontillado ! ” 

“ As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. 
If any one has a critical turn, it is' he. He will tell 


“ Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.” 

“ And yet some fools will have it that his taste is 
a match for your own.” 

“ Come, let us go.” 

“ Whither ? ” 

“To your vaults.” 

“ My friend, no ; I will not impose upon your 
good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. 
Luchesi-” 

“ I have no engagement;—come.” 

“ My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but 
the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. 
The vaults are insufferably damp. They are incrusted 
with nitre.” 

“ Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely 
nothing. Amontillado ! You have been imposed 
upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish 
Sherry from Amontillado.” 

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my 
arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing 
a roquelaure closely about my person, I suffered him 
to hurry me to my palazzo. 

There were no attendants at home ; they had 
absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I 
had told them that I should not return until the 
morning, and had given them explicit orders not to 
stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I 
well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, 
one and all, as soon as my back was turned. 


I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giv¬ 
ing one to Fortunato, bowed him through several 
suites of rooms to the archway that led into the 
vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, 
requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We 
came at length to the foot of the descent and stood 
together on the damp ground of the catacombs of 
the Montresors. 

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells 
upon his cap jingled as he strode. 

“ The pipe,” said he. 

“ It is farther on,” said I ; “ but observe the 
white web-work which gleams from these cavern 
walls.” 

He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes 
with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxi¬ 
cation. 

“ Nitre ? ” he asked, at length. 

“ Nitre,” I replied. “ How long have you had 
that cough ? ” 

“ Ugh ! ugh ! ugh !—ugh ! ugh ! ugh !—ugh ! 
ugh ! ugh !—ugh ! ugh ! ugh !—ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! ” 

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for 
many minutes. 

“ It is nothing,” he said at last. 

“ Come,” I said with decision, “ we will go back ; 
your health is precious. You are rich, respected, 
admired, beloved ; you are happy, as once I was. 
You are a man to be missed. For me it is no mat¬ 
ter. We will go back ; you will be ill, and I cannot 
be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi-” 

“ Enough,” he said ; “ the cough is a mere noth¬ 
ing ; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a 
cough.” 

“ True — true,” I replied ; “ and, indeed I had no 
intention of alarming you unnecessarily—but you 
should use all proper caution. A draught of this 
Medoc will defend us from the damps.” 

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I 
drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the 
mould. 

“ Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine. 

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused 
and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jing¬ 
led. 

“ I drink,” he said, “ to the buried that repose 
around us.” 

“ And I to— your long life.” 

He again took my arm, and we proceeded. 

“ These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.” 

“ The Montresors,” I replied, “ were a great and 
numerous family.” 

“ I forget your arms.” 

“ A huge human foot d’or, in a field azure ; the 
foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are im¬ 
bedded in the heel.” 

“ And the motto ? ” 

“Nemo me impune laces sit.” 

“ Good ! ” he said. 

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. 








37 


The Cask of Amontillado. 


My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had 
passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and 
puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of 
the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I 
made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the 
elbow. 

“ The nitre ! ” I said ; “ see, it increases. It hangs 
like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river’s 
bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. 
Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your 
cough-” 

“It is nothing,” he said; “let us go on. But first, 
another draught of the Medoc.” 

I broke and reached him a flacon of De Grave. 
He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a 
fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle up¬ 
wards with a gesticulation I did not understand. 

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the 
movement—a grotesque one. 

“You do not comprehend?” he said. 

“Not I,” I replied. 

“Then you are not of the brotherhood?” 

“How?” 

“You are not of the masons.” 

“Yes, yes,” I said, “yes, yes.” 

“You? Impossible! A mason?” 

“A mason,” I replied. 

“A sign,” he said. 

“It is this,” I said, producing a trowel from be¬ 
neath the folds of my roquelaure . 

“You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces ; 
“but let us proceed to the Amontillado.” 

“Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath the 
cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned 
upon it heavily. We continued our route in search 
of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of 
low arches, descended, passed on, and descending 
again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness 
of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than 
flame. 

At the most remote end of the crypt there ap¬ 
peared another less spacious. Its walls had been 
lined with human remains, piled to the vault 
overhead in the fashion of the great catacombs 
of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were 
still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth 
the bones had been thrown down and lay promiscu¬ 
ously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound 
of some size. Within the walls thus exposed by the 
displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior 
recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in 
height six or seven. It seemed to have been con¬ 
structed for no especial use within itself, but formed 
merely the interval between two of the colossal 
supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed 
by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. 

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull 
torch, endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess. 
Its termination the feeble light did not enable us 
to see. 


“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontillado. 
As for Luchesi-” 

“He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as 
he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed im¬ 
mediately at his heels. In an instant he had 
reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his 
progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewil¬ 
dered. A moment more and I had fettered him to 
the granite. In its surface were two iron staples dis¬ 
tant from each other about two feet, horizontally. 
From one of these depended a short chain, from 
the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his 
waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure 
it. He was too much astounded to resist. With¬ 
drawing the key I stepped back from the recess. 

“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you 
cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very 
damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? 
Then I must positively leave you. But I must first 
render you all the little attentions in my power.” 

“The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend, not 
yet recovered from his astonishment. 

“True,” I replied ; “the Amontillado.” 

As I said these words I busied myself among the 
pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throw¬ 
ing them aside I soon uncovered a quantity of build¬ 
ing stone and mortar. With these materials and with 
the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up 
the entrance of the niche. 

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry 
when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato 
had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indi¬ 
cation I had of this was a low, moaning cry from 
the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a 
drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate 
silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and 
the fourth ; and then I heard the furious vibrations 
of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, 
during which, that I might hearken to it with the 
more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down 
upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, 
I resumed the trowel, and finished without interrup¬ 
tion the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The 
wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I 
again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the 
mason-work threw a few feeble rays upon the figure 
within. 

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting 
suddenly from the chained form seemed to thrust me 
violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated—I 
trembled. Unsheathing my rapier I began to grope 
with it about the recess : but the thought of an instant 
reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fab¬ 
ric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reap¬ 
proached the wall. I replied to the yells of him 
who clamored. I re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed 
them in volume and strength. I did this, and the 
clamorer grew still. 

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to 
a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and 








38 


Treasury of Tales. 


the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last 
and the eleventh ; there remained but a single stone 
to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its 
weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. 
But now there came from out the niche a low laugh 
that erected the hairs upon my head. It was suc¬ 
ceeded by a sad voice which I had difficulty in recog¬ 
nizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice 
said— 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !—he ! he !—a very good joke 
indeed—an excellent jest. We will have many a 
rich laugh about it at the palazzo—he ! he ! he !— 
over our wine—he ! he ! he ! ” 

“ The Amontillado ! ” I said. 

“ He ! he ! he !—he ! he ! he !—yes, the Amontil¬ 
lado. But is it not getting late ? Will not they be 
awaiting us at the palazzo, the lady Fortunato and 
the rest ? Let us be gone.” 


“ Yes,” I said, “ let us be gone.” 

“For the love of God , Montresor ! ” 

“ Yes,” I said, “ for the love of God.” 

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. 
I grew impatient. I called aloud— 

“ Fortunato ! ” 

No answer. I called again— 

“ Fortunato ! ” 

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the 
remaining aperture and let it fall within. There 
came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My 
heart grew sick—on account of the dampness of the 
catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. 
I forced the last stone into its position ; I plastered 
it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the 
old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no 
mortal has disturbed them. 

In paxc requiescat 1 



Paste tbce, Itgmpb, Hub bring fcotflj tbee, 

|est, anb goutljful Jollitn, 

<$uips, anb (Franks, anb foantou ©tiles, 

|jobs, anb |3ecks, anb brcatbtb Smiles, 

Sudj as Ijang on fiebe’s cljcek, 

§utb lobe fo libc in bimple sleek; 

Sport that briuklcb dare bcribes, 

§mb daughter bolbing botb bis sibcs. 

— L' Allegro. 


Sometime let gorgeous (tTragebn 
|n sceptreb pall come sleeping bn. 

—II Penseroso. 
























Nance. 


39 



NANCE. 

BY ELLA WHEELER. 

HE first day that McAllister was able to sit 
out in the sunshine, after his illness, he saw 
a curious object. 

It was a man of goodly stature and young in years 
striding up the street, or rather loping , with that loose 
amble peculiar to the native of Southern Illinois. 
But it was not the man’s gait which struck McAllis¬ 
ter’s eye—it was his costume. 

He was attired in a long robe fashioned something 
like a gentleman’s dressing-gown, and the material 
was a calico patchwork bed-quilt, which had done 
faithful service in the first period of its existence 
before it assumed its present character. Upon his 
head appeared something resembling a silk hat—its 
missing top supplied by a handful of twisted hay. 
The face underneath was a handsome face, despite 
its leathery hue, which told of “ ager chills,” as its 
owner expressed it, and its masses of unkempt black 
beard and hair. 

“Great heavens ! Watkins,” cried Mac, addressing 
mine host of the Dieckman House, who stood smok¬ 
ing his cigar on the hotel veranda, “ will you be kind 
enough to tell me what that is passing up the street 
on the opposite side ? ” 

Watkins laughed as he puffed out the smoke and 
expectorated, preparatory to a reply. 

“ That,” he said, glancing across at the curious 
figure, “ that is Sol the Sucker*—a veritable Illinois 
Sucker—a true type of the native. Everybody knows 
Sol hereabouts.” 

“ I should think likely,” laughed Mac. “ His cos¬ 
tume would mark him anywhere. What sort of regi¬ 
mentals are those, any way ? ” 

“ Oh, that’s Sol’s economy. He doesn’t believe 
in costly apparel. That old bed-quilt he cut and 
sewed into a garment which he calls a coat three 
years ago, and he has worn it every spring, fall, and 
winter since. In the summer he wears—well, Sol 
dresses very lightly in the summer season ; and you 
ought to see his dug-out.” 

“ His what ? ” 

“ His dug-out—the house he lives in. It is a hole 

* Sucker, an inhabitant of Illinois. [Colloq. U. S.] Webster. 


dug in the side hill—half a dozen miles south of 
Vandalia—and a little roof and covering built out 
over the door. Here Sol dwells in bachelor state.” 

“ But I thought the country about here was rich 
and thrifty ? ” 

“ So it is, in the main. But some of the old set¬ 
tlers keep their primitive ways of living, and have 
reared their children in the same habits. Sol’s pa¬ 
rents came here years ago, with only a yoke of oxen, 
and half a dozen children to support. They made 
a living, and managed to feed the hungry mouths 
dependent upon them for support, but there were no 
luxuries, I assure you. Sol was the youngest child 
—and he is now thirty-five. He keeps the family 
mansion—the ‘ ancestral estate ’—and dwells there ; 
and he keeps the frugal habits of his parents who 
are dead and gone. One of his brothers, however, 
has gone North, and is said to be living handsomely 
there. The sisters are all married—mostly, in this 
section of country, and they all dress and keep 
their persons better than Sol. He remains true to 
the old Sucker education—lives on hog and hominy, 
with an occasional drink of ‘ old rye ’ to wash it 
down. Is honest, and kind-hearted, and indolent, 
and agueish, as you can see by his countenance.” 

In the mean time the subject under discussion had 
rounded the square, made one or two halts, and now 
approached the Dieckman House. 

Mr. Watkins accosted him pleasantly. 

“ Hello, Sol ! glad to see you in town to-day. How 
are you feeling ? ” 

“ Right smart, thank ye sir,” Sol responded. 
“ Had a spell o’ the shakes last month, whilst it was 
so rainy, that ’bout loosened every tooth in my head, 
and made me feel like I didn’t keer whether school 
kept or not. But I’m on my pins agin nowall right, 
and ready fer the corn-shuckin’ season.” 

“ How’s Nancy, Sol ? I hear you are rather smit¬ 
ten in that direction, eh ? ” 

A sudden color stained the dead yellow of Sol’s 
hairy cheek. 

“ Nance ? Oh, she’s real peart. She’s shuckin’ 
corn now, day in and day out. A right smart girl, 
Nance is.” 

“Yes, and a handsome one, too. You’ll get a 
treasure in her Sol.” 

“ Thank ye, sir, but it ’pears like I haint got her 



Copyright. 1883. 





















































40 


Treasury of Tales. 


yet. Well, good-day, sir,” and Sol loped away, and 
McAllister went up to his room to lie down. 

He found the days of convalescence very dull 
and long at Vandalia. He was an actor—played 
light melodrama in a certain combination com¬ 
pany, which made a starring tour of the West and 
South not many years ago, drawing very good 
houses for a season. 

McAllister had felt weak and languid for a week 
before the company went to Vandalia. There he 
was taken seriously ill—too ill to go on. So the 
company had to go on without him—for they were 
billed for weeks ahead—and another man was tele¬ 
graphed for to supply his place. Now at the end 
of ten days he found himself convalescing from an 
attack of typhoid pneumonia—feeling very weak 
and lifeless, and wretchedly lonesome. 

“ I will get away in a few days more,” he said as 
he awoke the next morning, after the day on which 
he had seen Sol the Sucker. “ And to-day I will 
get a horse and ride out into the country to pass 
away the time. I never saw a dug-out; it will be a 
new experience.” 

The afternoon was bright and beautiful, a per¬ 
fect September day ; and McAllister looked very 
picturesque and interesting as he galloped along the 
level Illinois prairies, on a handsome black horse, 
dressed in his jaunty stage equestrian suit, and with 
the dark melancholy of his eyes heightened by the 
pallor of his face. McAllister was always the in¬ 
teresting villain in the play, who won all the hearts 
in the audience with his handsome face, and he had 
never in his life looked handsomer than now. 

As he galloped along, he saw at some distance 
ahead of him another equestrian. It was a woman. 
He touched his horse with the whip and soon over¬ 
took her, and, as he approached, a smile of amuse¬ 
ment brought a twinkle into the dark melancholy 
eyes. 

“ Here’s another native,” he murmured ; “ a com¬ 
panion for Sol the Sucker. Is not she a figure for 
an artist ? I wish I could see her face.” 

The figure was that of a medium-sized woman, 
dressed in a calico gown and sun-bonnet, seated on 
a mule. The short print skirt revealed one bare 
foot, which was small, but not shapely—as it showed 
no arch of instep. With one hand she held the 
reins, and with the other carefully balanced a cov¬ 
ered pail, which seemed to contain something. 

“ Either breakable or spillable,” the actor con¬ 
cluded, by the care she exercised in managing it. 

He rode along for some distance behind her, 
growing more and more curious to see her face. 
Finally she reined her mule into a path that led 
through a bar-way, and was about to dismount, 
when McAllister anticipated her. 

“ Allow me,” he said ; and, springing down, he 
slid the bars back and stood with uncovered head, 
while she rode through the opening. 

“ Thank you,” she said, with a little nod of the 


sun-bonnet, and, at the same instant, the mule gave a 
sudden and vicious kick of his heels in the direc¬ 
tion of Mac’s head, which served to knock off his 
hat and unseat the fair rider at the same time—for 
she was fair. This the actor discovered, as he 
sprang to her assistance and raised her on his arm 
with tender solicitude. Her skin was pure olive, 
with a peach-like richness in the full lips ; her eyes 
were dark and long-lashed ; her hair a warm brown ; 
her brow low and full. 

“ Are you hurt ? ” queried Mac, in that wonder¬ 
fully modulated voice of his, which fell on the girl’s 
ear like the strain of a pipe-organ she had once 
heard. 

But to this tender solicitude the pretty girl re¬ 
sponded by the most matter-of-fact reply possible : 

“ No, I ain’t hurt ; but I’ve spilt the buttermilk ; ” 
and she withdrew from his embrace and looked rue¬ 
fully at the empty pail and the retreating mule, 
who was pursuing his way homeward, satisfied with 
the mischief he had accomplished. 

“ Will you get a scolding for it ? ” queried Mac. 
“ If so, I had better accompany you home and take 
all the blame. I will see you home, at all events. 
I am very thirsty—and very tired, and would like to 
rest awhile before I ride back to town. I am only 
just up from a severe illness.” 

“ I thought you looked mighty pale, Mister,” the 
girl said, with a look of sympathy at the handsome 
stranger ; “ and you’d better take a good rest afore 
you go back. You go right into the settin’-room 
and lie down ; ma’am she’s out in the corn-field, and 
pa he’s in town, and I’ve got to get the grub ready 
for ’em both. So, stranger, you’ll excuse me, and 
make yerself comfortable. I’ll put your horse in 
the barn and give him his feed.” 

Mac, who found himself strangely tired, dragged 
himself into the little hut—which was scarcely more, 
though it boasted two rooms and a loft—and threw 
himself down upon a rude lounge in one corner of 
the room. Every bone seemed to be aching with 
weariness. He fell asleep—and awoke in a high 
fever an hour later to find a yellow old lady moving 
about the room on tip-toe, setting cups and plates 
on a table which was drawn into the centre of the 
room and covered with a white cloth. 

Mac rose hastily, his head swimming dizzily. 

“ Madam, I fear I am intruding,” he began. “But 
I felt too ill to return to the city without resting, and 
your daughter kindly allowed me to rest here.” 

“ Eh ? ” responded the old lady, putting one hand 
to her ear ; “ I’m a little hard o’ hearin’. but it’s all 
right I reckon. Nance said as how there was a fine¬ 
haired stranger took sick out’n the road, and he’d 
come in to rest up. Won’t you hitch up and hev a 
mouthful o’ hominy to stay yer stomick ? ” 

But Mac was too ill to partake of the hospitality 
proffered, and too ill to return to town that night. 
A drizzling rain set in and he gave up all idea 
of it. 





Nance. 


41 


“ Only, what will I do about the horse,” he sighed. 
“ It’s from the livery—hired for the afternoon ! ” 

“ Never mind about that, stranger,” chirped 
Nance, cheerily, as she entered the room just in 
time to hear this last sentence. “ I’ll look after the 
horse to-night, and ef ye ’r too sick to ride back to 
town to-morrow, we’ll git Sol to take the horse in.” 

“ Sol ? ” repeated Mac—“ Sol the Sucker—who 
wears a patch-work bed-quilt dressing-gown ? ” 

“ The same, Mister—why, you don’t know Sol, do 
you ? ” 

“ I’ve seen him—and to see him was to love him,” 
Mac laughingly responded. “ So you’re Sol’s sweet¬ 
heart, are you, Nance ? But you are too pretty a 
girl to marry Sol and live in a dug-out. You’re 
pretty enough to live in a city and wear fine clothes, 
my dear.” 

“ Sol has money laid up,” Nance answered, blush¬ 
ing rosily. “ Only he don’t put on no airs—he ain’t 
one of yer fine-haired kind. But then ”—with a toss 
of her bright head and an arch look at the stranger 
—“ but then Sol’s nothing to me—I’ve made him no 
promise, ef he has been hangin’ round me more’n a 
year.” 

“ Let him hang, but don’t you go and hang your¬ 
self in the matrimonial noose with him,” said Mac, 
with a soft glance from his dark eyes—the glance 
that had misled many a wiser heart than poor foolish 
Nance’s. “You are far too pretty, my dear, to tie 
yourself to that variety-show—that Japanese pat¬ 
terned concern—that lout of a Sucker.” 

Nance flushed. 

“ I’m a Sucker, too,” she said. “ I was raised down 
here in Southern Illinois, just the same as Sol was.” 

Mac smiled again, and reached out and took 
Nance’s brown hand as she passed by him. 

“ Well,” he said, “ there are suckers and suckers. 
The leech sucks poison, and the bee sucks honey. 
You are the honey-bee—fed on sweets, and your 
lips, I know, are sweeter than honey. No, I don’t 
know,”—and he sighed,—“ but I suppose Sol does.” 

Nance lifted her head proudly. 

“ No, he don’t know ! ” she said hastily. “ No 
man in these yere parts or any whar else ever got 
around me to that extent, Mister. I’m not one o’ 
the free kind.” 

Mac’s eyes glittered with something more than the 
brilliancy of fever. 

“ No you are not one of the free kind,” he said 
softly, still holding her hand, “a man must work 
hard who wins your heart ; but once won,—great 
heavens, what happiness will be his ! ” 

“ Nance ! Yer dad is cornin’ and the hominy’s 
burnin’ ! ” cried the old woman from the kitchen ; 
and Nance darted away. 

Mac turned on his hard couch with a light laugh. 
“ The old story,” he sighed ; “ she is mine for the 
taking ; but I will let her alone—leave her in peace 
to Sol the Sucker. I will do the fair thing once 
in my life.” 


But, like most of McAllister’s good resolutions, this 
resolve was afterward reconsidered. He was ill al¬ 
most a week—too ill to return to town. And several 
times after he did return he rode out to call upon 
his fair nurse, Nance—for it was she who had cared 
for him through his relapse. Four whole weeks 
passed by since their first meeting—and then Mac 
went to rejoin his company, somewhere in the far 
West. 

And Nance ? How white she grew after he went 
away ! how large and dark her eyes ! how silent and 
grave she was ! and sometimes how she wept. And 
Sol and she did not speak to each other ; and by 
and by there were strange tales afloat which no man 
dared repeat in the hearing of Sol. 

* * * It was a little more than two years later 

—in November—when the Certain Combination 
Company was billed at Vandalia again. 

As McAllister walked up from the station to the 
Dieckman House, a flood of memories came over 
him—memories which had scarcely occurred to him 
during his two years wanderings. For McAllister’s 
conscience, never an active or accusing one, had be¬ 
come wholly blunted by his constant and repeated 
lapses from the ways of truth and principle. 

It was no remorseful memory that came to him 
now ; only a vague sense of curiosity concerning the 
girl who had amused him for a few weeks, and the 
man he had wronged. 

“ I wonder if Sol still wears his coat of many 
colors ? ” he queried ; “ and if he still dwells in the 
ancestral mansion. I must ask mine host Wat¬ 
kins.” 

But he found the old Dieckman House in new 
hands. The clerk, however, knew Sol the Sucker. 

“Oh no, he doesn’t live in the dug-out,” he replied 
in answer to Mac’s query, “ and he has discarded the 
bed-quilt dressing-gown. He has built a new house 
and bought a new suit of ready-mades—and to-day 
his beard and hair made the acquaintance of scis¬ 
sors.” 

“ And he still lives ? ” laughed Mac. “ I should 
have fancied the shock would have been the death 
of him.” 

“ He still lives— two of him in fact; for Sol was 
married to-day. He and his bride are stopping at 
the house here on their honeymoon trip.” 

“ Married ! Sol married ! ” repeated Mac ; “ you 
surprise me. And who is the bride ? I hope he did 
well.” 

“ That depends on how you look at it,” the clerk 
responded. “ It’s quite a dramatic story—and, 
since you have an interest in Sol, I’ll tell it. He 
was very much interested in a pretty brunette neigh¬ 
bor of his, who lived near his dug-out; a hand¬ 
some, active, good girl, Nance was, and she would 
have married Sol two years ago and lived happily 
with him forever afterward, no doubt, but for one 
of those freaks of fate. Some stranger—and by the 







42 


Treasury of Tales. 


way I believe he, too, was an actor fell sick out 
here, and was taken care of for a few weeks by 
Nance. He was a man of the world, and a scamp 
into the bargain. And, of course Nance believed 
his flattering words, and you can imagine the result. 
He went away, and, as the poet has said, 

“ ‘—The lover roved away ; 

With breaking heart and falling tear 
She sat the livelong day ; 

Alas ! Alas ! for breaking hearts 
When lovers rove away.’ 

“She had snubbed Sol after the stranger came. 
Sol kept his distance after the stranger went. By 
and by the talk began, and then Sol showed the 
stuff he was made of. He knocked down two or 
three men who used the girl’s name lightly, and he 
stood by the family through it all. He boldly de¬ 
clared that Nance was his affianced wife, and that 
he had the right to protect her. And it seems he 
wanted to marry her there and then, and have the 
legal right to defend her ; but Nance would not 
consent. However, he won her consent at last, and 
now, after another year, and the old scandal has 
ceased to interest people, he has built a nice new 
home, bought him some new clothes, shaved up, 
and made Nance his wife. She is handsomer than 
ever—with a pale, sad, thoughtful sort of look that 
is very becoming. Everybody is kind to her, and 
her one weakness and indiscretion seems to be for¬ 
gotten, and I prophesy a happy life for them. And 
the whole town is enthusiastic over Sol’s conduct. 
He is one in a thousand, you know.” 

“ Oh, yes,” McAllister answered, nonchalantly. 
“ Women do that sort of thing every day—marry a 
roue to reform him, and nobody thinks it a heroic 
act. But it is only now and then we find a man 
willing to take an erring woman for his wife. And 
what of the villain in this little drama ? He never 
came back, I suppose ? ” 

“ No, and it would not be healthy for him to put 
in an appearance, if Sol was around.” 

“You think Sol would show fight? He didn’t 
strike me as a dangerous character at all.” 

“ Well, I wouldn’t like to be in that fellow’s place 
if Sol got hold of him—that’s all.” 

Mac arose, stifling a yawn. 

“ I am sure your little story is quite romantic, 
and I’m much obliged to you for telling it. I must 
go and prepare for my evening’s duties at the hall. 
I think it quite time, by the way, that Vandalia 
afforded a better opera house.” 

McAllister did not appear in the play until the 
second act; so he took his time to dress, and went 
down the stairway leisurely, and leisurely out to the 
corner. The hall where the play was enacted was 
just across the street, diagonally. He had not no¬ 
ticed a man who rose as he came through the hotel 
office and followed him down the stairs and walked 
close behind him to the corner of the street. But 


as he came into the light of the street lamp, the 
man stepped forward and in front of him. 

“ I’d like a word with you, Mister,” he said, in a 
low, suppressed voice. Mac glanced up—for the 
man towered a head and shoulders above him—and 
saw a smoothly shaven face of a pale yellow hue, a 
pair of dark glittering eyes and thin lips, between 
which gleamed large white teeth. The man was 
dressed in a suit of dark blue cloth, and his hands 
were thrust into his pockets. There was an ex¬ 
pression about the face which rendered the actor 
uncomfortable, and he drew back a pace. 

“I beg you will excuse me,” he said, “I am in 
great haste. I am due over at the hall yonder in 
eight minutes, and I have to make some prepara¬ 
tions after arriving there. Let me pass, please.” 
But the man did not stir. He stood directly in 
front of McAllister, and seemed to grow in size and 
stature with every moment. 

“ I reckon you won’t pass till I’ve had a word 
with you, Mister,” he said. “ If you pass afore I 
git ready for ye to, it’ll be over my dead carcass. 
Just you wait now.” 

McAllister looked curiously at the man, at the 
same time reaching cautiously into his breast pocket 
for his revolver. He was aware that Vandalia pos¬ 
sessed some desperate characters, and that this 
“ corner ” between the hotel and the hall was the 
scene of many a struggle and brawl; perhaps this 
was some drunken loafer, who was attracted by his 
diamond pin. The only thing to do was to intimi¬ 
date him at once. He drew his revolver. 

“Fellow!” he said, “who are you? don’t you 
know better than to waylay a gentleman like this ? 
Get out of my path at once.” 

But instead of obeying, the man came nearer yet 
and looked steadily into the actor’s face. 

“ Who ami?” he repeated ; “ I’m Sol the Sucker ; 
maybe you’ve heerd of me ? I’ve heerd of you— 
and I’ve saw you in days gone by. I’ve been 
lookin’ for ye ever since. I see you’re armed—so 
be I. Now one of us must die right here ; we two 
can’t live in this town to-night. I’d serve ye right 
to shoot ye down like a dog—but I’ll give ye fair 
play. I’ll count ten, and then shoot ; be ready and 
shoot at the word ten, or you’re a dead man, sure.” 
He took a few paces back and leveled his revolver 
at McAllister’s heart. “ One, two, three, four, five, 
six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” Then there was a flash, 
a report—a woman’s shriek—and both men, and a 
dozen more who seemed to spring up from the earth, 
gathered around the prostrate form of—Nance, Sol’s 
bride. 

“ My God! where did she come from ?” cried Sol, 
white, and shaking in every limb. “ I left her in the 
parlor up-stairs.” 

“ The window was open to air the room,” gasped 
Nance, suddenly rising up on her elbow ; “I stood 
there—I saw ye, Sol, following this man—and I 
I came down and listened. I knew what ’twas all 










The Haunted and tue Haunters. 


43 


about—’twas all about me; and there wa’n’t no 
stoppin’ the bloodshed—that I seen plain enough. 
But if blood must flow, then let it be mine, I 
said—mine and not his’n. I haint worth no man’s 
life—and I’m better out o’ the world than in it—oh 
Sol, don’t cry—I’m not worth your tears, I’d’a’been 
a good, true wife to you if I’d ’a’ lived, but—I saved 
him—bless God, I saved him—kiss me Mac—Oh ! ” 
and with a long moan Nance fell dead in her hus¬ 
band’s arms. 

“ She was ramblin’ in her talk,” Sol said afterward 
—“ she didn’t know what she was doin’ or sayin’— 
she only meant to stop the duel; and thank God 
no man living knows which ball killed her.” 

It was just as well that Sol should think so. But 
everybody else knew very well that it was McAllis¬ 
ter’s life that the girl had meant to save, and that 
it was Sol’s shot that had entered her breast; and 
everybody else knew, too, that it was McAllister’s 
name that merciful death had cut short on her lips. 

The play was delayed half an hour, but went on 
unbrokenly after the second act began. Fights and 
shooting affrays were not so infrequent in this re¬ 
gion that they disturbed the usual current of affairs 
when they took place. Yet there was unusual ex¬ 
citement following this ; but no arrests were made, 
since Sol was the offending party and was suffering 
the heaviest possible punishment for his disregard 
of law ; it was supposed by all save an intimate few 
that Sol had taken a little more “ rye ” upon his 
bridal trip than was good for him, had picked a quar¬ 
rel with a stranger, and his bride, interfering, had re¬ 
ceived an accidental shot. 

Sol disappeared soon after the burial of his bride. 
Six months later he came back and settled down in 
the old “ family mansion,” the ancestral “ dug-out,” 
and there he dwells to-day. 

And McAllister? He was said to have been dirked 
one night, just after he had played to a full house in 
Chicago. He was about to enter his carriage, and the 
unknown assassin fled in the darkness and was never 
discovered. 

“An attempt at robbery,” the reporters said. 


THE HAUNTED AND THE HAUNTERS. 

BY E. BULWER LYTTON. 

A FRIEND of mine, who is a man of letters 
and a philosopher, said to me one day, as if 
between jest and earnest, “ Fancy ! since we 
last met I have discovered a haunted house in the 
midst of London.” 

“ Really haunted ? and by what—ghosts ? ” 

“ Well, I can’t answer these questions ; all I know 
is this: Six weeks ago I and my wife were in search 
of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet street, 
we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, 
* Apartments Furnished.’ The situation suited us ; 


we entered the house, liked the rooms, engaged 
them by the week, and left them the third day. No 
power on earth could have reconciled my wife to 
stay longer ; and I don’t wonder at it.” 

“ What did you see ? ” 

“ Excuse me ; I have no desire to be ridiculed as 
a superstitious dreamer, nor, on the other hand, 
could I ask you to accept on my affirmation what 
you would hold to be incredible, without the evi¬ 
dence of your own senses. Let me only say this : 
it was not so much what we saw or heard (in which 
you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of 
our own excited fancy, or the victims of imposture 
in others) that drove us away, as it was an undefin- 
able terror which seized both of us whenever we 
passed by the door of a certain unfurnished room, 
in which we neither saw nor heard anything; and 
the strangest marvel of all was, that for once in my 
life I agreed with my wife, silly woman though she 
be, and allowed after the third night that it was 
impossible to stay a fourth in that house. Accord¬ 
ingly, on the fourth morning I summoned the wo¬ 
man who kept the house and attended on us, and 
told her that the rooms did not quite suit us, and we 
would not stay out our week. She said dryly, ‘ I 
know why ; you have stayed longer than any other 
lodger. Few ever stayed a second night; none 
before you a third. But I take it they have been 
very kind to you.’ 

“ ‘ They—who ?’ I asked, affecting a smile. 

“ ‘ Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they 
are; I don’t mind them ; I remember them many 
years ago, when I lived in this house not as a serv¬ 
ant ; but I know they will be the death of me some 
day. I don’t care—I’m old and must die soon any¬ 
how ; and then I shall be with them, and in this 
house still.’ The woman spoke with so dreary a 
calmness, that really it was a sort of awe that pre¬ 
vented my conversing with her further. I paid for 
my week, and too happy were I and my wife to get 
off so cheaply.” 

“You excite my curiosity,” said I; “nothing I 
should like better than to sleep in a haunted house. 
Pray give me the address of the one which you left 
so ignominiously.” 

My friend gave me the address ; and when we 
parted I walked straight toward the house thus in¬ 
dicated. 

It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, 
in a dull but respec^.ble thoroughfare. I found the 
house shut up; no bill at the window, and no 
response to my knock. As I was turning away, a 
beer-boy, collecting pewter pots at the neighboring 
areas, said to me, “Do you want any one at that 
house, sir ? ” 

“Yes, I heard it was to be let.” 

“ Let! Why, the woman who kept it is dead ; has 
been dead these three weeks; and no one can be 

found to stay there, though Mr. J-offered ever 

so much. He offered mother, who chars for him, 







44 


Treasury of Tales. 


T 1 a week just to open and shut the windows, and 
she would not.” 

“ Would not! and why ? ” 

“ The house is haunted; and the old woman who 
kept it was found dead in her bed with her eyes 
wide open. They say the Devil strangled her.” 

“Pooh! You speak of Mr. J-. Is he the 

owner of the house ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Where does he live ? ” 

“In G-Street, No. — ” 

“What is he ?—in any business ?” 

“ No, sir ; nothing particular ; a single gentleman.” 

I gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his lib¬ 
eral information, and proceeded to Mr. J- in 

G- Street, which was close by the street that 

boasted the haunted house. I was lucky enough to 
find Mr. J- at home; an elderly man with in¬ 

telligent countenance and prepossessing manners. 

I communicated my name and my business frankly. 
I said I heard the house was considered to be haunted; 
that I had a strong desire to examine a house with 
so equivocal a reputation; that I should be greatly 
obliged if he would allow me to hire it, though only 
for a night. I was willing to pay for that privilege 
whatever he might be inclined to ask. “Sir,” said 

Mr. J- with great courtesy, “the house is at 

your service for as short or as long a time as you 
please. Rent is out of the question ; the obligation 
will be on my side, should you be able to discover 
the cause of the strange phenomena which at present 
deprive it of all value. I cannot let it, for I cannot 
even get a servant to keep it in order or answer the 
door. Unluckily, the house is haunted, if I may 
use that expression, not only by night but by day; 
though at night the disturbances are of a more un¬ 
pleasant and sometimes of a more alarming char¬ 
acter. The poor old woman who died in it three 
weeks ago was a pauper whom I took out of a work- 
house ; for in her childhood she had been known to 
some of my family, and had once been in such good 
circumstances that she had rented that house of my 
uncle. She was a woman of superior education and 
strong mind, and was the only person I could ever 
induce to remain in the house. Indeed, since her 
death, which was sudden, and the coroner’s inquest, 
which gave it a notoriety in the neighborhood, I have 
so despaired of finding any person to take charge of 
it, much more a tenant, that I would willingly let it 
rent free for a year to any on# who would pay its 
rates and taxes.” 

“ How long ago did the house acquire this char¬ 
acter ? ” 

“ That I can scarcely tell you, but many years 
since ; the old woman I spoke of said it was haunted 
when she rented it, between thirty and forty years 
ago. The fact is, that my life has been spent in the 
East Indies, and in the civil service of the company. 
I returned to England last year, on inheriting the 
fortune of an uncle, amongst whose possessions was 


the house in question. I found it shut up and un¬ 
inhabited. I was told that it was haunted, and no 
one would inhabit it. I smiled at what seemed to 
me so idle a story. I spent some money in repaint¬ 
ing and roofing it, added to its old-fashioned furni¬ 
ture a few modern articles, advertised it, and ob¬ 
tained a lodger for a year. He was a colonel retired 
on half pay. He came in with his family, a son and 
a daughter, and four or five servants ; they all left 
the house the next day: and although they deposed 
that they had all seen something different, that 
something was equally terrible to all. I really could 
not in conscience sue, or even blame, the colonel for 
breach of agreement. Then I put in the old woman 
I have spoken of, and she was empowered to let the 
house in apartments. I never had one lodger who 
stayed more than three days. I do not tell you their 
stories; to no two lodgers have exactly the same 
phenomena been repeated. It is better that you 
should judge for yourself, than enter the house with 
an imagination influenced by previous narratives ; 
only be prepared to see and to hear something or 
other, and take whatever precautions you yourself 
please.” 

“ Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass 
a night in that house ? ” 

“Yes; I passed, not a night, but three hours in 
broad daylight alone in that house. My curiosity 
is not satisfied, but it is quenched. I have no desire 
to renew the experiment. You cannot complain, 
you see, sir, that I am not sufficiently candid ; and 
unless your interest be exceedingly eager and your 
nerves unusually strong, I honestly add that I advise 
you not to pass a night in that house.” 

“ My interest is exceedingly keen,” said I ; “ and 
though only a coward will boast of his nerves in 
situations wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my nerves 
have been seasoned in such variety of danger that I 
have the right to rely on them, even in a haunted 
house.” 

Mr. J- said very little more ; he took the 

keys of the house out of his bureau, and gave them 
to me ; and, thanking him cordially for his frank¬ 
ness and his urbane concession to my wish, I carried 
off my prize. 

Impatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached 
home I summoned my confidential servant,—a young 
man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and as free from 
superstitious prejudice as any one I could think of. 

“ F-,” said I, “ you remember in Germany 

how disappointed we were at not finding a ghost in 
that old castle, which was said to be haunted by a 
headless apparition ? Well, I have heard of a house 
in London which, I have reason to hope, is decidedly 
haunted. I mean to sleep there to-night. From 
what I hear, there is no doubt that something will 
allow itself to be seen or to be heard,—something 
perhaps excessively horrible. Do you think, if I 
take you with me, I may rely on your presence of 
mind, whatever may happen ? ” 













The Haunted and the Haunters. 


45 


“ O, sir ! pray trust me ! ” said he, grinning with 
delight. 

“ Very well, then ; here are the keys of the house ; 
this is the address. Go now, select for me any bed¬ 
room you please ; and since the house has not been 
inhabited for weeks, make up a good fire, air the 
bed well; see, of course, that there are candles as 
well as fuel. Take with you my revolver and my 
dagger,—so much for my weapons,—arm yourself 
equally well ; and if we are not a match for a dozen 
ghosts, we shall be but a sorry couple of English¬ 
men.” 

I was engaged for the rest of the day on business 
so urgent that I had not leisure to think much on 
the nocturnal adventure to which I had plighted my 
honor. I dined alone and very late, and while din¬ 
ing read, as is my habit. The volume I selected 
was one of Macaulay’s essays. I thought to myself 
that I would take the book with me ; there was so 
much of healthfulness in the style, and practical life 
in the subjects, that it would serve as an antidote 
against the influences of superstitious fancy. 

Accordingly, about half-past nine, I put the book 
into my pocket, and strolled leisurely towards the 
haunted house. I took with me a favorite dog ; an 
exceedingly sharp, bold, and vigilant bull-terrier, a 
dog fond of prowling about strange ghostly corners 
and passages at night in search of rats—a dog of dogs 
for a ghost. 

It was a summer night, but chilly, the sky some¬ 
what gloomy and overcast; still there was a moon— 
faint and sickly, but still a moon ; and if the clouds 
permitted, after midnight it would be brighter. 

I reached the house, knocked, and my servant 
opened with a cheerful smile. 

“All right, sir, and very comfortable.” 

“ Oh ! ” said I, rather disappointed ; “ have you 
not seen nor heard anything remarkable ? ” 

“Well, sir, I must own I have heard something 
queer.” 

“ What ?—what ? ” 

“ The sound of feet pattering behind me ; and 
once or twice small noises like whispers close at my 
ear; nothing more.” 

“ You are not at all frightened ? ” 

“ I ! not a bit of it, sir ! ” And the man’s bold 
look reassured me on one point, namely, that, hap¬ 
pen what might, he would not desert me. 

We were in the hall, the street door closed, and 
my attention was now drawn to my dog. He had at 
first run in eagerly enough, but had sneaked back to 
the door, and was scratching and whining to get 
out. After I had patted him on the head and en¬ 
couraged him gently, the dog seemed to reconcile 

himself to the situation, and followed me and F- 

through the house, but keeping close at my heels, 
instead of hurrying inquisitively in advance, which 
was his usual and normal habit in all strange places. 
We first visited the subterranean apartments, the 
kitchen and other offices, and especially the cellars, 


in which last were two or three bottles of wine still 
left in a bin, covered with cobwebs, and evidently, 
by their appearance, undisturbed for many years. It 
was clear that the ghosts were not wine-bibbers. 

For the rest, we discovered nothing of interest. 
There was a gloomy little back yard, with very high 
walls. The stones of this yard were very damp ; and 
what with the damp, and what with the dust and 
smoke-grime on the pavement, our feet left a slight 
impression where we passed. 

And now appeared the first strange phenomenon 
witnessed by myself in this strange abode. I saw, 
just before me, the print of a foot suddenly form 
itself, as it were. I stopped, caught hold of my 
servant, and pointed to it. In advance of that 
footprint suddenly dropped another. We both 
saw it. I advanced quickly to the place ; the 
footprint kept advancing before me ; a small foot¬ 
print—the foot of a child ; the impression was too 
faint thoroughly to distinguish the shape, but it 
seemed to us both that it was the print of a naked 
foot. This phenomenon ceased when we arrived at 
the opposite wall, nor did it repeat itself when we 
returned. We remounted the stairs, and entered the 
rooms on the ground-floor—a dining-parlor, a small 
back parlor, and a still smaller third room, that had 
probably been appropriated to a footman—all still as 
death. We then visited the drawing-rooms, which 
seemed fresh and new. In the front room I seated 

myself in an arm-chair. F-placed on the table 

the candlestick with which he had lighted us. I told 
him to shut the door. As he turned to do so, a 
chair opposite to me moved from the wall quickly 
and noiselessly, and dropped itself about a yard 
from my own chair, immediately fronting it. 

“ Why, this is better than the turning tables,” said 
I with a half-laugh ; and as I laughed my dog put 
back his head and howled. 

F-, coming back, had not observed the move¬ 

ment of the chair. He employed himself now in 
stilling the dog. I continued to gaze on the chair, 
and fancied I saw on it a pale, blue, misty outline 
of a human figure ; but an outline so indistinct that 
I could only distrust my own vision. The dog was 
now quiet. 

“ Put back the chair opposite to me,” said I to 
F--, “ put it back to the wall.” 

F- obeyed. “Was that you, sir?” said he, 

turning abruptly. 

“ I—what ? ” % 

“ Why, something struck me. I felt it sharply on 
the shoulder, just here.” 

“ No,” said I ; “ but we have jugglers present ; 
and though we may not discover their tricks, we shall 
catch them before they frighten us.” 

We did not stay long in the drawing-rooms ; in 
fact, they felt so damp and so chilly that I was glad 
to get to the fire up stairs. We locked the doors of 
the drawing-rooms—a precaution which, I should 
observe, we had taken with all the rooms we had 









46 


Treasury of Tales. 


searched below. The bedroom my servant had 
selected for me was the best on the floor ; a large 
one, with two windows fronting the street. The 
four-posted bed, which took up no inconsiderable 
space, was opposite to the fire, which burned clear 
and bright ; a door in the wall to the left, between 
the bed and the window, communicated with the 
room which my servant appropriated to himself. 
This last was a small room with a sofa-bed, and had 
no communication with the landing-place ; no other 
door but that which conducted to the bedroom I 
was to occupy. On either side of my fireplace was 
a cupboard, without locks, flush to the wall, and 
covered with the same dull-brown paper. We ex¬ 
amined these cupboards ; only hooks to suspend 
female dresses—nothing else. We sounded the 
walls ; evidently solid—the outer walls of the build¬ 
ing. Having finished the survey of these apartments, 
warmed myself a few moments, and lighted my cigar, 

I then, still accompanied by F-, went forth to 

complete my reconnaissance. In the landing-place 
there was another door ; it was closed firmly. “Sir,” 
said my servant, in surprise, “ I unlocked this door 
with all the others when I first came ; it cannot have 

got locked from the inside, for it is a-” 

Before he had finished his sentence, the door, 
which neither of us then was touching, opened qui¬ 
etly of itself. We looked at each other a single in¬ 
stant. The same thought seized both ; some human 
agency might be detected here. I rushed in first, 
my servant followed. A small, blank dreary room 
without furniture, a few empty boxes and hampers 
in a corner, a small window, the shutters closed— 
not even a fireplace—no other door but that by 
which we had entered, no carpet on the floor, and 
the floor seemed very old, uneven, worm-eaten, 
mended here and there, as was shown by the whiter 
patches on the wood ; but no living being, and no 
visible place in which a living being could have hid¬ 
den. As we stood gazing round, the door by which 
we had entered closed as quietly as it had before 
opened ; we were imprisoned. 

For the first time I felt a creep of undefinable 
horror. Not so my servant. “ Why, they don’t 
think to trap us, sir ; I could break that trumpery 
door with a kick of my foot.” 

“ Try first if it will open to your hand,” said I, 
shaking off the vague apprehension that had seized 
me, “ while I open the shutters and see what is 
without.” 0 

I unbarred the shutters : the window looked on 
the little back yard I have before described ; there 
was no ledge without, nothing but sheer descent. 
No man getting out of that window would have 
found any footing till he had fallen on the stones 
below. 

F-meanwhile was vainly attempting to open 

the door. He now turned round to me and asked 
my permission to use force. And I should here 
state, in justice to the servant, that, far from evinc¬ 


ing any superstitious terror, his nerve, composure, 
and even gayety amidst circumstances so extraordi¬ 
nary, compelled my admiration, and made me con¬ 
gratulate myself on having secured a companion in 
every way fitted to the occasion. I willingly gave 
him the permission he required. But, though he 
was a remarkably strong man, his force was as idle 
as his milder efforts ; the door did not even shake 
to his stoutest kick. Breathless and panting, he de¬ 
sisted. I then tried the door myself, equally in vain. 
As I ceased from the effort, again that creep of hor¬ 
ror came over me ; but this time it was more cold 
and stubborn. I felt as if some strange and ghastly 
exhalation were rising from the chinks of that rugg¬ 
ed floor and filling the atmosphere with a venomous 
influence hostile to human life. The door now very 
slowly and quietly opened as of its own accord. 
We precipitated ourselves into the landing-place. 
We both saw a large, pale light—as large as the hu¬ 
man figure, but shapeless and unsubstantial—move 
before us and ascend the stairs that led from the 
landing into the attics. I followed the light, and my 
servant followed me. It entered, to the right of the 
landing, a small garret, of which the door stood 
open. I entered in the same instant. The light 
then collapsed into a small globule, exceedingly 
brilliant and vivid ; rested a moment on a bed in 
the corner, quivered, and vanished. 

We approached the bed and examined it—a half¬ 
tester, such as is commonly found in attics devoted 
to servants. On the drawers that stood near it we 
perceived an old faded silk kerchief, with the needle 
still left in the rent half repaired. The kerchief was 
covered with dust; probably it had belonged to the 
old woman who had last died in that house, and this 
might have been her sleeping-room. I had sufficient 
curiosity to open the drawers ; there were a few odds 
and ends of female dress, and two letters tied round 
with a narrow ribbon of faded yellow. I took the 
liberty to possess myself of the letters. We found 
nothing else in the room worth noticing, nor did the 
light reappear ; but we distinctly heard, as we turned 
to go, a pattering footfall on the floor just before us. 
We went through the other attics (in all four), the 
footfall still preceding us. Nothing to be seen, 
nothing but the footfall heard. I had the letters in 
my hand; just as I was descending the stairs I 
distinctly felt my wrist seized and a faint, soft 
effort made to draw the letters from my clasp. I 
only held them the more tightly, and the effort 
ceased. 

We regained the bedchamber appropriated to my¬ 
self, and I then remarked that my dog had not fol¬ 
lowed us when we had left it. He was thrusting 
himself close to the fire and trembling. I was im¬ 
patient to examine the letters ; and while I read 
them my servant opened a little box in which he 
had deposited the weapons I had ordered him to 
bring, took them out, placed them on a table close 
at my bed-head, and then occupied himself in sooth- 











The Haunted and the Haunters. 


47 


ing the dog, who, however, seemed to heed him very 
little. 

The letters were short; they were dated—the dates 
exactly thirty-five years ago. They were evidently 
from a lover to his mistress, or a husband to some 
young wife. Not only the terms of expression, but 
a distinct reference to a former voyage indicated the 
writer to have been a seafarer. The spelling and 
handwriting were those of a man imperfectly edu¬ 
cated ; but still the language itself was forcible. In 
the expressions of endearment there was a kind of 
rough, wild love ; but here and there were dark un¬ 
intelligible hints at some secret not of love—some 
secret that^seemed of crime. “We ought to love 
each other,” was one of the sentences I remember, 
“ for how every one else would execrate us if all 
was known.” Again : “ Don’t let any one be in 
the same room with you at night—you talk in your 
sleep.” And again : “ What’s done can’t be un¬ 
done : and I tell you there’s nothing against us, 
unless the dead could come to life.” Here was in¬ 
terlined, in a better handwriting (a female’s), “ They 
do ! ” At the end of the letter latest in date the 
same female hand had written these words : “ Lost 
at sea the 4th of June, the same day as-” 

I put down the letters, and began to muse over 
their contents. 

Fearing, however, that the train of thought into 
which I fell might unsteady my nerves, I fully de¬ 
termined tco keep my mind in a fit state to cope 
with whatever of marvellous the advancing night 
might bring forth. I roused myself, laid the letters 
on the table, stirred up the fire, which was still 
bright and cheering, and opened my volume of 
Macaulay. I read quietly enough, till about half 
past eleven. I then threw myself dressed upon the 
bed, and told my servant he might retire to his own 
room, but must keep himself awake. I bade him 
leave open the door between the two rooms. Thus, 
alone, I kept two candles burning on the table by 
my bed-head. I placed my watch beside the-weapons, 
and calmly resumed my Macaulay. Opposite to me 
the fire burned clear ; and on the hearth-rug, seem¬ 
ingly asleep, lay the dog. In about twenty minutes 
I felt an exceedingly cold air pass by my cheek, like 
a sudden draught. I fancied the door to my right, 
communicating with the landing-place, must have 
got open, but no, it was closed. I then turned my 
glance to the left, and saw the flame of the candles 
violently swayed as by a wind. At the same moment 
the watch beside the revolver softly slid from the 
table,—softly, softly,—no visible hand—it was gone. 
I sprang up, seizing the revolver with the one hand, 
the dagger with the other : I was not willing that 
my weapons should share the fate of the watch. 
Thus armed, I looked around the floor : no sign of 
the watch. Three slow, loud, distinct knocks were 
now heard at the bed-head ; my servant called out, 
“ Is that you, sir ? ” 

“ No ; be on your guard.” 


The dog now roused himself and sat on his 
haunches, his ears moving quickly backward and 
forward. He kept his eye fixed on me with a look 
so strange that he concentred all my attention on 
himself. Slowly he rose, all his hair bristling, and 
stood perfectly rigid, and with the same wild stare. 
I had no time, however, to examine the dog. Pres¬ 
ently my servant emerged from his room ; and if I 
ever saw horror in the human face, it was then. I 
should not have recognized him had we met in the 
streets, so altered was every lineament. He passed 
by me quickly, saying in a whisper that seemed 
scarcely to come from his lips, “ Run ! run ! it is 
after me ! ” He gained the door to the landing, 
pulled it open, and rushed forth. I followed him 
into the landing involuntarily, calling him to stop ; 
but, without heeding me, he bounded down the 
stairs, clinging to the balusters and taking several 
steps at a time. I heard, where I stood, the street 
door open, heard it again clap to. I was left alone 
in the haunted house. 

It was but for a moment that I remained unde¬ 
cided whether or not to follow my servant : pride 
and curiosity alike forbade so dastardly a flight. I 
re-entered my room, closing the door after me, and 
proceeded cautiously into the interior chamber. I 
encountered nothing to justify my servant’s terror. 
I again carefully examined the walls, to see if there 
were any concealed door. I could find no trace of 
one,—not even a seam in the dull-brown paper with 
which the room was hung. How then had the thing, 
whatever it was, which had so scared him, obtained 
ingress, except through my own chamber ? 

I returned to my room, shut and locked the door 
that opened upon the interior one, and stood on the 
hearth, expectant and prepared. I now perceived 
that the dog had slunk into an angle of the wall, and 
was pressing close against it, as if literally striving 
to force his way into it. I approached the animal 
and spoke to it; the poor brute was evidently beside 
itself with terror. It showed all its teeth, the slaver 
dropping from its jaws, and would certainly have 
bitten me if I had touched it. It did not seem to 
recognize me. Whoever has seen at the Zoological 
Gardens a rabbit fascinated by a serpent, cowering in 
a corner, may form some idea of the anguish which 
the dog exhibited. Finding all efforts to soothe the 
animal in vain, and fearing that his bite might be as 
venomous in that state as if in the madness of hydro¬ 
phobia, I left him alone, placed my weapons on the 
table beside the fire, seated myself, and recom¬ 
menced my Macaulay. 

Soon I became aware that something interposed 
between the page and the light : the page was over¬ 
shadowed. I looked up and I saw what I shall 
find it very difficult, perhaps impossible, to describe. 

It w r as a darkness shaping itself out of the air in 
very undefined outline. I cannot say it was of a 
human form, and yet it had more of a resemblance to 
a human form, or rather shadow, than anything else. 





■48 


Treasury of Tales. 


As it stood, wholly apart and distinct from the air 
and the light around it, its dimensions seemed gigan¬ 
tic ; the summit nearly touched the ceiling. While 
I gazed, a feeling of intense cold seized me. An ice¬ 
berg before me could not more have chilled me ; 
nor could the cold of an iceberg have been more 
purely physical. I feel convinced that it was not the 
cold caused by fear. As I continued to gaze, I 
thought—but this I cannot say with precision—that 
I distinguished two eyes looking down on me from 
the height. One moment I seemed to distinguish 
them clearly, the next they seemed gone ; but two 
rays of a pale blue light frequently shot through the 
darkness, as from the height on which I half believed, 
half doubted, that I had encountered the eyes. 

I strove to speak ; my voice utterly failed me. I 
could only think to myself, “ Is this fear ? it is ?iot 
fear ! ” I strove to rise, in vain ; I felt as if weighed 
down by an irresistible force. Indeed, my impres¬ 
sion was that of an immense and overwhelming 
power opposed to my volition ; that sense of utter 
inadequacy to cope with a force beyond men’s, 
which one may feel physically in a storm at sea, in a 
conflagration, or when confronting some terrible 
wild beast, or rather, perhaps, the shark of the ocean, 
I felt tnorally. Opposed to my will was another will, 
as far superior to its strength as storm, fire, and shark 
are superior in material force to the force of men. 

And now, as this impression grew on me, now came, 
at last, horror,—horror to a degree that no words 
can convey. Still I retained pride, if not courage ; 
and in my own mind I said, “ This is horror, but it 
is not fear ; unless I fear, I cannot be harmed ; my 
reason rejects this thing ; it is an illusion, I do not 
fear.” With a violent effort I succeeded at last in 
stretching out my hand towards the weapon on the 
table ; as I did so, on the arm and shoulder I re¬ 
ceived a strange shock, and my arm fell to my side 
powerless. 

And now, to add to my horror, the light began 
slowly to wane from the candles ; they were not, 
as it were, extinguished, but their flame seemed 
very gradually withdrawn ; it was the same with 
the fire, the light was extracted from the fuel; 
in a few minutes the room was in utter darkness. 
The dread that came over me to be thus in the dark 
with that dark thing, whose power was so intensely 
felt, brought a reaction of nerve. In fact, terror had 
reached that climax, that either my senses must have 
deserted me, or I must have burst through the spell. 
I did burst through it. I found voice, though the 
voice was a shriek. I remember that I broke forth 
with words like these, “ I do not fear, my soul does 
not fear ” ; and at the same time I found strength to 
rise. Still in that profound gloom I rushed to one 
of the windows, tore aside the curtain, flung open 
the shutters ; my first thought was light. And 
when I saw the moon, high, clear, and calm, I felt a 
joy that almost compensated for the previous terror. 
There was the moon, there was also the light from 


the gas-lamps in the deserted, slumberous street. 
I turned to look back into the room ; the moon pene¬ 
trated its shadow very palely and partially, but still 
there was light. The dark thing, whatever it might 
be, was gone ; except that I could yet see a dim 
shadow, which seemed the shadow of that shade, 
against the opposite wall. 

My eye now rested on the table, and from under 
the table (which was without cloth or cover, an old 
mahogany round table) rose a hand, visible as far as 
the *wrist. It was a hand, seemingly, as much of 
flesh and blood as my own, but the hand of an aged 
person, lean, wrinkled, small too, a woman’s hand. 
That hand very softly closed on the two letters that lay 
on the table ; hand and letters both vanished. Then 
came the same three loud, measured knocks I had 
heard at the bed-head before this extraordinary drama 
had commenced. 

As these sounds slowly ceased, I felt the whole 
room vibrate sensibly ; and at the far end rose, as 
from the floor, sparks or globules like bubbles of 
light, many colored,—green, yellow, fire-red, azure, 
—up and down, to and fro, hither, thither, as tiny 
will-o’-the-wisps the sparks moved, slow or swift, each 
at its own caprice. A chair (as in the drawing¬ 
room below) was now advanced from the wall with¬ 
out apparent agency, and placed at the opposite side 
of the table. Suddenly, as forth from the chair, 
gre\v a shape, a woman’s shape. It was distinct as a 
shape of life, ghastly as a shape of death. The face 
was that of youth, with a strange, mournful beauty ; 
the throat and shoulders were bare, the rest of the 
form in a loose robe of cloudy white. It began 
sleeking its long yellow hair, which fell over its 
shoulders ; its eyes were not turned toward me, but 
to the door ; it seemed listening, watching, wait¬ 
ing. The shadow of the shade in the back-ground 
grew darker ; and again I thought I beheld the eyes 
gleaming out from the summit of the shadow, eyes 
fixed upon that shape. 

As if from the door, though it did not open, grew 
out another shape, equally distinct, equally ghastly, 
—a man’s shape, a young man’s. It was in the dress 
of the last century, or rather in a likeness of such 
dress ; for both the male shape and the female, 
though defined, were evidently unsubstantial, impal¬ 
pable,—simulacra, phantasms ; and there was some¬ 
thing incongruous, grotesque, yet fearful, in the 
contrast between the elaborate finery, the courtly 
precision of that old-fashioned garb, with its ruffles 
and lace and buckles, and the corpse-like aspect and 
ghost-like stillness of the flitting wearer. Just as 
the male shape approached the female, the dark 
shadow darted from the wall, all three for a moment 
wrapped in darkness. When the pale light returned, 
the two phantoms were as if in the grasp of the 
shadow that towered between them, and there was a 
blood-stain on the breast of the female ; and the 
phantom male was leaning on its phantom sword, 
and blood seemed trickling fast from the ruffles. 





The Haunted and the Haunters. 


49 


from the lace ; and the darkness of the intermediate 
shadow swallowed them up, they were gone. And 
again the bubbles of light shot, and sailed, and un¬ 
dulated, growing thicker and thicker and more 
wildly confused in their movements. 

The closet door to the right of the fireplace now 
opened, and from the aperture came the form of a 
woman, aged. In her hand she held letters,—the 
very letters over which I had seen the hand close ; 
and behind her I heard a footstep. She turned round 
as if to listen, and then she opened the letters and 
seemed to read : and over her shoulder I saw a livid 
face, the face as of a man long drowned,—bloated, 
bleached, sea-weed tangled in its dripping hair; 
and at her feet lay a form as of a corpse, and beside 
the corpse cowered a child, a miserable, squalid 
child, with famine in its cheeks and fear in its eyes. 
And as I looked in the old woman’s face, the wrin¬ 
kles and lines vanished, and it became a face of youth, 
—hard-eyed, stony, but still youth ; and the shadow 
darted forth and darkened over these phantoms, as 
it had darkened over the last. 

Nothing now was left but the shadow, and on 
that my eyes were intently fixed, till again eyes grew 
cut of the shadow,—malignant, serpent eyes. And 
the bubbles of light again rose and fell, and in their 
disordered, irregular, turbulent maze mingled with 
the wan moonlight. And now from these globules 
themselves, as from the shell of an egg, monstrous 
things burst out ; the air grew filled with them ; 
larvae so bloodless and so hideous that I can in no 
way describe them, except to remind the reader of 
the swarming life which the solar microscope brings 
before his eyes in a drop of water,—things transpar¬ 
ent, supple, agile, chasing each other, devouring 
each other,—forms like naught ever beheld by the 
naked eye. As the shapes were without symmetry, 
■so their movements were without order. In their 
very vagrancies there was no sport; they came 
round me and round, thicker and faster and swifter, 
swarming over my head, crawling over my right 
arm, which was outstretched in involuntary command 
against all evil beings. Sometimes I felt myself 
touched, but not by them ; invisible hands touched 
me. Once I felt the clutch as of cold, soft fingers 
at my throat. I was still equally conscious that if I 
gave way to fear I should be in bodily peril, and I 
concentrated all my faculties in the single focus of 
resisting, stubborn will. And I turned my sight 
from the shadow, above all from those strange ser¬ 
pent eyes,—eyes that had now become distinctly 
visible. For there, though in naught else around 
me, I was aware that there was a Will, and a Will of 
intense, creative, working evil, which might crush 
down my own. 

The pale atmosphere in the room began now tb 
redden as if in the air of some near conflagration. 
The larvae grew lurid as things that live in fire. 
Again the room vibrated; again were heard the 
three measured knocks ; and again all things were 


swallowed up in the darkness of the dark shadow, 
as if out of that darkness all had come, into that 
darkness all returned. 

As the gloom receded, the shadow was wholly 
gone. Slowly as it had been withdrawn, the flame 
grew again into the candles on the table, again into 
the fuel in the grate. The whole room came once 
more calmly, healthfully into sight. 

The two doors were still closed, the door commu¬ 
nicating with the servant’s room still locked. In the 
corner of the wall, into which he had convulsively 
niched himself, lay the dog. I called to him,—no 
movement; I approached,—the animal was dead; 
his eyes protruded, his tongue out of his mouth, the 
froth gathered round his jaws. I took him in my 
arms ; I brought him to the fire ; I felt acute grief 
for the loss of my poor favorite, acute self-reproach ; 
I accused myself of his death ; I imagined he had 
died of fright. But what was my surprise on find¬ 
ing that his neck was actually broken,—actually 
twisted out of the vertebra. Had this been done in 
the dark ? Must it not have been done by a hand 
human as mine ? Must there not have been a human 
agency all the while in that room ? Good cause to 
suspect it. I cannot tell. I cannot do more than 
state the fact fairly. The reader may draw his own 
inference. 

Another surprising circumstance,—my watch was 
restored to the table from which it had been so mys¬ 
teriously withdrawn ; but it had stopped at the very 
moment it was so withdrawn ; nor, despite all the 
skill of the watchmaker, has it ever gone since ; that 
is, it will go in a strange, erratic way for a few hours, 
and then comes to a dead stop ; it is worthless. 

Nothing more chanced for the rest of the night; 
nor, indeed, had I long to wait before the dawn 
broke. Not till it was broad daylight did I quit the 
haunted house. Before I did so, I revisited the little 
blind room in which my servant and I had been 
for a time imprisoned. I had a strong impression, 
for which I could not account, that from that room 
had originated the mechanism of the phenomena, if 
I may use the term, which had been experienced in 
my chamber ; and though I entered it now in the 
clear day, with the sun peering through the filmy 
window, I still felt, as I stood on its floor, the creep 
of the horror which I had first experienced there the 
night before, and which had been so aggravated by 
what had passed in my own chamber. I could not, 
indeed, bear to stay more than half a minute within 
those walls. I descended the stairs, and again I 
heard the footfall before me ; and when I opened 
the street door I thought I could distinguish a very 
low laugh. 

I gained my own home, expecting to find my 
runaway servant there. But he 'had not presented 
himself ; nor did I hear more of him for three 
days, when I received a letter from him, dated from 
Liverpool, to this effect :— 

“ Honored Sir : I humbly entreat your pardon, 




50 


Treasury of Tales. 


though I can scarcely hope that you will think I deserve 
it, unless—which Heaven forbid !—you saw what I did. 

I feel that it will be years before I can recover myself; 
and as to being fit for service, it is out of the question. 

I am therefore going to my brother-in-law at Melbourne. 
The ship sails to-morrow. Perhaps the long voyage may 
set me up. I do nothing now but start and tremble, and 
fancy it is behind me. I humbly beg you, honored sir, 
to order my clothes, and whatever wages are due to me, 
to be sent to my mother’s at Walworth : John knows her 
address.” 

In the evening I returned to the house, to bring 
away in a hack-cab the things I had left there, with 
my poor dog’s body. In this task I was not dis¬ 
turbed, nor did any incident worth note befall me, 
except that still, on ascending and descending the 
stairs, I heard the same footfall in advance. On 

leaving the house, I went to Mr. J-’s. He 

was at home. I returned him the keys, told him 
that my curiosity wa6 sufficiently gratified, and 
was about to relate quickly what had passed, when 
he stopped me and said, though with much polite¬ 
ness, that he had no longer any interest in a mystery 
which none had ever solved. 

I determined at least to tell him of the two letters 
I had read, as well as of the extraordinary manner 
in which they had disappeared ; and I then inquired 
if he thought they had been addressed to the 
woman who had died in the house, and if there were 
anything in her early history which could possibly 
confirm the dark suspicibns to which the letters 

gave rise. Mr. J- seemed startled, and, after 

musing a few moments, answered : “ I know but lit¬ 
tle of the woman’s earlier history, except, as I before 
told you, that her family were known to mine. But 
you revive some vague reminiscences to her prej¬ 
udice. I will make inquiries, and inform you of 
their result. Still, even if we could admit the popular 
superstition that a person who had been either the 
perpetrator or the victim of dark crimes in life could 
revisit, as a restless spirit, the scene in which those 
crimes had been committed, I should observe that 
the house was infested by strange sights and sounds 
before the old woman died. You smile ; what would 
you say?” 

“ I would say this, that I am convinced, if we 
could get to the bottom of these mysteries, we 
should find a living, human agency.” 

“What! you believe it is all an imposture ? For 
what object ? ” 

“ Not an imposture, in the ordinary sense of the 
word. If suddenly I were to sink into a deep sleep, 
from which you could not awake me, but in that 
deep sleep could answer questions with an accuracy 
which I could not pretend to when awake—tell you 
whatlnoney you had in your pocket, nay, describe 
your very thoughts—it is not necessarily an impos¬ 
ture, any more than it is necessarily supernatural. 
I should be, unconsciously to myself, under a mes¬ 
meric influence, conveyed to me from a distance by 


a human being who had acquired power over me by 
previous rapport .” 

“ Granting mesmerism, so far carried, to be a fact, 
you are right. And you would infer from this that a 
mesmerizer might produce the extraordinary effects 
you and others have witnessed over inanimate ob¬ 
jects—fill the air with sights and sounds ? ” 

“ Or impress our senses with the belief in them, 
we never having been en rapport with the person 
acting on us ? No. What is commonly called mes¬ 
merism could not do this ; but there may be a power 
akin to mesmerism, and superior to it—the power 
that in the old days was called Magic. That such 
a power may extend to all inanimate objects of mat¬ 
ter, I do not say; but if so, it would not be against 
nature, only a rare power in nature, which might 
be given to constitutions with certain peculiarities, 
and cultivated by practice to an extraordinary de¬ 
gree. That such a power might extend over the 
dead—that is, over certain thoughts and memories 
that the dead may still retain—and compel, not that 
which ought properly to be called the soul, and 
which is far beyond human reach, but rather a 
phantom of what has been most earth-stained on 
earth, to make itself apparent to our senses—is a 
very ancient though obsolete theory, upon which I 
will hazard no opinion. But I do not conceive the 
power would be supernatural. Let me illustrate 
what I mean, from an experiment w r hich Paracelsus 
describes as not difficult, and which the author of 
the ‘ Curiosities of Literature ’ cites as credible : A 
flower perishes ; you burn it. Whatever were the 
elements of that flower while it lived are gone, dis¬ 
persed, you know not whither ; you can never dis¬ 
cover nor re-collect them. But you can, by chem¬ 
istry, out of the burnt dust of that flower, raise a 
spectrum of the flower, just as it seemed in life. It 
may be the same with a human being. The soul 
has as much escaped you as the essence or elements 
of the flower. Still you may make a spectrum of 
it. And this phantom, though in the popular super¬ 
stition it is held to be the soul of the departed, must 
not be confounded with the true soul; it is but the 
eidolon of the dead form. Hence, like the best 
attested stories of ghosts or spirits, the thing that 
most strikes us is the absence of what we hold 
to be soul—that is, of superior, emancipated in¬ 
telligence. They come for little or no object; 
they seldom speak, if they do come ; they utter 
no ideas above those of an ordinary person on 
earth. These American spirit-seers have pub¬ 
lished volumes of communications in prose and 
verse, which they assert to be given in the names of 
the most illustrious dead,—Shakespeare, Bacon, 
Heaven knows whom. Those communications, 
taking the best, are certainly of not a whit higher 
order than would be communications from living 
persons of fair talent and education : they are 
wondrously inferior to what Bacon, Shakespeare, 
and Plato said and wrote when on earth. Nor, what 







The Haunted and the Haunters. 


5i 


is more notable, do they ever contain an idea that 
was not on the earth before. Wonderful, therefore, 
as such phenomena may be (granting them to be 
truthful), I see much that philosophy may question, 
nothing that it is incumbent on philosophy to deny, 
namely, nothing supernatural. They are but ideas 
conveyed some how or other (we have not yet dis¬ 
covered the means) from one mortal brain to another. 
Whether in so doing tables walk of their own accord, or 
fiend-like shapes appear in a magio circle, or bodiless 
hands rise and remove material objects, ora thing of 
darkness, such as presented itself to me, freeze our 
blood,—still am I persuaded that these are but 
agencies conveyed, as by electric wires, to my own 
brain from the brain of another. That this brain is 
of immense power, that it can set matter into move¬ 
ment, that it is malignant and destructive, I believe. 
Some material force must have killed my dog ; it 
might, for aught I know, have sufficed to kill myself, 
had I been as subjugated by terror as the dog,—had 
my intellect or my spirit given me no countervailing 
resistance in my will.” 

“ It killed your dog ! that is fearful ! Indeed, it 
is strange that no animal can be induced to stay in 
that house ; not even a cat. Rats and mice are 
never found in it.” 

“ The instincts of the brute creation detect influ¬ 
ences deadly to their existence. Man’s reason has 
a sense less subtle, because it has a resisting power 
more supreme. But enough ; do you comprehend 
my theory ? ” 

“ Yes, though imperfectly ; and I accept any crotchet 
(pardon the word), however odd, rather than embrace 
at once the notion of ghosts and hobgoblins we im¬ 
bibed in our nurseries. Still, to my unfortunate 
house the evil is the same. What on earth can I do 
with the house ? ” 

“ I will tell you what I would do. I am convinced 
from my own internal feelings that the small unfur¬ 
nished room, at right angles to the door of the bed¬ 
room which I occupied, forms a starting-point or 
receptacle for the influences which haunt the house ; 
and I strongly advise you to have the walls opened, 
the floor removed, nay, the whole room pulled down. 
I observe that it is detached from the body of the 
house, built over the small back yard, and could be 
removed without injury to the rest of the building.” 

“And you think if I did that-” 

“You would cut off the telegraph-wires. Try it. 
I am so persuaded that I am right, that I will pay 
half the expense, if you will allow me to direct the 
operations.” 

“ Nay, I am well able to afford the cost; for the 
rest, allow me to write to you.” 

About ten days afterwards I received a letter from 

Mr. J-, telling me that he had visited the house 

since I had seen him ; that he had found the two 
letters I had described replaced in the drawer from 
which I had taken them ; that he had read them with 
misgivings like my own; that he had instituted 


a cautious inquiry about the woman to whom I 
rightly conjectured they had been written. It 
seemed that thirty-six years ago (a year before the 
date of the letters) she had married, against the wish 
of her relatives, an American of very suspicious 
character ; in fact, he was generally believed to have 
been a pirate. She herself was the daughter of very 
respectable trades-people, and had served in the 
capacity of nursery governess before her marriage. 
She had a brother, a widower, who was considered 
wealthy, and who had one child about six years old. 
A month after the marriage, the body of this brother 
was found in the Thames, near London Bridge ; 
there seemed some marks of violence about his 
throat, but they were not deemed sufficient to war¬ 
rant the inquest in any other verdict than that of 
“found drowned.” 

The American and his wife took charge of the 
little boy, the deceased brother having by his will left 
his sister the guardian of his only child, and in event 
of the child’s death the sister inherited. The child 
died about six months afterward ; it was supposed 
to have been neglected and ill-treated. The neigh¬ 
bors deposed to have heard it shriek at night. The 
surgeon who had examined it after death said that 
it was emaciated as if from want of nourishment, 
and the body was covered with livid bruises. 

It seemed that one winter night the child had 
sought to escape ; had crept out into the back yard, 
tried to scale the wall, fallen back exhausted, and had 
been found at morning on the stones in a dying state. 
But though there was some evidence of cruelty, 
there was none of murder ; and the aunt and her 
husband had sought to palliate cruelty by alleging 
the exceeding stubbornness and perversity of the 
child, who was declared to be half-witted. Be that 
as it may, at the orphan’s death the aunt inherited 
her brother’s fortune. Before the first wedded year 
was out, the American quitted England abruptly, 
and never returned to it. He obtained a cruising 
vessel, which was lost in the Atlantic two years after¬ 
wards. The widow was left in affluence ; but reverses 
of various kinds had befallen her ; a bank broke, an 
investment failed, she went into a small business and 
became insolvent, then she entered into service, 
sinking lower and lower, from housekeeper down to 
maid-of-all-work, never long retaining a place, though 
nothing peculiar against her character was ever 
alleged. She was considered sober, honest, and 
peculiarly quiet in her ways ; still nothing prospered 
with her. And so she had dropped into the work- 

house from which Mr. J-had taken her, to be 

placed in charge of the very house which she had 
rented as mistress in the first year of her wedded life. 

Mr. J- added, that he had passed an hour 

alone in the unfurnished room which I had urged 
him to destroy, and that his impressions of dread 
while there were so great that (though he had 
neither heard nor seen anything) he was eager to 
have the walls bared and the floors removed, as I 









52 


Treasury of Tales. 


had suggested. He had engaged persons for the 
work, and would commence any day I would name. 

The day was accordingly fixed. I repaired to the 
haunted house; we went into the blind, dreary 
room, took up the skirting, and then the floors. 
Under the rafters, covered with rubbish, was found 
a trap-door, quite large enough to admit a man. It 
was closely nailed down with clamps and rivets of 
iron. On removing these we descended into a room 
below, the existence of which had never been sus¬ 
pected. In this room there had been a window and 
a flue, but they had been bricked over, evidently for 
many years. By the help of candles we examined 
this place ; it still retained some mouldering furni¬ 
ture—three chairs, an oak settee, a table—all of the 
fashion of about eighty years ago. There was a 
chest of drawers against the wall, in which we found, 
half rotted away, old-fashioned articles of a man’s 
dress, such as might have been worn eighty or a 
hundred years ago, by a gentleman of some rank ; 
costly steel buckles and buttons, like those yet worn 
in court-dresses, a handsome court-sword ; in a 
waistcoat which had once been rich with gold-lace, 
but which was now blackened and foul with damp, 
we found five guineas, a few silver coins, and an 
ivory ticket, probably for some place of entertain¬ 
ment long since passed away. 

But our main discovery was in a kind of iron 
safe fixed to the wall, the lock of which it cost us 
much trouble to get picked. 

In this safe were three shelves and two small 
drawers. Ranged on the shelves were several small 
bottles of crystal, hermetically stopped. They con¬ 
tained colorless volatile essences, of what nature I 
shall say no more than that they were not poisons ; 
phosphor and ammonia entered into some of them. 
There were also some very curious glass tubes, and 
a small pointed rod of iron, with a large lump of 
rock-crystal, and another of amber; also a loadstone 
of great power. 

In one of the drawers we found a miniature por¬ 
trait set in gold, and retaining the freshness of its 
colors most remarkably, considering the length of 
time it had probably been there. The portrait was 
that of a man who might be somewhat advanced in 
middle life, perhaps forty-seven or forty-eight. 

It was a most peculiar face, a most impressive 
face. If you could fancy some mighty serpent trans¬ 
formed into man, preserving in the human linea¬ 
ments the old serpent type, you would have a better 
idea of that countenance than long descriptions can 
convey—the width and flatness of frontal; the taper¬ 
ing elegance of contour, disguising the strength of 
the deadly jaw ; the long, large, terrible eye, glitter¬ 
ing and green as the emerald ; and withal a certain 
ruthless calm, as if from the consciousness of an 
immense power. 

The strange thing was this: the instant I saw 
the miniature I recognized a startling likeness to 
one of the rarest portraits in the world ; the por¬ 


trait of a man of rank only below that of royalty, 
who in his own day had made a considerable 
noise. History says little or nothing of him ; but 
search the correspondence of his contemporaries, and 
you find’reference to his wild daring, his bold profli¬ 
gacy, his restless spirit, his taste for the occult 
sciences. While still in the meridian of life he 
died and was buried, so say the chronicles, in a 
foreign land. He died in time to escape the grasp 
of the law ; for he was accused of crimes which 
would have given him to the headsman. After his 
death, the portraits of him, which had been nume¬ 
rous, for he had been a munificent encourager of 
art, were bought up and destroyed, it was supposed 
by his heirs, who might have been glad could they 
have razed his very name from their splendid line. 
He had enjoyed vast wealth ; a large portion of this 
was believed to have been embezzled by a favorite 
astrologer or soothsayer ; at all events, it had unac¬ 
countably vanished at the time of his death. One 
portrait alone of him was supposed to have escaped 
the general destruction ; I had seen it in the house 
of a collector some months before. It had made on 
me a wonderful impression, as it does on all who 
behold it ; a face never to be forgotten ; and there 
was that face hi the miniature that lay within my 
hand. True, that in the miniature the man was a 
few years older than in the portrait I had seen, or 
than the original was even at the time of his death. 
But a few years !—why, between the date in which 
flourished that direful noble, and the date in which 
the miniature was evidently painted, there was an 
interval of more than two centuries. While I 

was thus gazing, silent and wondering, Mr. J- 

said— 

“But is it possible? I have known this man.” 

“ How ? where ? ” cried I. 

“ In India. He was high in the confidence of the 

Rajah of-, and well-nigh drew him into a revolt 

which would have lost the Rajah his dominions. 

The man was a Frenchman, his name De V-; 

clever, bold, lawless. We insisted on his dismissal 
and banishment; it must be the same man, no two 
faces like his, yet this miniature seems nearly a hun¬ 
dred years old.” 

Mechanically I turned round the miniature to ex¬ 
amine the back of it, and on the back was engraved a 
pentacle ; in the middle of the pentacle a ladder, and 
the third step of the ladder was formed by the date 
1765. Examining still more minutely, I detected a 
spring ; this, on being pressed, opened the back of 
the miniature as a lid. Within-side the lid were en¬ 
graved, “ Mariana, to thee. Be faithful in life and 

in death to-.” Here follows a name that I will 

not mention, but it was not unfamiliar to me. I had 
heard it spoken of by old men in my childhood as 
the name borne by a dazzling charlatan, who had 
made a great sensation in London for a year or so, 
and had fled the country on the charge of a double 
murder within his own house—that of his mistress 










The Haunted and the Haunters. 


53 


and his rival. I said nothing of this to Mr. J-, 

to whom reluctantly I resigned the miniature. 

We had found no difficulty in opening the first 
drawer within the iron safe; we found great diffi¬ 
culty in opening the second : it was not locked, but 
it resisted all efforts, till we inserted in the chinks 
the edge of a chisel. When we had thus drawn it 
forth, we found a very singular apparatus, in the 
nicest order. 

Upon a small, thin book, or rather tablet, was 
placed a saucer of crystal ; this saucer was filled 
with a clear liquid ; on that liquid floated a kind 
of compass, with a needle shifting rapidly round; 
but instead of the usual points of a compass, were 
seven strange characters, not very unlike those 
used by astrologers to denote the planets. A very 
peculiar, but not strong nor displeasing odor came 
from this drawer, which was lined with a wood that 
we afterward discovered to be hazel. Whatever the 
cause of this odor, it produced a material effect on 
the nerves. We all felt it, even the two workmen 
who were in the room; a creeping, tingling sensa¬ 
tion, from the tips of the fingers to the roots of the 
hair. Impatient to examine the tablet, I removed 
the saucer. As I did so, the needle of the compass 
went round and round with exceeding swiftness, and 
I felt a shock that ran through my whole frame, so 
that I dropped the saucer on the floor. The liquid 
was spilt, the saucer was broken, the compass rolled 
to the end of the room, and at that instant the walls 
shook to and fro as if a giant had swayed and rocked 
them. 

The two workmen were so frightened that they ran 
up the ladder by which we had descended from the 
trap-door ; but, seeing that nothing more happened, 
they were easily induced to return. 

Meanwhile, I had opened the tablet; it was bound 
in plain red leather, with a silver clasp ; it contained 
but one sheet of thick vellum, and on that sheet 
were inscribed, within a double pentacle, words in 
old monkish Latin, which are literally to be trans¬ 
lated thus : “ On all that it can reach within these 
walls, sentient or inanimate, living or dead, as moves 
the needle, so works my will! Accursed be the 
house, and restless the dwellers therein.” 

We found no more. Mr. J- burnt the tablet 

and its anathema. He razed to the foundation the 
part of the building -containing the secret room, 
with the chamber over it. He had then the courage 
to inhabit the house himself for a month, and a 
quieter, better conditioned house could not be found 
in all London. Subsequently he let it to advantage, 
and his tenant has made no complaints. 

* * * But my* story is not yet done. 

A few days after Mr. J-had removed into the 

house, I paid him a visit. We were standing by the 
open window and conversing. A van containing 
some articles of furniture which he was moving from 
his former house was at the door. I had just urged 


on him my theory, that all those phenomena re¬ 
garded as supermundane had emanated from a 
human brain ; adducing the charm, or rather curse, 
we had found and destroyed, in support of my 

theory. Mr. J-was observing in reply, “ that 

even if mesmerism, or whatever analogous power it 
might be called, could really thus work in the ab¬ 
sence of the operator, and produce effects so extra¬ 
ordinary, still could those effects continue when 
the operator himself was dead ? and if the spell 
had been wrought, and, indeed, the room walled up, 
more than seventy years ago, the probability was, 
that the operator had long since departed this life,” 

—Mr. J-, I say, was thus answering, when I 

caught hold of his arm and pointed to the street below. 

A well-dressed man had crossed from the opposite 
side, and was accosting the carrier in charge of the 
van. His face, as he stood, was exactly fronting our 
window. It was the face of the miniature we had 
discovered. It was the face of the portrait of the 
noble three centuries ago. 

“ Good heavens ! ” cried Mr. J-, “ that is the 

face of De V-, and scarcely a day older than 

when I saw it in the Rajah’s court in my youth ! ” 

Seized by the same thought, we both hastened 
down stairs ; I was first in the street, but the man 
had already gone. I caught sight of him, however, 
not many yards in advance, and in another moment 
I was by his side. 

I had resolved to speak to him ; but when I looked 
into his face, I felt as if it were impossible to do so. 
That eye—the eye of the serpent—fixed and held 
me spell-bound. And withal, about the man’s whole 
person there was a dignity, an air of pride and sta¬ 
tion and superiority, that would have made any one, 
habituated to the usages of the world, hesitate long 
before venturing upon a liberty or impertinence. 
And what could I say ? What was it I could ask ? 
Thus ashamed of my first impulse, I fell a few paces 
back, still, however, following the stranger, undecided 
what else to do. Meanwhile, he turned the corner 
of the street; a plain carriage was in waiting with a 
servant out of livery, dressed like a valet, at the 
carriage door. In another moment he had stepped 
into the carriage, and it drove off. I returned to the 

house. Mr. J-was still at the street door. He 

had asked the carrier what the stranger had said 
to him. 

“ Merely asked whom that house now belonged to.” 

The same evening I happened to go with a friend 
to a place in town called the Cosmopolitan Club, a 
place open to men of all countries, all opinions, all 
degrees. One orders one’s coffee, smokes one’s 
cigar. One is always sure to meet agreeable, some¬ 
times remarkable persons. 

I had not been two minutes in the room before I 
beheld at table, conversing with an acquaintance of 

mine, whom I will designate by the initial G-, 

the man, the original of the miniature. He was now 
without his hat, and the likeness was yet more start- 















54 


Treasury of Tales. 


ling, only I observed that while he was conversing 
there was less severity in the countenance ; there 
was even a smile, though a very quiet and very cold 
one. The dignity of mien I had acknowledged in 
the street was also more striking ; a dignity akin to 
that which invests some prince of the East, convey¬ 
ing the idea of supreme indifference and habitual, 
indisputable, indolent, but resistless power. 

G-soon after left the stranger, who then took 

up a scientific journal, which seemed to absorb his 
attention. 

I drew G- aside. “Who and what is that 

gentleman ? ” 

“ That ? Oh, a very remarkable man indeed ! I 
met him last year amidst the caves of Petra, the 
Scriptural Edom. He is the best Oriental scholar I 
know. We joined company, had an adventure with 
robbers, in which he showed a coolness that saved 
our lives ; afterward he invited me to spend a day 
with him in a house he had bought at Damascus, a 
house buried amongst almond-blossoms and roses ; 
the most beautiful thing ! He had lived there for 
some years, quite as an Oriental, in grand style. I 
half suspect he is a renegade, immensely rich, very 
odd ; by the by, a great mesmerizer. I have seen 
him with my own eyes produce an effect on inani¬ 
mate things. If you take a letter from your pocket 
and throw it to the other end of the room, he will 
order it to come to his feet, and you will see the 
letter wriggle itself along the floor till it has obeyed 
his command. Ton my honor 'tis true ; I have 
seen him affect even the weather ; disperse or col¬ 
lect clouds, by means of a glass tube or wand. But 
he does not like talking of these matters to stran¬ 
gers. He has only just arrived in England; says he 
has not been here for a great many years ; let me 
introduce him to you.” 

“ Certainly ! He is English, then ? What is his 
name ? ’* 

“ Oh ! a very homely one—Richards.” 

“ And what is his birth—his family ? ” 

“ How do I know? What does it signify? No 
doubt some parvenu ; but rich, so infernally rich ! ” 

G-drew me up to the stranger, and the intro¬ 

duction was effected. The manners of Mr. Richards 
were not those of an adventurous traveller. Trav¬ 
ellers are in general gifted with high animal spirits ; 
they are talkative, eager, imperious. Mr. Richards 
was calm and subdued in tone, with manners which 
were made distant by the loftiness of punctilious 
courtesy, the manners of a former age. I observed 
that the English he spoke* was not exactly of our 
day. I should even have said that the accent was 
slightly foreign. But then Mr. Richards remarked 
that he had been little in the habit for many years 
of speaking in his native tongue. 

The conversation fell upon the changes in the 
aspect of London since he had last visited our me¬ 
tropolis. G- then glanced off to the moral 

changes—literary, social, political—the great men 


who were removed from the stage within the last 
twenty years ; the new great men who were coming 
on. In all this Mr. Richards evinced no interest. 
He had evidently read none of our living authors, 
and seemed scarcely acquainted by name with 
our younger statesmen. Once, and only once, he 

laughed ; it was when G-asked him whether 

he had any thoughts of getting into Parliament. 
And the laugh was inward, sarcastic, sinister ; a 
sneer raised into a laugh. After a few minutes, 

G-left us to talk to some other acquaintances 

who had just lounged into the room, and I then 
said, quietly— 

“ I have seen a miniature of you, Mr. Richards, in 
the house you once inhabited, and perhaps built—if 
not wholly, at least in part—in Oxford street. You 
passed by that house this morning.” 

Not till I had finished did I raise my eyes to his, 
and then his eyes fixed my gaze so steadfastly that 
I could not withdraw it—those fascinating serpent- 
eyes. But involuntarily, and as if the words that 
translated my thought were dragged from me, I 
added in a low whisper, “ I have been a student in 
the mysteries of life and nature ; of those mysteries 
I have known the occult professors. I have the 
right to speak to you thus.” And I uttered a cer¬ 
tain password. 

“Well, I concede the right. What would you 
ask ? ” 

“To what extent human Will in certain tempera¬ 
ments can extend ? ” 

“To what extent can Thought extend? Think, 
and before you draw breath you are in China ! ” 

“ True ; but my thought has no power in China !” 

“ Give it expression, and it may have. You may 
write down a thought which, sooner or later, may 
alter the whole condition of China. What is a law 
but a thought ? Therefore, Thought is infinite 
Therefore, Thought has power ; not in proportion to 
its value—a bad thought may make a bad law as 
potent as a good thought can make a good one.” 

“ Yes ; what you say confirms my own theory. 
Through invisible currents one human brain may 
transmit its ideas to other human brains, with the 
same rapidity as a thought promulgated by visible 
means. And as Thought is imperishable, as it leaves 
its stamp behind it in the natural world, even when 
the thinker has passed out* of this world, so the 
thought of the living may have power to rouse up 
and revive the thoughts of the dead, such as those 
thoughts were in life , though the thought of the 
living cannot reach the thoughts which the dead 
now may entertain. Is it not so ? ” 

“ I decline to answer, if in my judgment Thought 
has the limit you would fix to it. But proceed ; you 
have a special question you wish to put.” 

“ Intense malignity in an intense will, engendered 
in a peculiar temperament, and aided by natural 
means within the reach of science, may produce 
effects like those ascribed of old to evil magic. It 












The Haunted and the Haunters. 


55 


might thus haunt the walls of a human habitation 
with spectral revivals of all guilty thoughts and 
guilty deeds once conceived and done within those 
walls ; all, in short, with which the evil will claims 
affinity—imperfect, incoherent, fragmentary snatches 
at the old dramas acted therein years ago. Thoughts 
thus crossing each other hap-hazard, as in the night¬ 
mare of a vision, growing up into phantom sights 
and sounds, and all serving to create horror ; not 
because those sights and sounds are really visita¬ 
tions from a world without, but that they are ghastly, 
monstrous renewals of what have been, in this 
Avorld itself, set into malignant play by a malignant 
mortal. And it is through the material agency 
of that human brain that these things would ac¬ 
quire even a human power ; would strike as with 
the shock of electricity, and might kill, if the 
thought of the person assailed did not rise supe¬ 
rior to the dignity of the original assailer ; might kill 
the most powerful animal, if unnerved by fear, but not 
injure the feeblest man, if, while his flesh crept, his 
mind stood out fearless. Thus when in old stories 
we read of a magician rent to pieces by the fiends 
he had invoked, or still more, in Eastern legends, 
that one magician succeeds by arts in destroying 
another, there may be so far truth, that a material 
being has clothed, from his own evil propensities, 
certain elements and fluids, usually quiescent or 
harmless, with awful shapes and terrific force ; just 
as the lightning, that had lain hidden and innocent 
in the cloud, becomes by natural law suddenly visi¬ 
ble, takes a distinct shape to the eye, and can 
strike destruction on the object to which it is at¬ 
tracted.” 

“ You are not without glimpses of a mighty secret,” 
said Mr. Richards, composedly. “According to 
your view, could a mortal obtain the power you 
speak of, he would necessarily be a malignant and 
evil being.” 

“ If the power were exercised as I have said, most 
malignant and most evil ; though I believe in the an¬ 
cient traditions, that he could not injure the good. 
His will could only injure those with whom it has es¬ 
tablished an affinity, or over whom it forces unresisted 
sway. I will now imagine an example that may be 
within the laws of nature, yet seem wild as the fables 
of a bewildered monk. 

“You will remember that Albertus Magnus, after 
describing minutely the process by which spirits 
may be invoked and commanded, adds emphatically, 
that the process will instruct and avail only to the 
few; that a man must be born a magician! that is, 
born with a peculiar physical temperament, as a 
man is born a poet. Rarely are men in whose con¬ 
stitution lurks this occult power of the highest order 
of intellect; usually in the intellect there is some 
twist, perversity, or disease. But, on the other hand, 
they must possess, to an astonishing degree, the 
faculty to concentrate thought on a single object,— 
the energic faculty that we call will. Therefore, 


though their intellect be not sound, it is exceedingly 
forcible for the attainment of what it desires. 

“ I will imagine such a person, pre-eminently gifted 
with this constitution and its concomitant forces. I 
will place him in the loftier grades of society. I will 
suppose his desires emphatically those of the sen¬ 
sualist; he has, therefore, a strong love of life. He 
is an absolute egotist ; his will is concentred in 
himself ; he has fierce passions ; he knows no endur¬ 
ing, no holy affections, but he can covet eagerly what 
for the moment he desires; he can hate implaca¬ 
bly what opposes itself to his objects ; he can commit 
fearful crimes, yet feel small remorse ; he resorts 
rather to curses upon others, than to penitence 
for his misdeeds. Circumstances, to which his con¬ 
stitution guides him, lead him to a rare knowledge of 
the natural secrets which may serve his egotism. He 
is a close observer where his passions encourage ob¬ 
servation ; he is a minute calculator, not from love of 
truth, but where love of self sharpens his faculties ; 
therefore he can be a man of science. I suppose 
such a being, having by experience learned the 
power of his arts over others, trying what may be 
the power of will over his own frame, and studying 
all that in natural philosophy may increase that 
power. He loves life, he dreads death ; he wills to 
live on. He cannot restore himself to youth, he 
cannot entirely stay the progress of death, he 
cannot make himself immortal in the flesh and 
blood ; but he may arrest, for a time so long as to 
appear incredible if I said it, that hardening of the 
parts which constitutes old age. A year may age 
him no more than an hour ages another. His intense 
will, scientifically trained into system, operates, in 
short, over the wear and tear of his own frame. He 
lives on. That he may not seem a portent and a 
miracle, he dies, from time to time, seemingly, to 
certain persons. Having schemed the transfer of a 
wealth that suffices to his wants, he disappears from 
one corner of the world, and contrives that his ob¬ 
sequies shall be celebrated. He reappears at another 
corner of the world, where he resides undetected, and 
does not visit the scenes of his former career till all 
who could remember his features are no more. He 
would be profoundly miserable if he had affections ; 
he has none but for himself. No good man would 
accept his longevity ; and to no man, good or bad, 
would he or could he communicate its true secret. 
Such a man might exist ; such a man as I have 

described I see now before me,—Duke of-, in 

the court of-, dividing time between intrigue and 

brawl, alchemists and wizards ; again, in the last 
century, charlatan and criminal, with name less 
noble, domiciled in the house at which you gazed to¬ 
day, and flying from the law you had outraged, none 
knew whither ; traveler once more revisiting London, 
with the same earthly passions which filled your 
heart when races now no more walked through yon¬ 
der streets ; outlaw from the school of all the nobler 
and diviner mysteries. Execrable image of life in 







56 


Treasury of Tales. 


death and death in life, I warn you back from the 
cities and homes of healthful men ! back to the 
ruins of departed empires ! back to the deserts of 
nature unredeemed ! ” 

There answered me a whisper so musical, so po¬ 
tently musical, that it seemed to enter into my 
whole being, and subdue me despite myself. Thus it 
said : 

“ I have sought one like you for the last hundred 
years. Now I have found you, we part not till I 
know what I desire. The vision that sees through 
the past and cleaves through the veil of the future is 
in you at this hour,—never before, never to come 
again. The vision of no puling, fantastic girl, of no 
sick-bed somnambule, but of a strong man with a 
vigorous brain. Soar, and look forth ! ” 

As he spoke, I felt as if I rose out of myself upon 
eagle wings. All the weight seemed gone from air, 
roofless the room, roofless the dome of space. I 
was not in the body,—where, I knew not; but aloft, 
over time, over earth. 

Again I heard the melodious whisper : “You say 
right. I have mastered great secrets by the power 
of will. True, by will and by science I can retard 
the process of years ; but death comes not by age 
alone. Can I frustrate the accidents which bring 
death upon the young ? ” 

“ No ; every accident is a providence. Before a 
providence, snaps every human will.” 

“ Shall I die at last, ages and ages hence, by the 
slow, though inevitable, growth of time, or by the 
cause that I call accident ? ” 

“ By a cause you call accident.” 

“ Is not the end still remote ? ” asked the whisper, 
with a slight tremor. 

“Regarded as my life regards time, it is still re¬ 
mote.” 

“And shall I, before then, mix with the world of 
men as I did ere I learned these secrets ; resume 
eager interest in their strife and their trouble ; battle 
with ambition, and use the power of the sage to win 
the power that belongs to kings ? ” 

“You will yet play a part on the earth that will 
fill earth with commotion and amaze. For wondrous 
designs have you (a wonder yourself) been permitted 
to live on through the centuries. All the secrets 
you have stored will then have their uses ; all that 
now makes you a stranger amidst the generations 
will contribute then to make you their lord. As the 
trees and the straws are drawn into a whirlpool, as 
they spin round, are sucked to the deep, and again 
tossed aloft by the ejddies, so shall races and thrones 
be drawn into your vortex. Awful destroyer ! but 
in destroying, made, against your own will, a con¬ 
structor.” 

“ And that date, too, is far off ? ” 

“Far off ; when it comes, think your end in this 
world is at hand ! ” 

“ How and what is the end ? Look east, west, 
south, and north.” 


“ In the north, where you never yet trod, toward 
the point whence your instincts have warned you, 
there a spectre will seize you. ’Tis Death ! I see 
a ship ! it is haunted ; ’tis chased ! it sails on. 
Baffled navies sail after that ship. It enters the re¬ 
gion of ice. It passes a sky red with meteors. Two 
moons stand on high, over ice-reefs. I see the 
ship locked between white defiles ; they are ice- 
rocks. I see the dead strew the decks, stark and 
livid, green mould on their limbs. All are dead but 
one man,—it is you ! But years, though so slowly 
they come, have then scathed you. There is the 
coming of age on your brow, and the Will is relaxed 
in the cells of the brain. Still that Will, though en¬ 
feebled, exceeds all that man knew before you ; 
through the Will you live on, gnawed with famine. 
And nature no longer obeys you i. 1 death-spread¬ 
ing region ; the sky is a sky of iron, and the air has 
iron clamps, and the ice-rocks wedge in the ship. 
Hark how it cracks and groans ! Ice will imbed it 
as amber imbeds a straw. And a man has gone 
forth, living yet, from the ship and its dead ; and 
he has clambered up the spikes of an icebeig, and 
the two moons gaze down on his form. That man 
is yourself, and terror is on you,—terror ; and ter¬ 
ror has swallowed up your will. And I see, swarm¬ 
ing up the steep ice-rock, gray, grizzly things. The 
bears of the North have scented their prey ; they 
come near you and nearer, shambling, and rolling 
their bulk. And in that day every moment shall 
seem to you longer than the centuries through which 
you have passed. And heed this : after life, 
moments continued make the bliss or the hell of 
eternity.” 

“ Hush,” said the whisper. “But the day, you as¬ 
sure me, is far off, very far ! I go back to the al¬ 
mond and rose of Damascus ! Sleep ! ” 

The room swam before my eyes. I became in¬ 
sensible. When I recovered, I found G-hold¬ 

ing my hand and smiling. He said, “ You, who 
have always declared yourself proof against mes¬ 
merism, have succumbed at last to my friend 
Richards.” 

“ Where is Mr. Richards ? ” 

“Gone, when you passed into a trance, saying 
quietly to me, ‘ your friend will not wake for an 
hour.’ ” 

I asked, as collectedly as I could, where Mr. 
Richards lodged. 

“ At the Trafalgar Hotel.” 

“ Give me your arm,” said I to G-. “ Let us 

call on him ; I have something to say.” 

When we arrived at the hotel, we were told that 
Mr. Richards had returned twenty minutes before, 
paid his bill, left directions with his servant (a 
Greek) to pack his effects, and proceed to Malta by 
the steamer that should leave Southampton the next 
day. Mr. Richards had merely said of his own 
movements, that he had visits to pay in the neigh¬ 
borhood of London, and it was uncertain whether 






57 


How Many Fins Has a Cod? 


he should be able to reach Southampton in time for 
that steamer ; if not, he should follow in the next 
one. 

The waiter asked me my name. On my inform¬ 
ing him, he gave me a note that Mr. Richards had 
left for me, in case I called. 

The note was as follows : 

“ I wished you to utter what was in your mind. You 
obeyed. I have therefore established power over you. 
For three months from this day you can communicate to 
no living man what has passed between us. You cannot 
even show this note to the friend by your side. During 
three months, silence complete as to me and mine. Do 
you doubt my power to lay on you this command ? try to 
disobey me. At the end of the third month the spell is 
raised. For the rest I spare you. I shall visit your grave 
a year and a day r r it has received you.” 

So ends this strange story, which I ask no one to 
believe. I write it down exactly three months after 
I received the above note. I could not write it be¬ 
fore, nor could I show to G-, in spite of his 

urgent request, the note which I read under the gas- 
lamp by his side. 


HOW MANY FINS HAS A COD ? 

BY JUDGE T. C. HALIBURTON. 

A BOUT forty years ago I attended the Western 
Circuit of the Supreme Court of Nova Scotia 
at Annapolis, and remained behind for a few 
days for the purpose of examining that most interest¬ 
ing place, which is the scene of the first effective 
settlement in North America. 

While engaged in these investigations, a person 
called upon me and told me he had ridden express 
from Plymouth to obtain my assistance in a cause 
which was to be tried in a day or two in the county 
court at that place. The judges were at that period 
not professional men, but magistrates, and equally 
unable to administer law or to preserve order ; and 
the verdicts generally depended more upon the de¬ 
clamatory powers of the lawyers than on the merits 
of the causes. 

The distance was great—the journey had to be 
performed on horseback—the roads were bad, the 
accommodation worse. I had a great repugnance 
to attend these courts under any circumstances ; 
and, besides, had pressing engagements at home. I 
therefore declined accepting his retainer, which was 
the largest that at that time had ever been tendered 
to me, and begged to be excused. If the fee, he 
said, was too small to render it worth my while to 
go, he would cheerfully double it, for money was no 
object. The cause was one of great importance to 
his friend, Mr. John Barkins, and of deep interest to 
the whole community ; and, as the few lawyers that 
resided within a hundred miles of the place were 
engaged on the other side, if I did not go, his unfor¬ 


tunate friend would fall a victim to the intrigues and 
injustice of his opponents. 

In short, he was so urgent that at last I was pre¬ 
vailed upon to consent, and we set off together to 
prosecute our journey on horseback. The agent, 
Mr. William Robins (who had the most accurate 
and capacious memory of any man I ever met), 
proved a most entertaining and agreeable com¬ 
panion. He had read a great deal, and retained it 
all; and, having resided many years near Plymouth, 
knew everybody, every place and every tradition. 
Withal, he was somewhat of a humorist. Finding 
him a person of this description, my curiosity was 
excited to know who and what he was, and I put the 
question to him. 

“I am of the same profession you are, sir,” he 
said. I immediately reined up. 

“ If that be the case,” I replied, “ my good friend, 
you must try the cause yourself. I cannot consent 
to go on. The only thing that induced me to set 
out with you was your assertion that every lawyer 
within a hundred miles of Plymouth was retained on 
the other side.” 

“ Excuse me, sir,” he said, “ I did not say I was a 
lawyer.” 

“No,” I observed, “you did not ; but you stated 
that you were of the same profession as myself, 
which is the same thing.” 

“Not exactly, sir,” he said. “I am a wrecker. 
I am Lloyds’ agent, and live on the misfortunes of 
others ; so do you. When a vessel is wrecked, it is 
my business to get her off, or to save the property. 
When a man is entangled among the shoals or quick¬ 
sands of the law, your duty is similar. We are both 
wreckers, and, therefore, members of the same pro¬ 
fession. The only difference is, you are a lawyer, 
and I am not.” 

This absurd reply removing all difficulty, we pro¬ 
ceeded on our journey ; and the first night, after 
passing through Digby, reached Shingle Town, or 
Spaitsville. The next morning we reached Clare, 
and in the afternoon we arrived at Plymouth. As we 
entered the village, I observed that the court-house, 
as usual, was surrounded by a noisy multitude, some 
detached groups of which appeared to be discussing 
the trials of the morning, or anticipating that which 
was to engross the attention of the public on the 
succeeding day. On the opposite side of the road 
was a large tavern, the hospitable door of which 
stood invitingly open, and permitted the escape of 
most agreeable and seducing odors of rum and to¬ 
bacco. The crowd occupied and filled the space 
between the two buildings, and presented a moving 
and agitated surface ; and yet a strong current was 
perceptible to a practiced eye in this turbid mass, 
setting steadily out of the court-house, and passing 
slowly but constantly through the centre of this 
estuary into the tavern, and returning again in an 
eddy on either side. 

Where every one was talking at the same time, no 






58 


Treasury of Tales . 


individual could be heard or understood at a dis¬ 
tance, but the united vociferations of the assembled 
hundreds blended together, and formed the deep- 
toned but dissonant voice of that hydra-headed 
monster, the crowd. On a nearer approach, the 
sounds that composed this unceasing roar became 
more distinguishable. The drunken man might be 
heard rebuking the profane, and the profane over¬ 
whelming the hypocrite with opprobrium for his 
cant. Neighbors, rendered amiable by liquor, em¬ 
braced as brothers, and loudly proclaimed their un¬ 
changeable friendship ; while the memory of past 
injuries awakened into fury by the liquid poison, 
placed others in hostile attitude, who hurled defi¬ 
ance and abuse at each other, to the full extent of 
their lungs or their vocabulary. The slow, meas¬ 
ured, nasal talk of the degenerate settler from Pu¬ 
ritanical New England, was rendered unintelligible 
by the ceaseless and rapid utterance of the French 
fishermen ; while poor Pat, bludgeon in hand, up¬ 
roariously solicited his neighbors to fight or to 
drink, and generously gave them their option. Even 
the dogs caught the infection of the place, and far 
above their masters’ voices might occasionally be 
heard the loud, sharp cry of triumph, or the more 
shrill howl of distress uttered by these animals, who, 
with as little cause as their senseless owners, had 
engaged in a stupid conflict. These noises ceased 
for a moment as we arrived at the spot, and were 
superseded by a command issued by several persons 
at the same time. 

“ Clear the road there ! Make way for the gen¬ 
tlemen ! ” 

We had been anxiously expected all the after¬ 
noon, and the command was instantly obeyed, and 
a passage opened for us by the people falling back 
on either side of the street. As we passed through, 
my friend checked his horse into a slow walk, and 
led me with an air of triumph, such as a jockey dis¬ 
plays in bringing out his favorite on the course. 
Robins was an important man that day. He had 
succeeded in his mission. He had got his cham¬ 
pion, and would be ready for fight in the morning. 
It was but reasonable, therefore, he thought, to in¬ 
dulge the public with a glimpse at his man. He 
nodded familiarly to some, winked slyly to others, 
saluted people at a distance aloud, and shook hands 
patronizingly with those that were nearest. He 
would occasionally lag behind a moment, and say 
in an under, but very audible, tone : 

“ Precious clever fellow that! Sees it all—says 
we are all right—sure to win it ! I wouldn’t be in 
those fellows’, the plaintiffs’, skins to-morrow for a 
trifle ! He is a powerful man, that! ” and so forth. 

The first opportunity that occurred, I endeavored 
to put a stop to this trumpeting. 

“For heaven’s sake,” I said, “my good friend, 
do not talk such nonsense; if you do, you will 
ruin me. I am at all times a diffident man, but if 
you raise such expectations, I shall assuredly break 


down, from the very fear of not fulfilling them. I 
know too well the doubtful issue of trials ever to 
say that a man is certain of winning. Pray do not 
talk of me in this manner.” 

“ You are sure, sir,” he said. “ What! a man who 
has just landed from his travels in Europe, and 
arrived, after a journey of one hundred miles, from 
the last sitting of the Supreme Court, not to know 
more than any one else! Fudge, sir! I congratu¬ 
late you—you have gained the cause! And besides, 
sir, do you think that if William Robins says he has 
got the right man (and he wouldn’t say so if he 
didn’t think so), that that isn’t enough? Why, sir 
your leather breeches and top boots are enough to 
do the business! Nobody ever saw such things 
here before, and a man in buckskin must know more 
than a man in homespun. But here is Mrs. Brown’s 
inn ; let us dismount. I have procured a private 
sitting-room for you, which on court-days, militia¬ 
training, and times of town meetings or elections, 
is not very easy, I assure you. Come, walk in, and 
make yourself comfortable.” 

We had scarcely entered into our snuggery, 
which was evidently the landlady’s own apartment, 
when the door was softly opened a few inches, and 
a beseeching voice was heard, saying : 

“ Billy, is that him ? If it is, tell him it’s me, will 
you ? that’s a good soul! ” 

“ Come in—come in, old Blowhard ! ” said Robins ; 
and, seizing the stranger by the hand, he led him up 
and introduced him to me. 

“ Lawyer, this is Captain John Barkins ! Captain 
Barkins, this is Lawyer Sandford ! He is our client, 
lawyer, and I must say one thing for him : he has 
but two faults, but they are enough to ruin any man 
in this province ; he is an honest man, and speaks 
the truth. I will leave you together now, and go 
and order your dinner for you.” 

John Barkins was a tall, corpulent, amphibious 
looking man, that seemed as if he would be equally 
at home in either element, land or water. He held 
in his hand what he called a nor’wester, a large, 
broad-brimmed, glazed hat, with a peak projecting 
behind to shed the water from off his club queue, 
which was nearly as thick as a hawser. He wore a 
long, narrow-tailed, short-waisted blue coat, with 
large, white-plated buttons, that resembled Spanish 
dollars, a red waistcoat, a spotted Bandana silk 
handkerchief tied loosely about his throat, and a 
pair of voluminous corduroy trousers of the color of 
brown soap, over which were drawn a pair of fisher¬ 
man’s boots that reached nearly to his knees. His 
waistcoat and his trousers were apparently not upon 
very intimate terms, for, though they travelled to¬ 
gether, the latter were taught to feel their subjection, 
but when they lagged too far behind, they were 
brought to their place by a jerk of impatience that 
threatened their very existence. He had a thick, 
matted head of black hair, and a pair of whiskers 
that disdained the effeminacy of either scissors or 








How Many Fins Has a Cod? 


59 


razor, and revelled in all the exuberant and wild 
profusion of nature. His countenance was much 
weather-beaten from constant exposure to the vicis¬ 
situdes of heat and cold, but was open, good-natured 
and manly. Such was my client. He advanced and 
shook me cordially by the hand. 

“ Glad to see you, sir,” he said ; “ you are wel¬ 
come to Plymouth. My name is John Barkins ; I 
dare say you have often heard of me, for everybody 
knows me about these parts. Any one will tell you 
what sort of a man John Barkins is. That’s me— 
that’s my name, do you see ? I am a persecuted 
man, lawyer ; but I ain’t altogether quite run down 
yet, neither. I have a case in court; I dare say 
Mr. Robins has told you of it. He is a very clever 
man is old Billy, and as smart a chap of his age as 
you will see anywhere a’most. I suppose you have 
often heard of him before, for everybody knows 
William Robins in these parts. It’s the most im¬ 
portant case, sir, ever tried in this county. If I lose 
it, Plymouth is done. There’s an end to the fisher¬ 
ies, and a great many of us are a-going to sell off 
and quit the country.” 

I will not detail his cause to you in his own words, 
because it will fatigue you as it wearied me in hear¬ 
ing it. It possessed no public interest whatever, 
though it was of some importance to himself as re¬ 
garded the result. It appeared that he had fitted 
out a large vessel for the Labrador fishery, and 
taken with him a very full crew, who were to share 
in the profits or loss of the adventure. The agree¬ 
ment, which was a verbal one, was, that on the com¬ 
pletion of the voyage the cargo should be sold, and 
the net proceeds be distributed in equal portions, 
one-half to appertain to the captain and vessel, and 
the other half to the crew, and to be equally divided 
among them. 

The undertaking was a disastrous one, and on 
their return the seamen repudiated the bargain, and 
sued him for wages. It was, therefore, a very simple 
affair, being a mere question of fact as to the part¬ 
nership, and that depending wholly on the evidence. 
Having ascertained these particulars, and inquired 
into the nature of the proof by which his defence 
was to be supported, and given him his instructions, 
I requested him to call upon me again in the morn¬ 
ing before Court, and bowed to him in a manner too 
significant to be misunderstood. He, however, still 
lingered in the room, and, turning his hat round and 
round several times, examining the rim very care¬ 
fully, as if at a loss to discover the front from the 
back part of it, he looked up at last, and said : 

“ Lawyer, I have a favor to ask of you.” 

“ What is it ? ” I inquired. 

“ There is a man,” he replied, “ coming agin me 
to-morrow as a witness, of the name of Lillum. He 
thinks himself a great judge of the fisheries, and he 
does know a considerable some, I must say ; but, 

d- him ! I caught fish afore he was born, and 

know more about fishing than all the Lillums of 


Plymouth put together. Will you just ask him one 
question ? ” 

“ Yes, fifty, if you like.” 

“Well, I only want you to try him with one, and 
that will choke him. Ask him if he knows ‘ how 
many fins a cod has, at a word.’ ” 

“ What has that got to do with the cause ? ” I said, 
with unfeigned astonishment. 

“ Everything, sir,” he answered ; “ everything in 
the world. If he is to come to give his opinion on 
other men’s business, the best way is to see if he 
knows his own. Tarnation, man ! he don’t know a 
cod-fish when he sees it ; if he does, he can’t tell 
you ‘ how many fins it has, at a word.’ It is a great 
catch, that. I have won a great many half pints of 
brandy on it. I never knew a feller that could an¬ 
swer that question yet, right off the reel.” 

He then explained to me that, in the enumeration, 
one small fin was always omitted by those who had 
not previously made a minute examination. 

“ Now, sir,” said he, “if he can’t cipher out that 
question (and I’ll go a hogshead of rum on it he 
can’t), turn him right out of the box, and tell him to 
go a voyage with old John Barkins—that’s me, my 
name is John Barkins—and he will larn him his 
trade. Will you ask him that question, lawyer ? ” 

“ Certainly,” I said, “ if you wish it.” 

“You will gain the day, then, sir,” he continued, 
much elated ; “ you will gain the day, then, as sure 
as fate. Good-by, lawyer ! ” 

When he had nearly reached the foot of the stair¬ 
case, I heard him returning, and, opening the door, 
he looked in and said : 

“You won’t forget, will you?—my name is John 
Barkins ; ask anybody about here, and they will tell 
you who I am, for everybody knows John Barkins 
in these parts. The other man’s name is Lillum—a 
very decent, ’sponsible-looking man, too ; but he 
don’t know everything. Take him up all short. 
‘ How many fins has a cod, at a word ? ’ says you. 
If you can lay him on the broad of his back with 
that question, I don’t care a farthing if I lose the 
case. It’s a great satisfaction to nonplush a knowin’ 
one that way. You know the question ? ” 

“Yes, yes,” I replied, impatiently. “I know all 
about it.” 

“ You do, do you, sir ? ” said he, shutting the door 
behind him, and advancing towards me, and looking 
me steadily in the face : “ you do, do you ? Then 
‘ how many fins has a cod, at a word ? ’ ” 

I answered as he had instructed me. 

“ Gad, sir,” he said, “ it’s a pity your father hadn’t 
made a fisherman of you, for you know more about a 
cod now than any man in Plymouth but one, old John 
Barkins—that’s me, my name is John Barkins. Ev¬ 
erybody knows me in these parts. Bait your hook 
with that question, and you’ll catch old Lillum, I 
know. As soon as he has it in his gills, drag him 
right out of the water. Give him no time to play— 
in with him, and whap him on the deck ; hit him 






6o 


Treasury of Tales. 


hard over the head—it will make him open his 
mouth, and your hook is ready for another catch.” 

“ Good night, Mr. Barkins,” I replied ; “ call on 
me in the morning. I am fatigued now.” 

“ Good night, sir,” he answered; ‘you won’t for¬ 
get ? ” 

Dinner was now announced, and my friend Mr. 
Robins and myself sat down to it with an excellent 
appetite. Having done ample justice to the good 
cheer of Mrs. Brown, we drew up to the fire, which, 
at that season of the year, was most acceptable in the 
morning and evening, and smoked our cigars. Rob¬ 
ins had so many good stories, and told them so 
uncommonly well, that it was late before we retired 
to rest. Instead of being shown into the bedroom 
I had temporarily occupied for changing my dress 
before dinner, I was ushered into a long, low room, 
fitted up on either side with berths, with a locker 
running round the base, and in all respects, except 
the skylight, resembling a cabin. 

Strange as it appeared, it was in keeping with the 
place (a fishing port), its population, and the habits 
of the people. Mrs. Brown, the landlady, was the 
widow of a sea-faring man, who had, no doubt, fitted 
up the chamber in this manner with a view to econ¬ 
omize room, and thus accommodate as many “ pass¬ 
engers ” (as he would designate his guests) as possible 
in this sailor’s home. A lamp hung suspended from 
the ceiling, and appeared to be supplied and trimmed 
for the night, so as to afford easy access and egress 
at all hours. It was almost impossible not to imag¬ 
ine one’s self at sea, on board of a crowded coast¬ 
ing packet. Retreat was impossible, and there¬ 
fore I made up my mind at once to submit to this 
whimsical arrangement for the night, and having 
undressed myself, was about to climb into a vacant 
berth, near the door, when some one opposite 
called out: 

“ Lawyer, is that you ? ” 

It was my old tormenter, the skipper. Upon 
ascertaining who it was, he immediately got out 
of bed, and crossed over to where I was standing. 
Seizing me by the shoulders, he clasped me tightly 
round the neck, and whispered— 

“ ‘ How many fins has a cod, at a word ? ’ That’s 
the question. You won’t forget, will you ?” 

“ No,” I said, “ I not only will not forget it to¬ 
morrow but I shall recollect you and your advice as 
long as I live. Now let me get some rest, or I shall 
be unable to plead your cause for you, as I am ex¬ 
cessively fatigued and very drowsy.” 

“ Certainly, certainly,” he said ; “ but don’t forget 
the catch.” 

It was some time before the hard bed, the fatigues 
of the journey, and the novelty of the scene per¬ 
mitted me to compose myself for sleep ; and just as 
I was dropping off into slumber, I heard the same 
unwelcome sounds— 

“ Lawyer, lawyer, are you asleep ? ” 

I affected not to hear him, and, after another in¬ 


effectual attempt on his part to rouse me he desisted ; 
but I heard him mutter to himself— 

“ Plague take the sarpent! he’ll forget it and lose 
all: a feller that falls asleep at the helm, ain’t fit to 
be trusted nohow.” 

* * * In the morning when I awoke, the first 

objects that met my eye were the Bandana handker¬ 
chief, the red waistcoat and blue coat, while a good- 
natured face watched over me with all the solicitude 
of a parent for the first moment of wakefulness. 

“ Lawyer, are you awake ? ” said Barkins. “ This 
is the great day—the greatest day Plymouth ever 
saw ! We shall know now whether we are to carry 
on the fisheries or give them up to the Yankees. 
Everything depends upon that question ; for 
heaven’s sake, don’t forget it ! — ‘ How many fins 
has a cod, at a word ? ’ It’s very late now. It is 
eight o’clock, and the courts meet at ten, and the 
town is full. All the folks from Chebogue, and 
Jegoggin, and Salmon River, and Beaver River, and 
Eel Brook, and Polly Crosby’s Hole, and The Gut 
and the Devil’s Island, and Ragged Island, and far 
and near, are come. It’s a great day and a great 
catch. I never lost a bet on it yet. You may win 
many a half-pint of brandy on it, if you won’t for¬ 
get it.” 

“ Do go away and let me dress myself! ” I said 
petulantly. “ I won’t forget you.” 

“Well, I’ll go below,” he replied, “if you wish it; 
but call for me when you want me. My name is 
John Barkins ; ask any one for me, for every man 
knows John Barkins in these parts. But, dear me,” 
he continued, “ I forgot! ” and, taking an enormous 
key out of his pocket, he opened a sea-chest, from 
which he drew a large glass decanter, highly gilt, and 
a rummer of corresponding dimensions, with a golden 
edge. Taking the bottle in one hand and the glass 
in the other, he drew the small round gilt stopper 
with his mouth, and, pouring out about half a pint 
of the liquid, he said, “ Here, lawyer, take a drop of 
bitters this morning, just to warm the stomach and 
clear your throat. It’s excellent! It is old Jamaiky 
and sarsyparilly, and will do your heart good. It’s 
an anti-fogmatic, and will make you as hungry as a 
shark, and as lively as a thrasher ! ” 

I shook my head in silence and despair, for I saw 
he was a man there was no escaping from. 

“ You won’t, eh ? ” 

“ No, thank you ; I never take anything of the kind 
in the morning.” 

“ Where the deuce was you broughten up,” he 
asked, with distended eyes. “ Well, if you won’t, 

I will, then ; so here goes,” and holding back his 
head, the potion vanished in an instant, and he 
returned the bottle and the glass to their respect¬ 
ive places. 

After breakfast, Mr. Robins conducted me to the 
court-house, which was filled almost to suffocation. 
The panel was immediately called, and the jury 





How Many Fins Has a Cod? 


61 


placed in the box. Previous to their being sworn, I 
inquired of Barkins whether any of them were related 
to the plantiffs, or had been known to express an 
opinion adverse to his interests ; for if such was the 
case, it was the time to challenge them. To my 
astonishment, he immediately rose and told the 
judges he challenged the whole jury, the bench of 
magistrates, and every man in the house—a defiance 
that was accompanied by a menacing outstretched 
arm and clenched fist. A shout of laughter that 
nearly shook the walls of the building followed this 
violent outbreak. Nothing daunted by their ridicule, 
however, he returned to the charge, and said, 

“ I repeat it; I challenge the whole of you, if you 
dare ! ” 

Here the Court interposed, and asked him what 
he meant by such indecent behavior. 

“ Meant! ” he said ; “ I mean what I say. The 
strange lawyer here tells me now is my time to chal¬ 
lenge, and I claim my right; I do challenge any or all 
of you ! Pick out any man present you please, take 
the smartest chap you’ve got, put us both on board 
the same vessel, and I challenge him to catch, split, 
clean, salt and stow away as many fish in a day as I 
can—cod, polluck, shad, or mackerel ; I don’t care 
which, for its all the same to me ; and I’ll go a hogs¬ 
head of rum on it I beat him ! Will any man take 
up the challenge ? ” and he turned slowly round and 
examined the whole crowd. “You won’t, won’t 
you ? I guess not ; you know a trick worth two of 
that, I reckon ! There, lawyer, there is my chal¬ 
lenge ; now go on with the cause ! ” 

As soon as order was restored the jury was sworn, 
and the plaintiff’s counsel opened his case and 
called his witnesses, the last of whom was Mr. Lil- 
lum. 

“ That’s him ! ” said Barkins, putting both arms 
round my neck and nearly choking me, as he whis¬ 
pered, “ Ask him ‘ how many fins has a cod, at a 
word ? ’ ” I now stood up to cross-examine him, 
when I was again in the skipper’s clutches. “ Don’t 
forget! the question is-” 

“ If you do not sit down immediately, sir,” I 
said in a loud and authoritative voice (for the 
scene had become ludicrous), “ and leave me to 
conduct the cause my own way, I shall retire from 
the court! ” 

He sat down, and groaning audibly, put both 
hands before his face and muttered— 

“ There is no dependence on a man that sleeps at 
the helm ! ” 

I commenced, however, in the way my poor client 
desired, for I saw plainly that he was more anxious 
of what he called stumping old Lillum and “ non- 
plushing ” him, than about the result of his trial, 
although he was firmly convinced that the one de¬ 
pended on the other. 

“ How many years have you been engaged in the 
Labrador fishery, sir ? ” 

“ Twenty-five.” 


“ You are, of course, perfectly conversant with the 
cod fishery ? ” 

“ Perfectly. I know as much, if not more, about 
it than any man in Plymouth.” 

Here Barkins pulled my coat, and most beseech¬ 
ingly said : 

“Ask him -” 

“ Be quiet, sir, and do not interrupt me ! ” was the 
consolatory reply he received. 

“ Of course, then, after such long experience, sir, 
you know a codfish when you see it ? ” 

“ I should think so ! ” 

“ That will not do, sir. Will you swear that you 
do?” 

“ I do not come here to be made a fool of ! ” 

“Nor I either, sir ; I require you to answer yes or 
no. Will you undertake to swear that you know a 
codfish when you see it ? ” 

“ I will, sir.” 

Here Barkins rose and struck the table with his 
fist a blow that nearly split it, and, turning to me, 
said : 

“ Ask him -—” 

“ Silence, sir ! ” I again vociferated. “ Let there 
be no mistake,” I continued. “ I will repeat the 
question. Do you undertake to swear that you 
know a codfish when you see it ? ” 

“ I do, sir, as well as I know my own name when 
I see it ! ” 

“ Then, sir, how many fins has a cod, at a 
word ? ” 

Here the blow was given, not on the deal slab of 
the table, but on my back, with such force as to 
throw me forward on my two hands. 

“ Ay, floor him ! ” said Barkins ; “ let him an¬ 
swer that question ! The lawyer has you there ! 
How many fins has a cod, at a word, you old 
sculpin ?” 

“ I can answer you that without hesitation.” 

“ How many, then ? ” 

“ Let me see—three on the back, and two on 
the shoulder, that’s five ; two on the nape, that’s 
seven ; and two on the shoulder, that’s nine. Nine, 
sir ! ” 

“ Missed it, by gosh ! ” said Barkins. “ Didn’t I 
tell you so ? I knew he couldn’t answer it. And 
yet the fellow has the impudence to call himself a 
fisherman ! ” 

Here I requested the Court to interfere, and 
compel my unfortunate and excited client to be 
silent. 

“ Is there not a small fin beside,” I said, “between 
the under jaw and the throat ? ” 

“ I believe there is.” 

“You believe! Then, sir, it seems you are in 
doubt, and that you do not know a codfish when you 
see it. You may go ; I will not ask you another 
question. Go, sir ! but let me advise you to be 
more careful in your answers for the future.” 

There was a universal shout of laughter in the 







62 


Treasury of Tales , 


court, and Barkins availed himself of the momen¬ 
tary noise to slip his hand under the table and grip 
me by the thigh, so as nearly to sever the flesh from 
the bone. 

“ Bless your soul, my stout fresh-water fish ! ” he 
said, “ you have gained the case, after all. Didn’t I 
tell you he couldn’t answer that question ? It’s a 
great catch, isn’t it ? ” 

The plaintiffs had wholly failed in their proof. 
Instead of contenting themselves with showing the 
voyage and their services, from which the law would 
have presumed an assumpsit to pay wages according 
to the ordinary course of business, and leaving the 
defendant to prove that the agreement was a special 
one, they attempted to prove too much, by estab¬ 
lishing a negative ; and, in doing so, made out a 
sufficient defence for Barkins. Knowing how much 
depended upon the last address to the jury, when 
the judge was incompetent to direct or control their 
decision, I closed on the plaintiff’s case, and called 
no witnesses. The jury were informed by the judge 
that, having now heard the case on the part of the 
plaintiffs and also on the part of the defendants, it 
was their duty to make up their minds, and find a 
verdict for one or the other. 

After this very able, intelligible and impartial 
charge, the jury were conducted to their room, and 
the greater part of the audience adjourned to the 
neighboring tavern for refreshment. 

As soon as it was announced that the jury had 
returned, the tumultuous wave of the crowd rushed 
into the court-house, and surging backward and 
forward, gradually settled down to a level and tran¬ 
quil surface. The panel was then called over, and 
the verdict read aloud. It was for the defendant. 

Barkins was not so much elated as I had expected. 
He appeared to have been prepared for any event. 
He had had his gratification already. “ Old Lillum 
was floored,” the “ knowing one had been non- 
plushed,” and he was satisfied. He had a duty to 
perform, however, which he did with great pleasure, 
and I have no doubt with great liberality. The jury 
were to be “ treated,” for it was the custom of those 
days for the winning party to testify his gratitude by 
copious libations of brandy and rum. As soon as 
the verdict was recorded, he placed himself at their 
head, and led the way to the tavern with as much 
gravity and order as if he was conducting a guard of 
honor. As soon as they were all in the street, he 
turned about, and walking backward, so as to face 
them, and at the same time not to interrupt their 
progress to the mansion of bliss, he said— 

“ A pretty feller that Lillum, ain’t he ? to swear 
he knew what a cod was, and yet couldn’t tell how 
many fins it had, at a word ! Who would have 
thought that milksop of a lawyer would have done 
so well ? He actually scared me when I first saw 
him ; for a feller that smokes cigars instead of a 
pipe, drinks red ink (port wine) instead of old 
Jamaiky, and has a pair of hands as white as a flat 


fish, ain’t worth his grub, in a general way. How- 
sumdever, it don’t do to hang a feller for his looks, 
after all, that’s a fact; for that crittur is like a singed 
cat, better nor he seems.” 

I did not see him again till the evening, when he 
came to congratulate me upon having done the hand¬ 
somest thing, he said, as everybody allowed, that 
ever was done in Plymouth,—shown the greatest 
fisherman in it (in his own conceit) that he didn’t 
know a codfish when he saw it. 

“ It was a great catch that, lawyer,” he continued, 
and he raised me up in his arms and walked round 
the room with me as if he were carrying a baby. 
“ Don’t forget it, * How many fins has a cod, at a 
word?’ You never need to want a half-pint of 
brandy while you have that fact to bet on ! ” 

The next day I left Plymouth very early in the 
morning. When I descended to the door I found 
both Robins and Barkins there, and received a 
hearty and cordial farewell from both of them. The 
latter entreated me, if ever I came that way again, to 
favor him with a visit, as he had some capital 
Jamaica forty years old, and would be glad to in¬ 
struct me in the habits of fish and fishermen. 

“ I will show you,” he said, “ how to make a shoal 
of mackerel follow your vessel like a pack of dogs. 
I can tell you how to make them rise from the bottom 
of the sea in thousands, when common folks can’t 
tell there is one there, and then how to feed and 
coax them away to the very spot you want to take 
them. I will show you how to spear shad, and how to 
strike-the fattest salmon that ever was, so that it will 
keep to go to the East Indies ; and I’ll larn you how 
to smoke herrings without dryin’ them hard, and tell 
you the wood and the vegetables that give them the 
highest flavor ; and even them cussed, dry, good-for- 
nothing ale-wives, I’ll teach you how to cure them 
so you will say they are the most delicious fish you 
ever tasted in all your life. I will, upon my soul! 
And now, before you go, I want you to .do me a good 
turn, lawyer. Just take this little silver flask, my 
friend, to remember old John Barkins by, when he is 
dead and gone, and when people in these parts shall 
say when you inquire after him, that they don’t know 
such a man as old John Barkins no more. It is a 
beautiful article. I found it in the pocket of a captain 
of a Spanish privateer that boarded my vessel, and 
that I hit over the head with a handspike, so hard 
that he never knew what hurt him. It will just suit 
you, for it only holds a thimble-full, and was made o’ 
purpose for fresh-water fish, like Spaniards and law¬ 
yers. Good-bye! God bless you, sir! A fair 
wind and a short passage to you ! ” 

I had hardly left the door, before I heard my 
name shouted after me. 

“ Mr. Sandford !—lawyer ! lawyer! ” 

It was old Barkins. I anticipated his object: I 
knew it was his old theme— 

“ Lawyer, don’t forget the catch, * How many Jins 
has a cod , at a word?' ” 




A Modern Knight. 


6 3 


A MODERN KNIGHT. 

BY JOHN HABBERTON, 

66 ' 1 ''HERE’S your shop,” remarked the driver 
of the very shabby carryall in which Miss 
Eve Lansome, recently engaged as teacher 
of the Redtuft district school, was being conveyed 
from a railway station to the house of Farmer Ray- 
gin, where she was to board for the' six months 
which at Redtuft constituted the school year. 

“Shop?” echoed Miss Lansome, leaning a little 
forward, as if she had not rightly heard. 

“Yes,” replied the driver, and then, after a pause, 
continued in a lower tone, “school-house, I s’pose I 
oright ’o hev said.” 

“ My school-house ! ” gasped the young lady, clutch¬ 
ing the back of the seat as if to support herself. “ Is 
that the building in which School Number One of 
the Redtuft District is held?” 

“Cert’nly; Number Two is way over on t’other 
side of the township. An’ there’s yer boardin’ place, 
right up there at the bend of the road ; ye can see 
the top of the barn ef ye look sharp acrost the ridge 
of the rise; the house ain’t so high, so you don’t 
sight that till ye git on higher ground.” 

“Dear me!” murmured Miss Lansome. She 
opened her eyes and regarded the school-house so 
intently that the driver stopped his horse, and said: 

“’Taint exactly like school-houses down in York, 
I s’pose?” 

“No,” replied Miss Lansome, slowly, “I can 
hardly say it is.” 

“Not quite so big, p’raps?” 

The teacher’s doleful face lapsed into a curious 
smile as she answered, “Not quite.” 

“Waal,” said the driver, “’taint so big as some 
I’ve seen in this very county,*but it’ll hold a lot of 
folks when it’s put to it. I’ve knowed the time 
when a spellin’ school of more’n sixty folks on each 
side has stood up in that old school-house, an’ yit 
ther’ was room for all them as wuz spelled down 
to do their sparkin’ along the walls an’ in the seats. 
Mebbe some of ’em went outside, but ’twasn’t ’cause 
there wasn’t room fur ’em in-doors.” 

“Does it look inside as it does outside?” asked 
Miss Lansome, her gaze still fixed on the reddish- 
brown walls. 

“Waal, I don’t hardly know ’bout that,” said the 
driver; then he turned sidewise in his seat, threw 
his right leg over the left, shifted the contents of 
one protuberant cheek to the other side of his face, 
and dropped into reverie, from which he wakened, 
a moment or two later, to say— 

“No, I don’t know ez it does, any more’n the 
inside of any house looks like the outside. Both 
sides kind o’ look ez if they might b’long to each 
other, an’ yit, when you come to think about it, they 
kind o’ don’t. I wish I could tell you ’xack’ly how 
they’re alike and how they ain’t, but-” As the 

Copyright, 1883. 


driver paused he suddenly rose to his feet, and his 
homely countenance was radiant with intelligence as 
he exclaimed : 

“By ginger ! Ye ken make it all clear to yourself 
in a minute by jest gittin’ out an’ walkin’ in. The 
door ain’t locked—nobody hain’t seen the key for so 
long that I’ll bet there’s some that believes there 
never wasn’t no key.” 

“I think I will avail myself of your suggestion,” 
said the new teacher, getting out of the carryall; 
then, seeing the driver also about to alight, she 
continued : “ I’m sure I will have no trouble in find¬ 
ing my way about the building alone, so I will feel 
obliged if you will drive on to Squire Raygin’s, leave 
my trunk, and say I will be there in a few minutes. 

I can easily walk the distance.” 

“Hev it yer own way, ma’am; but I’d just as lief 
wait, if you say so. Time ain’t worth nothin’ to 
me.” 

“You’re very kind,” said the teacher, “but I’d 
rather walk. I must learn the way sooner or later, 
you know.” She said this with a pleasant smile,but 
the smile vanished as soon as she turned her face 
again toward the school-house. A moment later she 
heard the driver’s whip descend upon the anatomi¬ 
cal antique that drew the vehicle, but before this the 
breeze had wafted to her the sound of one word— 
low-toned, as when one does not want to be heard ; 
soft, as is always the way with words spoken to one’s 
self, yet, for all that, long-drawn and distinct, as if 
the speaker fully meant all he said—it was the mono¬ 
syllable— 

“ Gosh ! ” 

The longer the teacher looked at her new post of 
duty, the longer grew her countenance. Redtuft 
District School-house Number One was certainly 
not what she had imagined it to be. She had se¬ 
lected it, in preference to another school that had 
beenofferedher atthe“agency” in New York,because 
of its name, which seemed to her to have a certain 
quaint attractiveness about it. It suggested color, 
and natural color, too, which is always delightful to 
a city-born girl—a girl with yearnings toward aes¬ 
thetic culture. She had wondered what the name 
meant ; perhaps a clump of blazing maples, near the 
site of the school-house, or a thicket of wild roses, or 
a knoll covered with the red clover that looked so 
pretty in the flower pictures that found their way to 
the water-color exhibitions every winter. 

But none of these things could she see. Neither 
tree, bush, nor knoll was near the building ; the 
school-house had been built on the edge of a bog, in 
which were indications that in rainy weather a stream 
had flowed near the house and across the road ; now, 
however, in a dry October week, the ground was 
merely damp, and from the mud arose many tufts of 
marsh grass of which the inner leaves showed traces 
of green, but the outer ones, which were dry and 
dead, were a dirty yellowish red. 

The building itself was a simple parallelogram. 







6 4 


Treasury of Tales. 


one story high, and with a roof so low that the new 
teacher wondered if any of the youngest pupils could 
stand erect against the walls. Its foundations were 
slender brick pillars, not very high, but still high 
enough to display, under the building, a mixed 
debris of slates, books, baskets, straw hats, tin pails, 
sleds, hand-carts, and other articles that had been 
worn out in the cause of popular education ; there 
was also a sober-looking family of pigs, whose moth¬ 
er came cautiously to the front to see who it was 
that dared invade the solitude of her kindergarten. 

Miss Lansome felt that a hard “cry” was imminent, 
and as soon as she entered the door the tears burst 
forth. It was true, as the man had said, that the in¬ 
side and the outside of the house “ kind o’ looked as 
ef they might b’long to each other.” The walls had 
once been white, and to be sure this color was still 
present as a background ; but lead-pencils, char¬ 
coal, red chalk, pokeberry-juice, and the purplish 
blue extract of the native huckleberry had been so 
freely used by the amateur artists of different classes 
that the general color effect greatly resembled the 
curious medley of a Turkish rug. Miss Lansome had 
long been enamored of Oriental art, but the likeness 
of what she had admired to what she now saw did not 
at first occur to her. 

On the wall behind the platform where the teach¬ 
er’s desk—a plain pine table—stood, was a map of 
the United States as this country used to be de¬ 
picted when Michigan and Minnesota were Terri¬ 
tories, and all the country west of Missouri was 
“ The Great American Desert.” Centred on the 
opposite wall was an enormous picture of an ele¬ 
phant, evidently cut from a circus poster, but as 
the low ceiling had made it impossible to present 
the beast in his full proportions, the legs and trunk 
had been carefully amputated. The color, originally 
rather monotonous, had, by some critical rural hand, 
been relieved with red chalk, and the great brute 
provided with a red eye as big as a boy’s head. The 
desks bore witness of countless hours consumed 
in wood-carving—an art on which Miss Lansome 
had been wont to vent much enthusiasm—enthusiasm 
now forgotten. Indeed, she forgot everything, ex¬ 
cept her day-dreams of what her first school was to 
be ; so she dropped into the teacher’s chair, which, 
in spite of her grief, she observed was uncompro¬ 
misingly hard, placed her arms on the table and her 
head on her arms, and moistened the dingy top of 
the table with a great many tears. 

In the meantime there was great excitement at 
Squire Raygin’s, where Miss Lansome was to board, 
for the driver, as he unloaded the truck, informed 
the lady of the house and her two daughters that the 
new teacher was “ ez pretty ez a peach, ez trim ez a 
cherry saplin’, an’ ez sweet ez a doughnut.” Mrs. 
Raygin was “ doing up ” quinces, and she and her 
daughters were appropriately dressed for the work, 
but she exclaimed : 

“ Here, gals, drop that fruit right away, an get 


into your Sunday things ; first, though, one of you 
blow the horn for your father an’ the boys. I’m not 
goin’ to have any such gal cornin’ here an’ thinkin’ 
we ’re common folks.” Then Mrs. Raygin proceeded 
to put on her own “ Sunday things,” and she did 
this with such alacrity that by the time her husband 
reached the house she stood resplendent in a brick- 
red dress with a blue waist, and a white lace cap 
with green bow and yellow strings. 

“ Sakes alive, Marthy ! ” exclaimed the astonished 
farmer, “ why didn’t you let on this mornin’ that 
you’d invited the preacher to supper ? ” 

The old man was somewhat indignant when he 
was informed of the cause of the excitement, but he 
was nevertheless prevailed upon to shave and change 
his shirt ; he resolutely refused to put on his coat, 
however ; “ What’s good enough fur my own gals to 
see me in is good enough fur any city piece to see 
me in,” he declared, “ even ef she hez turned the 
head of that there harum-scarum Nosmo King. 
Hello !—she’s a-comin’.” 

Every member of the family looked down the 
road from one window or another. 

“ She don't look just like the gals about here,” re¬ 
marked Mrs. Raygin. 

“ It’s the city way of cuttin’ dresses that makes 
the difference,” said the elder Miss Raygin. 

“ Or the city way of wearin’ the hair,” said the 
younger sister. The head of the family ventured 
no comments, but as the teacher neared the house 
and the fingers of the ladies began to fidget about 
their own hair and apparel, the farmer remarked : 

“ ’Pears to me it’s gettin’ kind o’ chilly as the sun 
drops low. Guess I’ll have to put somethin’ warmer 
on me.” And he hastily disappeared as the ladies 
went to the door to receive the new comer. 

* * * The evening meal at the Raygin mansion 
was nearly ended when a shadow was cast on the 
table from one of the dining-room windows. 

“ Wonder who’s out there ? ” mumbled the lady 
of the house. The old farmer arose, went to the 
door, looked out, turned his head again toward the 
family, and remarked : 

“ It’s only Nosmo, ma.” 

“ Sho ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Raygin, “ I b’lieve there 
never was the like of that feller for turnin’ up when 
ye least expect him.” 

“ Perhaps he forgot to put out something of Miss 
Lansome’s, and has come back to bring it,” suggested 
the elder Miss Raygin. 

“ Or perhaps,” said the younger sister, with a sly 
smile, “ he didn’t forget Miss Lansome herself.” 

The teacher looked up wonderingly, and the host¬ 
ess hastened to explain : 

“ The gals are talkin’ about Nosmo—the young 
feller that druv ye over from the depot. It’s him 
that’s outside.” 

“ I’ve not missed anything, I’m sure,” said Miss 
Lansome. Whatever any one else may have intended 






A Modern Knight. 


65 


to say was stopped by the spectacle of the head of 
the family endeavoring to coax the young man to 
enter the house and partake of the evening meal, 
and the latter’s desperate efforts to keep out of 
sight of the ladies, yet look into the room. Miss 
Lansome was amused, in a quiet way, and on look¬ 
ing toward her new hosts she saw that they too 
were smiling, but apparently at her rather than with 
her. What had she done to excite merriment ? As 
she wondered, the younger man succeeded in getting 
out of range of the four pairs of eyes inside, but all 
heard Squire Raygin say : 

“ Well, Nosmo, hev it yer own way ; stay outside 
ef ye don’t want to go in ; but ’pears to me that if I 
was gone, all of a sudden, on a city gal, an’ was tuk 
so bad ez to walk a mile to look at her, I wouldn’t 
let the thickness of a wall stan’ between me an her.” 

Then the ladies of the Raygin family laughed, and 
Miss Lansome blushed, hurriedly left the table, and 
went to her room. For her to gain admiration at 
short notice was not unusual; she had been adored 
by all sorts of chance acquaintances ; should she, 
therefore, be astonished that the young farmer who 
had been her coachman during the afternoon had 
deemed her attractive ? No ! Still, there were men 
>—and men—and she had some preference as to 
the sort of person who should admire her. 

By and by she descended to the “ best room,” in 
which she had first been received. It was empty. So 
she passed to the piazza, where she found the source 
of her mortification—young Nosmo King—alone. 
She did not recognize him at first, for he also had 
invested himself with “ Sunday things,” and his 
loose reddish-brown locks had been reduced to ex¬ 
ceeding propriety. The air was redolent of berga¬ 
mot ; there was also perceptible a strong odor of 
tobacco, although Nosmo King, who was strug¬ 
gling with one of his trousers pockets, was not smok¬ 
ing. 

The young man arose, bowed profoundly, and 
might have appeared quite dignified but for an oc¬ 
casional half-suppressed wriggle. 

“ Mr. King, I believe ? ” said the young lady with 
a smile, “ I learned your name, accidentally, from 
my kind entertainers here.” 

“ Yes,—oh,—yes,” said the youth, in the midst of 
his contortions ; “ that’s my name ; it’s—it’s—why, 
of course it’s my name,” he continued, in an excit¬ 
able manner, as he seized the sides of his trousers 
legs and spread them as zouaves used to do in the 
early days of the Avar, Avhen bagginess of apparel 
was something for a soldier to be proud of. 

Miss Lansome took a chair, arranged her drapery 
as carefully as if she Avas in the presence of a prince, 
and said: 

“ Won’t you be seated, Mr. King ? ” 

“ Oh—yes—certainly—thank you,” ejaculated the 
young man, still comporting himself like a victim of 
St. Vitus’s dance. “ I Avould, if-” 

“If Avhat?” asked the teacher, Avhose curiosity had 


been slowly aroused by the young farmer’s peculiar 
antics. 

“ If—if this darned pipe of mine Avasn’t burning 
a hole in me,” said the ex-coachman. “ I put it in 
my pocket just as you came out, not Avantin’ to 
smoke before a lady, an’ I never knew before that 
the outside of a pipe could be so hot.” 

Miss Lansome Avas taken by surprise, and laughed 
heartily. Then she recovered herself enough to say : 

“ Might it not be Avell to take it from your pocket 
and put it aside ? ” 

“ Gosh ! ” exclaimed the youth, rising to his feet ; 
“ I never thought of that.” 

A second later the offending source of consola¬ 
tion had been Avithdrawn and cast as far into the 
orchard as a strong arm could throAv it ; and Avhen 
Mr. King ejaculated “ Thar ! ” and sank again into 
his chair, it was with the air of a martyr Avho had 
overcome the bitterness of death. 

“Your baptismal name,” said the teacher, anx¬ 
ious to change the subject of conversation, “ has a 
foreign sound ; is it Italian ? ” 

“ Waal, not as' I knoAvs on,” said the youth. 
“ Kinder funny, the Avay I came to be called Nosmo. 
Ye see, Avhen I avuz a baby, the mother didn’t knoAv 
what to name me. She’d hev liked to give me dad’s 
name, but that Avas John, and ther’ avuz so many John 
Kings in the county already, that Avhen the Avar 
broke out an’ they raised a company nigh Redtuft, 
ther’ avuz such a lot of Johns among the Kings that 
enlisted that the captain had to number ’em. Well, 
I Avuzn’t christened fur such an aAvful spell that folks 
began to say they reckoned our family avuz a-gettin’ 
to be backsliders. But all the time the mother avuz 
a-lookin’ fur a new name, an’ at last she got it. She 
avuz on a little steamboat one day, an’ on a door of 
the back room of that there boat was the name 
‘ King.’ Then the mother avuz dead bent to knoAv 
Avhat avuz the first name of the puttik’lar King that 
had that room. So she edged around an’ around 
till she suav it on the other door. It avuz Nosmo, an’ 
Nosmo I avuz baptized the very next Sunday, though 
’twuz a rainy day an’ folks said ’twuz a sin to bring 
a young one out in such Aveather.” 

“ Hoav strange ! ” said Miss Lansome. 

“Yes, but that Avuzn’t the strangest,” continued 
the young man. “ ’Bout a year after that the moth¬ 
er avuz on the same boat agin. Both doors of that 
back room wuz shut, an’ how do ye s’pose the name 
read? Why, ‘No Smoking.' Don’t ye see? — 
N-o-s-m-o k-i-n-g.” 

Miss Lansome was overcome by laughter, Avhich 
pleased her admirer greatly, for this Avas his one 
joke, and he had not been able to tell it to a neAv 
listener for at least a year. He lingered over it 
affectionately, ejaculating “ No smoking—Nosmo 
King ”—alternately, until, through sheer exhaustion, 
his sole hearer could laugh no longer. The subject 
of conversation Avas finally changed by Miss Lan¬ 
some, Avho said : 







66 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Mr. King, I wonder if you can tell me anything 
about the pupils I am to have. Are there many of 
them ? Are they old or young ? What do they 
study ? ” 

“That’s just what I wuz cornin’ to talk to ye 
’bout,” said Nosmo, becoming sober at once. 
“ Some of ’em ain’t so little an’ some ain’t so big ; 
but the biggest of ’em, I s’pose, is me.” 

“ You ? ” Miss Lansome was really surprised. 

“Yes,” said Nosmo, rapidly. “I’ll tell ye how 
’tis : brother Bill’s out in the mines and brother 
Sam went to sea, so I’ve ben the only one at home 
to help the father these five years, so I’ve missed 
my schoolin’. Sam went to the bottom in a gale, an’ 
Bill hez made a pile for himself, so the old man, 
who’s old an’ can’t last much longer, is goin’ to 
leave me the farm. It’s wuth a lot of money, an’ 
whoever hez owned it hez been expected to be a 
good deal of a feller, an’ I ain’t fit to keep up the 
repitation of the family ef I don’t pick up some 
idees. Now, seein’ I’m not quite twenty-one, I’m 
of school age and I’ve made up my mind I’ll go to 
school an’ do my level best to make the right sort 
of a man of myself ; but-” 

There was silence for a moment; it was finally 
broken by Miss Lansome saying : 

“ But what ? ” 

“ Why, I’m afraid any teacher’d make fun of 
such a big gawk cornin’ into a schoolhouse.” 

Miss Lansome arose, stepped to where the young 
man sat, with his elbows on his knees and his face 
in both his hands, and said : 

“ Mr. King, you are a noble fellow, and if you 
come to my school I’ll teach you everything I can.” 

“ Reely ? ” said the would-be student, springing 
to his feet. 

“ Really,” replied the little teacher, with great 
earnestness. “ Here’s my hand on it.” 

“ Bless ye ! ” exclaimed the big fellow, taking the 
soft little hand. “ But I’m ’fraid you’ll find me dull 
an’ stupid most of the time. I ken break the wildest 
colt that travels, an’ ther’s no man that ken beat me 
harvestin’; but when it comes to stowin’ books in¬ 
side of my head, I ain’t much to speak of.” 

“Never mind,” said the teacher, encouragingly. 
“ I will help you to the best of my ability.” 

“ Will ye, though ? That settles it, then,” said 
Nosmo, with a great sigh as if a load had been taken 
off his mind. “ I wish I knowed how to thank 
ye, but I don’t.” As he spoke he squeezed Miss 
Lansome’s hand tightly to express his gratitude. 
Then Mr. King picked up his hat from the piazza 
floor, and abruptly started to go, but he stopped at the 
step, turned round irresolutely, caressed the brim of 
the hat a moment, and said, 

“ Ef I make mistakes, ez I guess I’ll do by the 
cartload, ye won’t laugh at me, will ye ? The young 
ones in school will, of coqrse ; I don’t mind them , 
but ef you wuz to do it I’d—I’d—why I’d kind o’ 
lose my grip.” 


“ Don’t fear,” replied the teacher kindly. 

“All right,” said the pupil, and departed suddenly 
without even saying “ good-by.” As he walked 
away Miss Lansome saw him thrust his hands into 
his coat pockets, throw back his head, and assume a 
gait which, although not fashionable, was certainly 
very unlike the shambling walk of countrymen in 
general. Then the new teacher resumed her chair 
and informed herself that at last she had a mission. 

Once again before school opened, Miss Lansome 
saw Nosmo King; it was at the little church which 
every one at Redtuft attended, and he gave her a 
look of recognition and a slight toss of the head 
that seemed intended for an assurance that he had 
not changed his mind, but was determined to absorb 
all the information that the stated course of study 
could supply. 

When the teacher reached her school-room on 
Monday morning, which she did at an early hour, 
so as to encounter her pupils singly and not be 
obliged to endure a general stare of scrutiny, she 
found some enormous pearson her desk and Nosmo 
King at one end of the back seat looking as if he 
was trying to shrink his habitual dimensions to 
schoolboy size. The teacher bowed and smiled 
pleasantly, at which the young man seemed sud¬ 
denly to lengthen several inches as he remarked, 

“ Come early, so’s not to be grinned at ? So 
did I.” 

No conversation ensued, for other early arrivals 
greeted the teacher, who chatted pleasantly with one 
group after another, as they sidled into favorite 
seats ; she was thus enabled to interrogate Nosmo 
without making him as conspicuous as he would 
have been had she called him alone to her desk. 
She looked at the books he had brought, and sug¬ 
gested that he examine each one during the day, and 
make sure how far he had studied when a lad, and 
how much he remembered. 

The remainder of the school-day was spent in 
enrolling the children and classifying them. The 
largest pupil faded entirely from the teacher’s mind, 
except for a moment at noon, when she ate the pears 
he had brought. When she started for home she 
was too tired to think of anything in particular, but 
as she passed a group of children a little girl brought 
the newly-discovered mission to Miss Lansome’s 
mind by remarking, in the teacher’s hearing: 

“ That great big Nosmo King didn’t do nothin' 
all day but just gawp at the teacher.” 

The child’s companions giggled, and then one 
hissed “ Sh-h-h ! ” which had the effect of making 
the teacher’s cheeks burn more hotly than they had 
at first promised to do. She wished there was some 
place in school where the young farmer could sit 
without seeing her and occasioning remarks. How 
could that child have known what Nosmo was doing, 
when the fellow sat on the last seat ? Miss Lan¬ 
some determined to enforce, in future, the normal 
custom of “ eyes front”; and yet she did not see but 







A Modern Knight. 


67 


that would make it necessary for Nosmo King to 
stare at her when he was not looking at his books. 

There were plums instead of pears on the teach¬ 
er’s desk next morning, and a small boy, who was 
hungrily contemplating them, volunteered the infor¬ 
mation that “Nosmo King brung ’em”—a fact 
that Miss Lansome already guessed, for she saw 
that her largest pupil, although bent almost double 
over his desk, was trying hard to see her from 
under the edges of his eyebrows. The experiment 
did not succeed very well; so the fellow boldly 
picked up his books and came to her desk to 
report progress. When told that he was fully en¬ 
titled to a place among the most advanced pupils, 
he seemed greatly relieved in his feelings ; he looked 
contemplative for a moment, and then asked, with 
a most pathetic expression of countenance, and in a 
low, appealing tone : 

“ Say ; I don’t look such an awful lot bigger than 
some of the biggest boys and gals, do I ? ” 

“ No, indeed,” replied the teacher. “ Why, some 
of the pupils are much taller than I.” 

“Waal,” said Nosmo, meditatively, as his eye 
passed over the teacher’s figure, “ there’s a good 
deal of difference ’tween you an’ me, you know 
—a good deal.” He turned and shook his head 
doubtfully as he went back to his seat; Miss Lan¬ 
some thought she understood him, and she was 
sure she was sorry for him. In spite of his awkward¬ 
ness, Nosmo seemed a manly fellow, which was more 
than the teacher could say of most of her male ac¬ 
quaintances. If he were only a gentleman—if, 
although ignorant of books, he knew anything of the 
manners of society, how romantic it would be to 
teach him ! It might even happen that— At this 
point the teacher discovered, by looking at her watch, 
that the school should have been opened five minutes 
before. 

Out-of-doors, the children teazed Nosmo unceas¬ 
ingly ; and no amount of discipline could prevent 
them laughing derisively whenever he made a mis¬ 
take in school, but the big fellow not only kept up 
with his classes, but even found time to read some 
books which Miss Lansome had suggested would be 
useful to him. Every day, too, he managed to get 
something to lay on the teacher’s desk. Tokens of re¬ 
gard, from pupils to teacher, were not unusual at Red- 
tuft, but Miss Lansome imagined she could always 
distinguish Nosmo’s offerings from the others. They 
were more abundant in quantity ; their quality was 
generally better, and there was about them a variety 
that the presents of the younger pupils lacked, so 
when she thanked the supposed giver, which she 
never failed to do, she never found herself mistaken. 
If she ventured to admire, in Nosmo’s hearing, 
any flower, or fruit, or colored leaf that was to be 
seen in the locality, she found a material reminder 
of it on her desk in the morning, and when one day 
she went into raptures over a large maple that began 
early to make of itself a dazzling mass of color, 


nothing but the limits of the school-house prevented 
Nosmo from bringing his teacher the entire tree. 

Later, when opportunity allowed, the largest pupil 
began to follow his teacher to her home. His chances 
were infrequent, for Miss Lansome generally had 
several juvenile retainers, but when she happened to 
remain at the desk a few minutes later than usual, 
she could depend upon seeing Nosmo somewhere 
near the roadside as she walked homeward. On 
such occasions the young man always explained ; he 
had either seen a fox and was looking for its re¬ 
appearance, or was wondering whether Farmer Ray- 
gin’s tobacco crop was far enough advanced to be 
cut before frost, or he had been “sampling” apples 
in the Raygin orchard, or testing fences to see 
what would be best for a bit of his own land that 
needed a new enclosure. But his special occupation 
always ended as the teacher approached : He would 
allow her to pass him ; then he would follow, at a 
few steps’ distance, and begin a conversation that 
compelled Miss Lansome to turn her head whenever 
she spoke. Sometimes she would stop ; then he 
would stand by her side and talk till again she 
moved forward, when he would lag behind at his 
original distance. 

The autumn was almost rainless, and Miss Lansome 
enjoyed the pure air and pleasing alternations of field, 
meadow, orchard and woodland so much that she had 
become almost reconciled to her lot, when one morn¬ 
ing she awoke to find rain pouring in torrents. The 
entire landscape was dismal and the now familiar 
road a sheet of mud. Miss Lansome ate a late break¬ 
fast in silence ; she was wishing for either New York 
sidewalks or a pair of rubber boots, neither of which 
were within reach, when Mr. Raygin exclaimed : 

“ Sakes alive ! if there ain’t Nosmo King’s fast colt 
an’ the city buggy he don’t take out four times a 
year ! And now to bring it out in all this mud and 
rain ! Well, I never ! ” 

Meanwhile the owner of the horse and buggy had 
alighted, tied his spirited animal, thrown robes and 
rubber cloth over the seat of the buggy, and entered 
the house. 

“Good morning, ev’rybody,” said he. Although 
his address was general, he looked at but one, and 
to her he said : 

“ I thought I’d drive ye down to school, so’s you 
wouldn’t git wet. Umbrells ain’t no good in a 
downpour like this.” 

“Nosmo,” said Miss Lansome, “your intention is 
as commendable as your grammar is bad. I will be 
ready in a moment.” 

The young man drove to the front door, and when 
the teacher appeared he was at the step to shelter 
her with an umbrella—not one of your tiny combi¬ 
nations of silk and steel, but an immense blue para¬ 
chute—a family heirloom that looked as if it had 
been made for the purpose of shielding a haystack. 
He placed the lady in the carriage, threw a blanket 
and rubber cloth over and about her, and then seated 






68 


Treasury of Tales . 


himself and drove off, covering his knees, as he went, 
with the still open umbrella. 

“ What a handsome carriage ! ” exclaimed the 
teacher, anxious to please the young man who had 
been so thoughtful of her comfort. “ But what a 
shame to use it in all this rain and mud ! Why 
didn’t you use an older one in such weather?” 

“Waal,” said Nosmo, wondering whether Miss 
Lansome could be made to understand that only the 
best was good enough for her, “ the old rockaway’s 
got two seats ; you’d hev picked the back one ; 
then you wouldn’t hev seen the storm.” 

The excuse was painfully idiotic, but Miss Lan¬ 
some did not seem to realize it, for she exclaimed : 

“ Do you enjoy storms?” 

“ Waal,” said Nosmo, “ I do, an’ then ag’in I don’t. 
Them as comes all of a sudden, an’ spiles crops, 
don’t suit me wuth a cent, an’ I don’t mind sayin’ 
that I’d ez lief see a hunk of Jedgment Day ez a 
storm £t the end of a day’s mowin’. But when it 
comes to a hard, solid, come-in-the-mornin’-an’-stay- 
all-day kind of a rain, that gives me the chance to 
git out the best that’s in the barn and ride to school 
alongside o’ the best-lookin’ young woman in the 
country, why—gosh, let her pour, I say.” 

This view of stprms was entirely new to Miss 
Lansome, and somewhat startling, too, particularly 
as Nosmo, after saying it, looked straight ahead with 
the blank look of a child who has said something 
hastily, and wonders if punishment is coming. Miss 
Lansome began to feel so much embarrassment that 
she was glad when the school-house door was reached. 
Nosmo sprang to the ground, raised the great blue 
umbrella once more and helped the teacher to 
alight. It was the work of only a second or two, 
but while the umbrella shielded both, Nosmo found 
time to whisper : 

“Ye ain’t mad at me, air ye ? ” 

Miss Lansome looked up quickly at the appealing 
face, and answered, with a smile : 

“ Not in the least, Nosmo ; I am very, very much 
obliged.” Why she extended a hand as she said 
this, when she needed both hands to keep her skirts 
from the muddy steps, she did not know, but evi¬ 
dently Nosmo had anticipated the act, for one of his 
own hands was disengaged, and as the teacher entered 
the school she said to herself that the oldest pupil’s 
palm was less hard and more warm than it was the 
only other time it had ever before touched her own. 

A few moments later, as she looked through the 
window commanding the road, she beheld an im¬ 
mense blue umbrella, apparently a relative of the 
King family’s faithful parachute ; it was so broad 
and convex that beneath it little was visible but a 
pair of boots that seemed too enormous to belong to 
any school child. A pair of boots carrying an 
umbrella was funny enough to laugh at, and 
Miss Lansome, seizing a pencil, began to sketch it; 
but looking up from her paper and at her subject, 
the relative positions of boots and umbrella had 


changed enough to disclose the face of Nosmo 
between them. What could it mean ? Had she 
not left him at the door only two or three minutes 
before ? How had he^—why, certainly ; how stu¬ 
pid of her not to have thought of it!—the poor fel¬ 
low had been obliged to take his horse to shelter 
—probably in Squire Raygin’s barn, there being no 
nearer place—and was now trudging back through 
the rain and mud ! She just did not care, she told 
herself in unteacher-like language, what other folks 
might think about it ; she would always feel that 
Nosmo had extended the most thoughtful and gen¬ 
tlemanly courtesy she had ever received. She was 
about to tear the half completed sketch, but changing 
her mind she dashed in several dots and lines where 
the face should be, scrawled underneath, “ A Modern 
Knight,” and hurriedly placed the sketch under the 
school register just as her late escort entered the 
room. He looked at the teacher rather sheepishly 
and she returned a glance that somehow made 
Nosmo, when the first class in Arithmetic was called 
look wonderfully unlike the great, awkward fellow 
who usually stood at the head of the line. 

When the noon intermission was announced, Nos¬ 
mo started hurriedly to leave the room ; but Miss 
Lansome held up her little forefinger warningly, and 
the tall fellow stopped, saying : 

“ I’ll git ye to the dinner-table in less’n ten min¬ 
utes.” 

“You must not; I positively forbid it; I’m not a 
bit hungry,” said the teacher, swallowing a fib in 
lieu of better food. 

Nosmo seemed disappointed ; he fingered his hat 
brim irresolutely for a moment, and then said: 

“Waal, the hoss’ll be hungry, anyhow; I guess 
I’ll go up an’ give him a bite.” Again the teacher 
saw the blue cotton umbrella against the reddish- 
yellow background of the muddy road ; she mused 
a moment, took the sketch from its hiding-place, re¬ 
touched and elaborated the face, and might have 
worked upon it during the entire noon hour, so 
careful and deliberate was she, had not the original 
of her picture stalked into the room, his heavy boots 
making noise enough to attract general attention. 
He saw that the eyes of all the lounging, dinner- 
munching children were upon him and the teacher, 
but he kept an impassive face as he placed a small 
basket on the table, and said, in a loud tone : 

“ Missis Raygin told me to give ye this.” 

“ How very kind of her ! ” exclaimed Miss Lan¬ 
some, as she took from the basket a napkin filled 
with buttered biscuits, sliced ham and cake. “ Nos¬ 
mo ? ” continued the teacher, calling back the young 
man, who had started for his seat, and was already 
extracting his own dinner from his capacious pock¬ 
ets. “ I hope,” she said, in a very low tone, as the 
youth approached her, “ that you did not ask Mrs. 
Raygin to put herself to this trouble.” 

“ No—oh, no, ma’am—of course not,” said Nosmo, 
quickly, but Miss Lansome, who had studied juve- 







A Modern Knight. 


69 


nile faces long enough to know the simpler signs of 
untruthfulness, shook her head sadly as the big 
pupil hurried back to his seat. 

When school was finally dismissed the rain still 
poured in torrents, so when Nosmo informed the 
teacher that he would “ hev the colt here purty 
soon,” he got a grateful smile in payment. The 
children straggled off home in little parties, and the 
teacher found herself alone. She was half inclined to 
feel impatient, for the school-room, shabby enough 
by sunlight, seemed on this dull day a dungeon of a 
place. She had spoken to the directors about it, 
but all she got for her pains was the information that 
a dozen different ladies, beside one man, had taught 
there, and that not one of them had ever complained. 
She declared that she would renovate the room at her 
own expense ; she did not know how, but she would 
ask Nosmo. Why was it, she asked herself, that 
young men in the country and those in town differed 
so strangely ? Nosmo had scarcely reached his 
twenty-first birth-day, yet he was tall, strong, manly, 
self-reliant, courteous and trustworthy, while her city 
acquaintances of similar age were the reverse of all 
this. If Nosmo did not butcher the English lan¬ 
guage with almost every breath, if he wore cloth¬ 
ing of modern cut, and shaved regularly, and read 
something beside the Farmer's Companion, and knew 
an etching from a poster cut, he might make—some 
girl—a very acceptable husband. Not that she 
could be satisfied with such a mate; that is, not if— 
indeed, she did not see what could induce her to 
think for a moment of being a farmer’s wife. Never¬ 
theless, she was heartily sorry for Nosmo ; he was 
probably doomed to marry some good-natured, stu¬ 
pid country girl, like one of Mrs. Raygin’s daughters, 
who thought that dress brought refinement ; his un¬ 
selfishness would be accepted as a matter of course. 
Poor fellow ! How did this world come to be such 
a dreadful place for men—and women ? 

Her reverie was abruptly shortened by the sound 
of wheels at the door ; she must have been deeply 
absorbed in thought for him to have approached 
without her knowing it. 

“I will be ready in an instant, Nosmo,” she said, 
turning toward the nails on which hung her hat, 
cloak, and water-proof wrap. “I have been very 
busy” (the little sinner!), “or I should not have to 
keep you waiting.” 

“ My time’s yourn,” responded Nosmo, leaning 
against the table, and, like a great child, trifling 
with everything his fingers could reach. He exam¬ 
ined the ruler, studied the cover of the inkstand, 
tried the tv'acher’s pen on his thumb nail, and 
picked up the register, when his eye was caught by 
the sketch the teacher had made of him and his 
umbrella. In a second Miss Lansome heard again 
the soft, long-drawn “Gosh,” and turning around she 
saw Nosmo with her drawing in his hand and an ex¬ 
pression of countenance that she never could have 
imagined possible. She wanted to laugh at him ; 


then she wanted to cry at him, but before she suc¬ 
ceeded in doing either, the subject looked slowly 
from the sketch to the artist, and did it so earnestly 
that Miss Lansome, silly thing (she said to her¬ 
self), blushed, and dropped her eyes. Why could 
not the stupid fellow say something, instead of star¬ 
ing at her in that strange way ? Well, if he would 
not, she would. 

“That is a sketch I made hastily this morning,” 
she said. “ I suppose you don’t understand it, but 
you mustn’t think I was making fun of you. A 
knight is—he is—” 

“ I know all about knights,” interrupted Nosmo, 
gravely; “ there’s a book about ’em in our Sunday- 
school library. An’ I’m more obliged to ye than I 
ever wuz before to any human bein’.” 

“ I’m so glad I haven’t offended you,” said the 
teacher, her composure returning. She stepped to 
the desk, hastily put it in order, and then took hold 
of the sketch, but Nosmo did not relinquish his pos¬ 
session of it. 

“ I must put it away,” said Miss Lansome, smiling 
pleasantly. “ It will always remind me of a very 
thoughtful courtesy.” 

“ I don’t want to rob ye,” said Nosmo, still holding 
the sketch, “but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give 
ye the hull farm, when it’s mine, fur that little pictur’.” 

The teacher laughed, shook her head, and tugged 
playfully at the bit of paper. 

“Ye won’t?” said Nosmo. “Then—though I 
s’pose it’s no use—I’ll put it another way.” He 
looked out of the window for a moment, as if for 
some one to come and help him ; then he turned 
his head and said : 

“I’ll give ye the old place, an’the young man 
that runs it, an’ ye can do jest what ye please with 
both of ’em forever and ever, ef ye’ll give me a half¬ 
interest in this pictur’ fur life!” 

What should she say ? She did not feel equal to 
rebuking the youth—at least not while he stood 
there with that look in his eyes. So with a pleasant 
smile, she answered : 

“ You must give me time to think about it, Nos¬ 
mo. I’ve made many sketches, but this is the first 
one anybody has thought worth having. I may have 
to raise the price, if it’s really valuable. Oh— see, 
the sun is shining again ? Let us get out of this 
dingy room.” And the teacher put the sketch be¬ 
tween the leaves of a magazine and hurried out to 
the carriage. Nosmo followed her ; she pretended 
not to look at him, nevertheless she saw that his 
face was very gloomy. She began at once to talk 
rapturously of the scenery under the sunlight. 

“ Oh, Nosmo, see how fresh and beautiful all the 
wild flowers are after their bath ! And Squire Ray- 
gin’s tobacco-plants are covered with diamonds— 
don’t you see them sparkling ? And that flaming maple 
away off yonder in the swamp—oh, oh, oh !—when 
the ground dries I’ll walk over there, some Saturday 
morning, and feast my eyes on it as long as I like.” 




70 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Walk ?—you ?—over thar ?—through that bog? ” 
said Nosmo. And in a second he had turned his 
horse’s head toward the school-house. 

“ Have you forgotten something ? ” asked Miss 
Lansome. 

“ Not a thing,” said Nosmo ; “ but ef ye want to 
see that maple, I’m goin’ to drive ye thar, an’ save 
yer shoe-leather, an' yer clothes, an' yer breath, an' 
yer temper, ef ye happen to hev one. Why, I 
wouldn’t go thar myself, acrost lots, fur the price of 
a new pair of boots. Ther’s a wood road goes roun’ 
behind the fields an’ it comes within twenty rod of 
that very tree.” 

“ What a handsome horse you have ! Is he fast ?” 

“ Is he ?—Joe ?—fast ?—waal, ef he hed just ’a’ 
heard you say that, he’d hev showed ye whether he 
wuz fast or not; but I’ll just let him out a minute 
and give you a hint of what he can do.” 

At a touch of the whip Joe gave a mighty bound 
that nearly threw Miss Lansome out of the carriage ; 
then he dashed down the slightly inclined road and 
past the school-house. It seemed to Miss Lansome 
that the colt must be running away, but a glance at 
Nosmo reassured her, for the big pupil sat erect, with 
tightly compressed lips, distended nostrils, eyes wide 
open, and a slight wrinkle between his brows. At 
the end of the field, beyond the school-house, a nar¬ 
row road divided the fenced ground from the woods, 
and into this Nosmo guided the horse. The turn 
was made so abruptly that the carriage swayed dan¬ 
gerously, and Miss Lansome screamed. 

“ Don’t be afeard, little woman,” said Nosmo, 
“ I’ll soon make him know who’s master. But these 
wood-roads air narrer an’ they air rough.” 

And Nosmo was right. A farm-wagon might be 
safely dragged over and between the roots, stumps, 
logs, and mud holes, of which the narrow roadway 
was full, but a light buggy, drawn by a runaway 
horse, was manifestly out of place amid such ob¬ 
structions. And Nosmo’s colt, smarting under the 
indignity of the whip, evidently cared neither for 
the condition of the road nor the feelings of the oc¬ 
cupants of the carriage. The buggy rocked as if 
on rubber springs, and the teacher found herself 
resting alternately upon the driver and the side of 
the carriage. 

“ Hold on—tight ! ” said Nosmo suddenly, as the 
wheels on his side neared a projecting log. Miss 
Lansome grasped the ribs of the buggy top. 

“Not there!” exclaimed Nosmo; “hold on to 
me —quick!” The teacher obeyed; as she did 
so Nosmo’s side of the carriage rose, the driver 
leaned to the right ; the wheels crossed the log, and 
Nosmo leaned slowly back in the other direction to 
restore the equilibrium. As he did so he said : 

“ Don’t let go ; the brute has took the bit in his 
teeth.” 

“Oh, Nosmo ! ” exclaimed Miss Lansome, “aren’t 
you afraid ? ” 

“ 'Fraid ? ” echoed the young farmer. “ Gosh ! why 


I wouldn’t be ’fraid—not noiu —ef I wuz a drivin 
a span of royal Bengal tigers ! ” 

But tigers were not necessary to test Nosmo’s 
courage. Nosmo’s colt seemed to lay his course 
maliciously, for one wheel or other was in air most 
of the time. 

“ Durn him ! ” growled Nosmo, as the wheel on 
one side went over a stump and the teacher tight¬ 
ened her grasp of the brawny figure beside her, “ ef 
he c’ud turn his head fur a second an’ see who wuz 
behind him he’d stop makin’ a fool of himself.” 

“Yes, Nosmo, so he would if he could look into 
your face.” 

“ I didn’t mean me said the driver. “ Gosh ! 
The rain hez floated the bridge off o’ the crick ! 
Hold fast, now ! ” 

The “ crick ” was a tiny brook, only two feet 
wide, that crossed the road, and the bridge consisted 
merely of three boards laid crosswise of the road, on 
two beams. The smallest pupil at Redtuft school 
could jump the stream at any time, but as an ob¬ 
struction to a light buggy moving at the rate of a 
mile in three minutes or less it was serious. The 
colt Joe, as he reached it, gave an enormous leap; 
as the animal sprang, Nosmo took both reins in his 
right hand, and put his left arm around the teacher. 
There was a crash, Miss Lansome felt herself flying 
through space, and then—she found herself leaning 
helplessly upon Nosmo and crying as if her heart 
would break; Nosmo was supporting her quite effect¬ 
ively with one arm, and the colt was contemplating 
both, with his face very close to them, and Nosmo 
was addressing his companions alternately : 

“ Poor little thing, it wuz an awful skeer, wuzn’t 
it? Joe, durn yer unmannerly hoofs, I’ll sell ye to 
a clam peddler ’fore ye’r a day older. Well, well, 
she shell cry ef it does her good, God bless her. 
Joe, ye ort to be tied out in the brush an’ chawed to 
death by woodticks. I wish, ma’am, I c’ud hev got 
all the skeer an’ you c’ud hev seen all the fun, but 
somehow I can't skeer at a hoss.” 

Then Miss Lansome laughed hysterically, and dis¬ 
engaged herself, without much assistance from 
Nosmo, and blamed herself, in the most penitent 
manner imaginable for the whole trouble, for had 
she not asked Nosmo if his horse was fast ? As Nos¬ 
mo looked about at the wreck he saw the magazine 
Miss Lansome had brought from the school-house. 
He picked it up and the sketch fell from it. He 
stooped again, the teacher also attempted to recover 
her property, so, once more, two hands held the sketch. 
Both figures arose at the same time, and their eyes 
met. The silence that followed was broken by 
Nosmo : 

“About that half interest I was speakin’ of, in 
this pictur’-” 

“You—you may have it, Nosmo,” said Miss Lan¬ 
some ; upon which, although the teacher was quite 
able to stand alone, Nosmo hastened to support her 
with two arms instead of one. 





Ned Sprucingtons Umbrella. 


t 


71 



NED SPRUCINGTON’S UMBRELLA. 

N ame?” 

“ Charles Blank.” 

“ Occupation ? ” 

“ Civil engineer.” 

“ Address?” 

“501 Great George Street, Westminster, and 6 
Verbena Villas, Hammersmith.” 

“ Verbana Villas, Hammersmith,” slowly repeated 
the police sergeant, as he-entered the foregoing par¬ 
ticulars in a big book. “ Well, you know the charge 
—stealing this gentleman’s umbrella. Have you 
anything to say in addition to what you have already 
stated ? ” 

“ Nothing whatever,” I answered : “ I can only 
repeat that it was entirely a mistake upon my part.” 

“Just so,” was the grim reply. “You’ll have an 
opportunity of proving that in the morning. You 
are by no means the first person we have had to 
deal with here who has mistaken other people’s 
property for his own—Take him to the cells.” 
And then I was marched off. 

The circumstances which had brought me into 
this scrape were as follow : Myself and my friend 
Sprucington were in the employment of a railway 
contractor, whose offices were situated in the locality 
already mentioned. The duties of our department 
were shared by some half-dozen other young gen¬ 
tlemen of our own age, who, like us, were qual¬ 
ifying themselves for the survey of ground and 
construction of lines in any part of the world which 
their genius should call them to. But plans and 
specifications are not particularly exhilarating in 
themselves, apart from their professional interest; 
so it is not to be wondered at, that among several 
young fellows, full of animal spirits, a little practical 
joking should have been at times indulged in. 

Ned Sprucington and I were old Carthusians. 
When we met, therefore, after some years’ separa¬ 
tion, at the office in George Street, we had only to 
renew our friendship. The great dandy of our room, 
nay, of the entire house, was Ned. I honestly be¬ 
lieve, too, that he was one of the most guileless, 
simple-hearted fellows alive. He had, however, one 
conspicuous weakness—which was to be taken for a 
man of fashion. He dressed, I admit, unexception- 


ably ; and to aid him in producing the impression 
which he desired upon beholders, he carried about 
with him, in all weathers, a beautiful silk umbrella, 
scarcely bulkier than a lady’s parasol, though, of 
course, considerably longer. Judging from the cut 
onyx handle, mounted in gold, it must have cost him 
a mint of money. 

Well, this umbrella of Ned’s we tried all we could 
think of to get hold of. But he was too wary for 
us—it was always left in some safe place. If we 
had succeeded in gaining possession of it, it would 
at once have taken a conspicuous position in society, 
such as covering the old apple-woman at the corner, 
but it was unapproachable. At last we became so 
desperate that I accepted a heavy wager from one of 
the other fellows that I would present myself at the 
office the next morning, at all hazards, the proud 
possessor of Ned Sprucington’s umbrella. 

On that particular day, work being slack, every 
one was enabled to leave unusually early ; so that 
by four o’clock in the afternoon the house was 
cleared of all save myself, my brother-conspirator, 
and the old soldier who lived with his wife on the 
premises. My friend Ned, as was his custom at such 
times, had announced his intention of promenading 
the Ladies’ Mile, there to air himself, his aristocracy, 
and—his umbrella. I decided upon following him 
thither. As there were yet two hours of daylight, 
however, I thought I could not do better than fortify 
myself for the enterprise by taking some substantial 
refreshment before commencing operations. After 
which I would trust to the chapter of accidents. 

With this object in view, I was repairing towards 
my favorite place of refection in the Strand, when 
who should I see looking in at the topographer’s 
shop by Northumberland House but Ned Sprucing¬ 
ton ! He ought, by rights, to have been nearly two 
miles away at Hyde Park Corner ; yet here was he 
at Charing Cross, calmly studying some map of a 
“ seat of war ! ” He was so wedged in among other 
gazers, that I could not get at him to speak or even 
to have a clear view of his face. But I knew him by 
his height, by the neatly braided coat, the delicately 
tinted trousers, the well-poised hat, and last but not 
least, the umbrella. He was holding his hands be¬ 
hind his back, and in one of them the precious arti¬ 
cle was firmly clasped. 
































72 


Treasury of Tales. 


Yes, there it was, onyx handle, gold mounting, 
and all. As I looked, a sudden idea took possession 
of me—a foolish idea, I admit, as it could hardly 
lead to a practical result. But I thought if I could 
only get the umbrella out of his hand in some way, 
and run off with it, that he, seeing it in the possession 
of a friend, would give up the chase, knowing that 
he would recover his property the next day. At the 
worst, the result would only be a day or two’s cool¬ 
ness between us, on account of my freak. 

No sooner thought than done. On the pavement, 
I espied a piece of clean straw, well adapted for the 
purpose I had in view. Picking it up, I proceeded 
to tickle with it Sprucington’s right ear. The ex¬ 
periment answered admirably. Thinking it, I sup¬ 
pose, to be a troublesome fly, he raised his hand to 
brush off the assailant. But to do this, he was com¬ 
pelled to shift the umbrella from his right hand to 
his left. The moment of the transference was 
enough for me. Before the fingers of his left hand 
could close, I had seized the umbrella, and the next 
moment was dashing madly across Trafalgar Square 
in the direction of the Haymarket. 

There was a sudden commotion behind me, a com¬ 
motion which soon swelled into an uproar ; I heeded 
it no further than to turn half round, in order to let 
Sprucington see who I was, and to flourish in the 
air my umbrella—I mean his umbrella. But the up¬ 
roar did not relax ; on the contrary, it began to shape 
itself into words. Hoarse shouts of “ Stop thief ! ” 
followed me as I flew up the steps at the further end 
of the square. The cries still ringing in my ears, I 
dashed helter-skelter past the College of Physicians 
and Colnaghi’s print-shop till I came to the corner 
of Suffolk Street. Here I was brought up “ all 
standing” by an iron grip upon the collar from be¬ 
hind. Turning round, I found myself in the custody 
of a policeman. 

In the usual brief space of. time, the inevitable 
London crowd assembled about us. I was regarded 
with curiosity, loaded with reproaches, and favored 
with wit of an extremely personal nature, all at the 
same moment. This I bore with patience, if not 
with good-humor, convinced that on the arrival of 
Sprucington I should get clear of my tormentors. 
Presently a lane was made for the approach of the 
owner of the stolen property. Judge of my horror 
on perceiving that the panting individual was a total 
stranger to me ! 

Of course all my protestations of innocence were 
of no avail, and I was treated in the manner de¬ 
scribed in the commencement. 

Clatter, clash, rumble, bang ! The cell door closed 
upon me, and I was a prisoner. 

The gloom was so great, that though it was day¬ 
light, I could at first distinguish nothing. Gradually 
I became aware that I was in a narrow vaulted room, 
as strong as brick and iron could make it. Half¬ 
way up the wall was a wooden wainscoting, and 
round two sides I could dimly see a low bench, 


barely two feet from a floor which was inch deep 
in sawdust. The iron door of this delightful apart¬ 
ment was of great thickness, disclosing—about five 
feet from the ground—a small grating of round 
holes. By pressing my face against this grating, I 
could see into the corridor without. But the only 
view obtainable was a round-glass window opposite, 
illuminated by the last lingering rays of the setting 
sun. It was altogether a most depressing place. 
The flavor suggested to me was a combined one, 
made up of the condemned cell in Newgate, the dun¬ 
geons of the Bastile, and the Spanish Inquisition. 
Occasional gruff voices and heavy footsteps in the 
corridor deepened the impression. A mouse in a 
trap was a king to me. 

Then I began to think seriously of my situation. 
That I had committed felony there could not be 
the least doubt, though with no felonious intention. 
Would the magistrate believe my explanation ? 
Surely my manner* and appearance were not those 

of a pick-. But my heart sank within me as I 

remembered that the London swell-mob are known 
to be the cleverest actors in the world—in fact, can 
imitate to perfection any class of society. My only 
hope was in Sprucington. He would be of material 
assistance in clearing up the mystery. And yet that 
umbrella—I could have sworn it to belong to none 
other but him ! However, I had despatched mes¬ 
sengers to him, my employer, and my friends ; there¬ 
fore, the only thing to be done was to wait patiently 
till the morning. 

I spare you a description of that night of horror, 
for such it was to one who had never before suffered 
an hour’s deprivation of liberty : how the monotony 
of the long, long hours was only broken at intervals 
by the appearance at the grating of a stern, helmeted 
visage, demanding whether “all” was “right”— 
how at four o’clock a.m. two fellow-prisoners, in the 
shapes of a drunken scavenger and a deserter from 
the Royal Artillery, were thrust into the cell ; or 
how in the morning all the cells were emptied, and 
we, the occupants, with aching bones, unwashed and 
unkempt, were paraded through the streets in a mel¬ 
ancholy string, to an adjacent police court. 

Fortunately, my case came on early, so that I had 
not long to wait among the crowd of dirty, disrepu¬ 
table detenus , each guarded by a constable, who filled 
an outer room. 

At the cry of “ Charles Blank ! ” (I shuddered to 
hear my name in such a place), I and my attendant 
policeman marched into the court. The jailer, a. 
big, burly, bald-headed, gilt-buttoned person, placed 
me in the dock. At the same moment the pros¬ 
ecutor entered the witness-box to be sworn. He 
was a priggish-looking man of about forty-five, and 
no more like Ned Sprucington in front than I was 
like the Monument. 

In a few calm, well-chosen words, he described the 
whole occurrence. When he had finished, I was 
told that I could put any questions to him that 





The Man in the Reservoir. 


73 


I thought proper. I declined to do so. Then, after 
his evidence had been confirmed by the constable 
who arrested me, the magistrate—an amiable-looking 
old gentleman—asked me: “ Well, my friend, what 
have you to say to this ? ” 

In reply, I gave the same simple and unvarnished 
statement which I had already given at the police 
station. 

“ That is all very well, as far as it goes ; but have 
you any witnesses to character ? ” 

“ Yes, sir—Mr. Edward Sprucington.” 

“ Call Edward Sprucington.” 

Then I could hear the crier shouting the familiar 
name through the passages of the court. 

After a few minutes’ suspense the official returned, 
accompanied, to my great delight, by Ned. The 
good fellow looked so distressed to see me in such 
a predicament, that I felt convinced he would have 
given a dozen umbrellas to have got me out of the 
scrape. As soon as he made his appearance, I 
noticed that the prosecutor changed color ; I also 
noticed that while taking the oath, Ned kept one 
hand behind his back : I could not have told you 
why, but somehow I derived encouragement from 
both those trifling circumstances. 

To shorten matters, I may say, that if I had been 
a seraph I could not have received a better char¬ 
acter than that given me by Ned. At last came the 
question : “ Then you think the prisoner incapable 
of stealing this umbrella ? ” 

“ Well, sir,” said Ned, who had recovered his self- 
possession, “ if, as I understand, stealing means 
taking property from the owner , it is impossible the 
prisoner could have committed the theft.” 

What a first-rate advocate Ned was becoming ! 

“ Impossible ! Why ! ” 

“ Because that umbrella was first stolen from me ! ” 

“ It is an infamous falsehood ! ” cried the prose¬ 
cutor, starting up. 

“ Is it ? ” replied Ned. “ That person need not be 
so particular about words, for this is all he left me 
in exchange—at the Cigar Divan.” 

With that he produced, amid the laughter of the 
court, what he had hitherto concealed behind hi^ 
back, namely, a wooden-handled umbrella much the 
worse for wear, of silk certainly, but no more to be 
compared with the glories of the onyx-handled, 
than a costermonger’s wide-awake with the Arch¬ 
bishop of Canterbury’s best “ shovel.” 

An attempt at bluster by the late possessor of his 
umbrella was quietly met by Ned with a request 
that an officer of the court should examine the 
initials upon the handle. This was conclusive. The 
stranger’s initials were “ T. W.,” and he had not had 
time to take notice of the minute “ E. S.” cut into 
the onyx stone. 

Of course my immediate release followed upon 
this discovery, accompanied by the assurance that 
I left that court without any stain upon my charac¬ 
ter, etc. My late prosecutor was glad to slink crest¬ 


fallen away, yet not before he had received a severe 
rebuke administered by the magistrate. 

As for Ned, he was overflowing with gratitude. 
He declared with tears in his eyes that I had been 
the means of restoring to him his lost treasure. 
What was more, he insisted upon paying the wager 
which I had lost, and also of performing the part of 
Amphitryon at a capital dinner in the evening. 


THE MAN IN THE F(ESEF(VOn^ 

BY CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 

S OME thirty years ago, you might have seen 
some of the best society of New York on the 
top of the Distributing Reservoir any fine Oc¬ 
tober morning. There were two or three carriages 
in waiting, and half a dozen senatorial-looking 
mothers with young children pacing the parapet, 
as we ourselves, one day in the past generation, 
basked there in the sunshine—now watching the 
pickerel that glided along the lucid edges of the 
black pool within, and now looking off upon the 
scene of rich and wondrous variety that spreads 
along the two rivers on each side. 

“ They may talk of Alpheus and Arethusa,” mur¬ 
mured an idling sophomore, who had found his way 
thither during recitation hours, “but the Croton, in 
passing over an arm of the sea at Spuyten-Duyvil, 
and bursting to sight again in this truncated pyr¬ 
amid, beats it all hollow. By George, too, the bay 
yonder looks as blue as ever the ^Egean Sea to 
Byron’s eye gazing from the Acropolis ! But the 
painted foliage on these crags !—the Greeks must 
have dreamed of such a vegetable phenomenon in 
the midst of their grayish olive groves, or they never 
would have supplied the want of it in their land¬ 
scape by embroidering their marble temples with gay 
colors. Did you see that’pike break, sir?” 

“ I did not.” 

“ Zounds ! his silver fin flashed upon the black 
Acheron, like a restless soul that hoped yet to mount 
from the pool.” 

“The place seems suggestive of fancies to you?” 
we observed in reply to the rattlepate. 

“ It is, indeed ; for I have done up a good deal 
of anxious thinking within a circle of a few yards 
where that fish broke just now.” 

“A singular place for meditation—the middle of 
the Reservoir ! ” 

“You look incredulous, sir; but it’s a fact. A 
fellow can never tell, until he is tried, in what situa¬ 
tion his most earnest meditations may be concen¬ 
trated. I am boring you, though ?” 

“ Not at all. But you seem so familiar with the 
spot. I wish you could tell me why that ladder lead¬ 
ing down to the water is lashed against the stone¬ 
work in yonder corner.” 





74 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ That ladder,” said the young man, brightening 
at the question—“ why, the position, perhaps the 
very existence, of that ladder resulted from my 
meditations in the Reservoir, at which you smiled 
just now. Shall I tell you all about them?” 

“ Pray do.” 

“ Well, you have seen the notice forbidding any 
one to fish in the Reservoir. Now, when I read that 
warning, the spirit of the thing struck me at once 
as inferring nothing more than that one should not 
sully the temperance potations of our citizens by 
steeping bait in it of any kind; but you probably 
know the common way of taking pike with a slip- 
noose of delicate wire. I was determined to have a 
touch at the fellows with this kind of tackle. 

“ I chose a moonlight, night; and an hour before 
the edifice was closed to visitors, I secreted myself 
within the w'alls, determined to pass .the night on 
the top. All went as I could wish it. The night 
proved cloudy, but it was only a variable drift of 
broken clouds which obscured the moon. I had a 
walking cane-rod with me which would reach to the 
margin of the water, and several feet beyond if 
necessary. To this was attached the wire about 
fifteen inches in length. 

“ I prowled along the parapet for a considerable 
time, but not a single fish could I see. The clouds 
made a flickering light and shade, that wholly foiled 
my steadfast gaze. I was convinced that should 
they come up thicker, my whole night’s adventure 
would be thrown away. ‘ Why should I not descend 
the sloping wall and get nearer on a level with the 
fish, for thus alone can I hope to see one?’ The 
question had hardly shaped itself in my mind before 
I had one leg over the iron railing. 

“If you look around you will see now that there 
are some half-dozen weeds growing here and there 
amid the fissures of the solid masonry. In one of 
the fissures from whence these spring, I planted a 
foot and began my descent. The Reservoir Avas 
fuller than it is now, and a few strides would have 
carried me to the margin of the water. Holding on 
to the cleft above, I felt round with one foot for a 
place to plant it below me. 

“ In that moment the flap of a pound pike made 
me look round, and the roots of the weed upon 
which I partially depended gave way as I was in the 
act of turning. Sir, one’s senses are sharpened in 
deadly peril: as I live now, I distinctly heard the 
bells of Trinity chiming midnight, as I rose to the 
surface the next instant, immersed in the stone cal¬ 
dron, where I must swim for my life, heaven only 
could tell how long ! 

“ I am a capital swimmer ; and this naturally gave 
me a degree of self-possession. Falling as I had, I 
of course had pitched out some distance from the 
sloping parapet. A few strokes brought me to the 
edge. I really was not yet certain but that I could 
clamber up the face of the wall anywhere. I hoped 
that I could. I felt certain at least there was some 


spot where I might get hold Avith my hands, even if 
I did not ultimately ascend it. 

“I tried the nearest spot. The inclination of the 
Avail was so vertical that it did not even rest me to 
lean against it. I felt with my hands and Avith my 
feet. Surely, I thought, there must be some fissure 
like those in which that ill-omened Aveed had found 
a place for its root ! 

“ There was none. My fingers became sore in 
busying themselves with the harsh and inhospitable 
stones. My feet slipped from the smooth and slimy 
masonry beneath the AA-ater ; and several times my 
face came in rude contact Avith the wall, Avhen my 
foothold gave Avay on the instant that I seemed to 
have found some diminutive rocky cleat upon which 
I could stay myself. 

“ Sir, did you ever see a rat drowned in a half- 
filled hogshead,—hoAv he SAvims round, and round, 
and round ; and after vainly trying the sides again and 
again Avith his paAvs, fixes his eyes upon the upper rim 
as if he would look hiviself out of his Avatery prison ? 

“ I thought of the miserable vermin, thought of 
him as I had often Avatched thus his dying agonies, 
Avhen a cruel urchin of eight or ten. Boys are hor¬ 
ribly cruel, sir ; boys, Avomen, and savages. All child¬ 
like things are cruel—cruel from a Avant of thought 
and from perverse ingenuity, although by instinct 
each of these is so tender. You may not have ob¬ 
served it, but a savage is as tender to its OAvn young 
as a boy is to a favorite puppy,—the same boy that 
Avill torture a kitten out of existence. I thought 
then, I say, of the rat drowning in a half-filled cask 
of water, and lifting his gaze out of the vessel as he 
grew more and more desperate, and I flung myself 
on my back, and, floating thus, fixed my eyes upon 
the face of the moon. 

“ The moon is Avell enough in her Avay, hoAvever 
you may look at her ; but her appearance is, to say 
the least of it, peculiar to a man floating on his back 
in the centre of a stone tank, with a dead Avail of 
some fifteen or tAventy feet rising squarely on every 
side of him ! ” (The young man smiled bitterly as 
he said this, and shuddered once or tAvice before he 
went on musingly.) 

“ The last time I had noted the planet Avith any 
emotion she Avas on the wane. Mary Avas Avith me ; 
I had brought her out here one morning to look at 
the vieAv from the top of the Reservoir. She said 
little of the scene, but as Ave talked of our old 
childish loves, I saAv that its fresh features Avere in¬ 
corporating themselves with tender memories of the 
past, and I Avas content. 

“ There Avas a rich golden haze upon the land¬ 
scape, and as my OAvn spirits rose amid the voluptu¬ 
ous atmosphere, she pointed to the Avaning planet, 
discernible like a faint gash in the Avelkin, and Avon- 
dered how long it would be before the leaves would 
fall. Strange girl ! did she mean to rebuke my joy¬ 
ous mood, as if Ave had no right to be happy while 
Nature AA’ithering in her pomp, and the sickly moon 





The Man in the Reservoir. 


75 


wasting in the blaze of noontide, were there to 
remind us of ‘the gone-forever’? 

“ ‘They will all renew themselves, dear Mary,’ 
said I, encouragingly, ‘and there is one that will 
ever keep tryst alike with thee and nature through 
all seasons, if thou wilt but be true to one of us, and 
remain as now a child of nature.’ 

“A tear sprang to her eye, and then searching her 
pocket for her card-case, she remembered an engage¬ 
ment to be present at Miss Lawson’s opening of fall 
bonnets at two o’clock ! 

“And yet, dear, wild, wayward Mary, I thought of 
her now. You have probably outlived this sort of 
thing, sirbut I, looking at the moon, as I floated 
there upturned to her yellow light, thought of the 
loved being whose tears I knew would flow when 
she heard of my singular fate, at once so grotesque, 
yet melancholy to awfulness. 

“And how often we have talked, too, of that 
Carian shepherd who spent his damp nights upon 
the hills, gazing as I do on the lustrous planet! Who 
will revel with her amid those old superstitions ! 
Who, from our own unlegended woods, will evoke 
their yet undetected, haunting spirits ? Who peer 
with her in prying scrutiny into nature’s laws, and 
challenge the whispers of poetry from the voiceless 
throat of matter ? Who laugh merrily over the stupid 
guess-work of pedants, that never mingled with the 
infinitude of nature, through love exhaustless and all- 
embracing, as we have ? Poor girl! she will be 
companionless. 

“Alas ! companionless forever,—save in the excit¬ 
ing stages of some brisk flirtation. She will live 
hereafter by feeding other hearts with love’s lore she 
has learned from me, and then, Pygmalion-like, grow 
fond of the images she has herself endowed with 
semblance of divinity, until they seem to breathe 
back the mystery the soul can truly catch from only 
one. How anxious she will be lest the coroner shall 
have discovered any of her notes in my pocket! 

“ I felt chilly as this last reflection crossed my 
mind, partly at thought of the coroner, partly at the 
idea of Mary being unwillingly compelled to wear 
mourning for me, in case of such a disclosure of our 
engagement. It is a provoking thing for a girl of 
nineteen to have to go into mourning for a deceased 
lover, at the beginning of her second winter in the 
metropolis. 

“ The water, though, with my motionless position, 
must have had something to do with my chilliness. 
I see, sir, you think that I tell my story with great 
levity ; but indeed, indeed I should grow delirious 
did I venture to hold steadily to the awfulness of my 
feelings the greater part of that night. I think, in¬ 
deed, I must have been most of the time hysterical 
with horror, for the vibrating emotions I have reca¬ 
pitulated did pass through my brain, even as I have 
detailed them. 

“ But as I now became calm in thought, I sum¬ 
moned up again some resolution of action. 


“ I will begin at that corner (said I), and swim 
around the whole enclosure. I will swim slowly and 
again feel the sides of the tank with my feet. If die 
I must, let me perish at least from well-directed 
though exhausting effort, not sink from mere boot¬ 
less weariness in sustaining myself till the morning 
shall bring relief. 

“ The sides of the place seemed to grow higher as 
I now kept my watery course beneath them. It was 
not altogether a dead pull. I had some variety of 
emotion in making my circuit. When I swam in the 
shadow, it looked to me more cheerful beyond in 
the moonlight. When I swam in the moonlight, I 
had the hope of making some discovery when I 
should again reach the shadow. I turned several 
times on my back to rest just where those wavy lines 
would meet. The stars looked viciously bright to 
me from the bottom of that well ; there was such a 
company of them ; they were so glad in their lustrous 
revelry ; and they had such space to move in ! I was 
alone, sad to despair in a strange element, prisoned, 
and a solitary gazer upon their mocking chorus. 
And yet there was nothing else with which I could 
hold communion ! 

“ I turned upon my breast and struck out almost 
frantically once more. The stars were forgotten ; 
the moon, the very world of which I as yet formed 
a part, my poor Mary herself, was forgotten. I 
thought only of the strong man there perishing; of 
me in my lusty manhood, in the sharp vigor of my 
dawning prime, with faculties illimitable, with senses 
all alert, battling there with physical obstacles which 
men like myself had brought together for my un¬ 
doing. The Eternal could never have willed this 
thing ! I could not and I would not perish thus. 
And I grew strong in insolence of self-trust ; and I 
laughed aloud as I dashed the sluggish water from 
side to side. 

“ Then came an emotion of pity for myself,—of 
wild, wild regret ; of sorrow, O, infinite for a fate so 
desolate, a doom so dreary, so heart-sickening! 
You may laugh at the contradiction if you will, sir, 
but I felt that I could sacrifice my own life on the 
instant, to redeem another fellow creature from such 
a place of horror, from an end so piteous. My soul 
and my vital spirit seemed in that desperate moment 
to be separating ; while one in parting grieved over 
the deplorable fate of the other. 

“ And then I prayed ! I prayed, why or where¬ 
fore I know not. It was not from fear. It could 
not have been in hope. The days of miracles are 
passed, and there was no natural law by whose 
providential interposition I could be saved. I did 
not pray ; it prayed of itself, my soul within me. 

“Was the calmness that I now felt, torpidity? the 
torpidity that precedes dissolution, to the strong 
swimmer who, sinking from exhaustion, must at last 
add a bubble to the wave as he suffocates beneath 
the element which now denied his mastery ? If it 
were so, how fortunate was it that my floating rod 




76 


Treasury of Tales. 


at that moment attracted my attention as it dashed 
through the water by me. I saw on the instant that a 
fish had entangled himself in the wire noose. The rod 
quivered, plunged, came again to the surface, and 
rippled the water as it shot in arrowy flight from 
side to side of the tank. At last driven toward the 
southeast corner of the Reservoir, the small end 
seemed to have got foul somewhere. The brazen 
butt, which, every time the fish sounded, was thrown 
up to the moon, now sank by its own weight, show¬ 
ing that the other end must be fast. But the cor¬ 
nered fish, evidently anchored somewhere by that 
short wire, floundered several times to the surface, 
before I thought of striking out to the spot. 

“ The water is low now, and tolerably clear. You 
may see the very ledge there, sir, in yonder corner, 
on which the small end of my rod rested when I 
secured that pike with my hands. I did not take 
him from the slip-noose, however; but standing 
upon the ledge, handled the rod in a workmanlike 
manner, as I flung that pound pickerel over the iron 
railing upon the top of the parapet. The rod, as I 
have told you, barely reached from the railing to 
the water. It was a heavy, strong bass rod, and 
when I discovered that the fish at the end of the 
wire made a strong enough knot to prevent me from 
drawing my tackle away from the railing around 
which it twined itself as I threw, why, as you can at 
once see, I had but little difficulty in making my 
way up the face of the wall with such assistance. 

“ The ladder which attracted your notice is, as 
you see, lashed to the iron railing in the identical 
spot where I thus made my escape ; and, for fear of 
similar accidents, they have placed another one in 
the corresponding corner of the other compartment 
of the tank ever since my remarkable night’s ad¬ 
venture in the Reservoir.” 


THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 

BY JULIA SCHAYER. 

HE early darkness of a moonless winter night 
had fallen, nowhere more darkly and coldly 
than upon a certain small western town, 
whose houses were huddled together in the valley 
as if for mutual protection against the fierce winds 
sweeping through the trackless forests which sur¬ 
rounded it. Here and there the cheerful glow of 
lamp or fire shone from some uncurtained window, 
most brightly from the windows of the stores and 
saloons that occupied the centre of the town, whence 
issued also fitful sounds of talk and laughter. 
Otherwise the darkness was complete. 

On the outskirts of the town, just at the foot of a 
steep hill, stood a cottage somewhat more preten¬ 
tiously built than the others, and surrounded by 
something of a lawn, laid out with flower-beds and 
shrubbery, now almost buried in deep drifts of snow. 
From one window of this cottage, too, a most heart- 

Copyright , 1883. 


some glow streamed out over the snow from a lamp 
placed, as could be seen, with loving intent upon 
the window-ledge, and out of the darkness there 
presently emerged the figure of a man, making his 
way up the foot-path toward the house, his feet 
ringing sharply against the hard-trodden snow. 

Along one side of the house—planted without 
doubt to break the force of the northern gales—ex¬ 
tended a grove of pines and firs, looking now, in the 
darkness, like the advance guard of a mighty host 
with banners slowly waving, and strange instruments 
giving forth weird, unearthly harmonies. As the 
man passed this spot he slackened his steps once or 
twice, and seemed to listen for some sound that had 
caught his ear, and again, when his foot was already 
on the lowei step of the flight leading to the door, 
he stopped suddenly, his face turned toward the 
sombre wall of trees. 

The light of the lamp illumined the slender trunks 
and lower boughs of the foremost trees, leaving 
their tops wrapped in utter darkness. It also threw 
into strong relief the powerful figure of the man, and 
projected his shadow, huge, wavering and grotesque, 
across the intervening space. For an instant an¬ 
other shadow seemed to start forward from the 
mysterious recesses of the pines as if to meet this 
one, only to fall back and be gathered into the 
blackness beyond. 

The man shrugged his broad shoulders, and, turn¬ 
ing, entered the house. A fair, slender woman rose 
from her seat by the open fire, and went to him. 

“Oh! Jamie,” she said, “here you are, at last! 
I’m so glad ! I was so afraid something had hap¬ 
pened ? ” 

The man threw off his heavy coat with a good- 
humored laugh. 

“ Were you afraid I might blow away ? ” he asked, 
straightening his large figure. “ Why are you always 
imagining vain things, like a foolish little wifie ? I’m 
big enough to take care of myself, eh, lassie ? ” 

The little wife answered with a smile of loving 
admiration. 

“ Come,” she said, “ supper has been ready a long 
time, and Bab asleep this half-hour.” 

She took the lamp from the window and set it on 
the table, where it shone full on her husband’s face. 
It was a fine, thoroughly English face, with high 
forehead, brilliant blue eyes, and thick curling hair 
and beard of a bright golden-brown. A handsome 
face, and a strong one, but for a womanish fulness 
of the ruddy lips, and a slight lack of firmness about 
the chin, which was concealed, however, by the lux¬ 
uriant beard. It was a face which could, and habit¬ 
ually did, radiate amiability, good cheer, and intelli¬ 
gence, but which had a way of settling at times into 
stern and melancholy lines, curiously belying his 
assured carriage, and the sonorous ring of his ready 
laugh. 

Very good to look at was James Dixon, and, as 
his townsmen unanimously admitted, in spite of his 







77 


The Story of Two Lives. 


English birth, a good citizen, a shrewd politician, a 
generous neighbor, and, though at times a little 
reticent and abstracted, a companionable fellow 
altogether. 

Even now, as he sat at his own table, one might 
have detected a kind of alertness in his eyes, as of a 
man ever on his guard, and what seemed almost a 
studied avoidance of his wife’s soft, persistent gaze, 
as she sat opposite him. 

“ Sh ! What was that ? ” she suddenly exclaimed. 
There had been a faint sound outside the window. 
It had ceased now. 

“ It was nothing, Bab ! ” said her husband. “ How 
nervous you are ! ” 

Even as he spoke the sound was repeated, and he 
himself started now. 

“ I’m catching your nervousness, Bab,” he said, 
with a short laugh. “ The wind is the very deuce to¬ 
night.” 

At that moment a little girl in her nightgown ran 
out from the adjoining room, and with a gleeful cry 
sprang into his arms, her long yellow hair spreading 
itself over his shoulder. 

“You see, dear old papa, Bab wasn't asleep !” 
she cried, covering his face with kisses. 

“ And why isn't Bab asleep ? ” her father said, 
with an assumption of sternness. 

“ Because she can’t sleep. The wind makes such 
a noise in the pines, and the icicles keep falling off 
the eaves, and make such a pretty tinkling on the 
snow. Do you hear it ? Hark ! ” 

“ The wind increases fearfully,” said the wife, 
going to the window and drawing the shade. “ It is 
a bitter night.” 

“ Bad enough for anybody to be out in,” said 
Dixon, with the comfortable air of one safely 
housed. He moved his chair to the fire, and began 
fondling and playing with the pretty child on his 
knee. Her little face, however, had grown sud¬ 
denly grave. 

“ What is it, pussy ? ” asked her father ; “ it looks 
so serious all at once.” 

“ I was thinking,” said the child, slowly ; “ I was 
wondering where the poor old man I saw up on the 
hill to-day would sleep to-night. Such a poor, poor 
man, so old and sick and ragged.” 

“ Bless the chick! What is she talking about 
now ? ” 

“ Some man she saw to-day when she was on the 
hill coasting with the others,” the mother said. 
“ Some tramp, I suppose.” 

“I have not heard of any in town,” said Dixon, 
with sudden thoughtfulness. “ It isn’t the season 
for tramps. Oh ! ” he added, carelessly, as the child 
continued to look in his face, “ some worthless old 
vagabond, I suppose, dearie. Don’t fret your little 
heart about him. He’ll find a warm nest in some¬ 
body’s hay-mow, no doubt.” But little Bab shook 
her head. 

“ I don’t think he was bad,” she said, softly, “ only 


very sick and sorry. He asked me my name, and 
when I told him he laughed out so queer ! And 
then I showed him our house, and told him may-be 
you’d give him some money, and then he laughed 
again, and then I—I got scared because the other 
girls had all run away, and I ran away, too.” 

Her father had listened with strange intentness. 
His playfulness was extinguished, and his face looked 
all at once careworn and troubled. 

“ You’re a silly little lass,” he said, after a moment’s 
silence, “ and you must not talk to strange men who 
ask questions. They might carry you off, you 
know.” 

He held the child silently a little while longer, and 
then carried her back to her bed; after which he 
returned to his seat near the fire. His wife had 
already seated herself in her low chair, her face bent 
above the knitting in her hands. Outside the wind 
howled and roared, but in the room where these two 
sat all was, to the eye, calm, and sweet, and cosey. 
The fire glowed, and emitted cheerful little snaps and 
sparks, the clock ticked, and the knitting-needles 
clicked, and through the open door the child’s 
soft, regular breathing was distinctly audible. Sud¬ 
denly the woman stirred and looked up, to find her 
husband’s eyes fixed upon her. Strangely enough they 
faltered, and turned away, but presently came back 
to hers again. 

“You are very silent to-night, lassie,” he said, 
putting out his hand to stroke her fair girlish head. 
“Are you ill, or over-tired ?” 

She shook her head, and dropping the knitting 
from her hands, clasped them over her husband’s 
knee, and laid her cheek upon them. 

“ No,” she said, softly, “ not ill, nor tired. Only 
somehow I have been thinking all day of old times 
and— of him ! ” 

She dropped her voice to a whisper as she spoke 
the last words, and her husband felt the hands on his 
knee tremble. He said nothing, though his face 
grew dark, and his teeth shut over his lip tightly. 
“I have been wondering,” she went on, “what be¬ 
came of him, Jamie !—if he is still alive, and—” with 
a break in the soft voice—“ if he has forgiven me 
my part in his suffering. Oh, Jamie ! ” she broke out 
passionately, throwing her arms about her husband, 
and raising her lovely, tearful face to his “ Oh, 
Jamie ! I was so young and foolish when I promised 
to be his wife, and I had not even seen you then ! 
Tell me, Jamie, was I so very, very wicked that I 
loved you best ? Could I help it, Jamie ? ” She rose 
and threw herself upon his breast, sobbing like a 
child. She could not, through her tears, see the 
working of his face, nor the effort it caused him to 
speak. He tried to quiet her with caresses, and all 
manner of fond epithets, and at last she lay still, 
with closed eyes, upon his shoulder. 

A tremendous blast swept through the valley, 
shaking the cottage to its foundation, and shrieking 
down the chimney like a cry of despair. 




78 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Great heavens ! ” Dixon muttered ; “ what a 
night ! ” Then, rousing himself, he added, “Come, 
lassie. Come rest, and promise me not to give way 
to such excitement again. You are not strong, and 
such moods are dangerous for you.” 

They rose, and stood facing each other before the 
dying fire. 

“ One thing,” he said, seizing her hands, with a 
swift change of manner. “ One thing, Barbara. 
Have you ever been sorry that you came with me 
—that you trusted me ? ” 

She looked at him wonderingly, but with perfect 
love and trustfulness. 

“Never, Jamie!” she said. “Never for one 
moment.” 

“And whatever happens,” he went on, drawing 
her closer, “whatever happens, you are sure you 
never will be sorry ? ” 

“ Quite sure, Jamie ! ” 

He kissed her again and again, until she laughed 
at his lover-like vehemence. 

“ Any one would suppose we were about to be sep¬ 
arated for years,” she said, playfully. 

He laughed, too, but his face and voice were 
serious, as he said, firmly : 

“ Nothing shall separate us but death, lassie !” 

* * * When Dixon left his house the next 

morning it was still intensely cold, but the wind had 
gone down, and the clumps of evergreens and shrub¬ 
bery on the lawn were motionless as if painted there- 

He stood a moment on the lower step drawing on 
his fur mittens, and, nodding at the child-face smil¬ 
ing at him from the window, then started to go. 
But at the first step his foot struck against some 
object which gave out a metallic sound, and stoop¬ 
ing quickly, he raised from the snow a small pistol. 
One glance showed him that it was in perfect order, 
and every barrel loaded. 

He remained for some time turning this object 
over and over in his hand, his nether lip drawn be¬ 
tween his teeth. At last he glanced toward the 
window. The child was no longer there, but he saw 
now, what had before escaped his notice, that the 
snow beneath the window was broken and trodden 
by a man’s footprints. With a smothered excla¬ 
mation Dixon bent an instant above these tracks, 
and then began tracing them carefully. He found 
where they led from the group of pines to the win¬ 
dow ; he found the place where the steps had first 
approached the house across the open fields from 
the hill beyond, direct and even, as of one with a 
fixed purpose ; he found also where they had turned 
from the window in long, regular strides as of one 
in flight. These he followed to the foot of the hill, 
and across to the other side, where they seemed to 
lose themselves in the trackless forest. He stood 
here again for some moments, an ashy ring forming 
itself about his ruddy lips, no longer ruddy. Then, 
with a deep breath, he set his teeth together, thrust 


the pistol into his pocket, and turned toward the 
town. It was scarcely awake as yet. Smoke curled 
lazily upward from the chimneys, but hardly any 
one was stirring. Even about the door of that great 
commercial emporium known far and near as “ Buck- 
ey’s,” the regular loafers had as yet no represent¬ 
ative ; and here, as elsewhere, the snow, which had 
drifted across the steps, was undisturbed. 

A little beyond “ Buckey’s” stood a neat frame 
structure, across whose entrance stretched a sign 
bearing the inscription : 

“James Dixon, Justice of the Peace.” 

This building Dixon entered. A boy who was 
steaming himself at the great stove in the centre of 
the room looked up with a duck of the head as the 
proprietor of the office entered, paying no further 
attention as he proceeded to divest himself of his 
outer garments and seat himself at his desk. 

Apparently business at this time of the year was 
not pressing, for, beyond arranging some papers 
with legal headings and glancing over a newspaper 
or two, Dixon did no work. The most of the time 
he sat industriously smoking, his eyes set upon the 
uncheerful winter landscape without. Once, when 
the boy was absent he took from his breast-pocket 
the pistol, and examined it again with a knitted 
brow ; after which he locked it in a drawer of the 
desk, and resumed his pipe. 

At noon he sent the boy away, and, locking the 
office-door, turned his face homeward. . The town 
was awake now, or as much so as it was likely to be. 
A few sleighs and sleds were standing before the 
doors of the saloons, and it appeared to Dixon that 
an unwonted excitement prevailed in and about 
“ Buckey’s,” all the men visible being gathered be¬ 
fore the familiar red door, and all talking at once 
in even louder tones than usual. 

As Dixon came nearer, two of the men started 
forward and approached him. 

“ We was jest a-comin’ fur ye, Square,” said the 
foremost. “ Thar’s a stranger in thar as won’t give 
no account of himself, an’ we was thinkin’-” 

“Oh, quit foolin’,” said the other, roughly. “It’s 
nothin’ bfit a dead tramp. That’s all, Square,” and 
he shifted his quid to the other side of his mouth, 
composedly. 

Dixon changed countenance. A little tremor 
rose through his frame. 

“A tramp ?” he repeated. “ Dead ? ” 

“ Dead as a door-nail! ” the man answered. “ Froze 
brittle. Small an’ his boy found him this mornin' 
in Crosse’s timber.” 

They started on, giving Dixon precedence. It 
appeared to the men that he showed very small in¬ 
terest, and unaccountable deliberation. Even when 
they had reached Buckey’s, he mounted the steps 
slowly, standing an instant with his hands on the 
latch, as if indifferent, or reluctant. At last, with 
another impatient movement of the shoulders, he 
opened the door and went in. The crowd of rough, 








The Story of Two Lives. 


79 


bearded men who filled the space between the coun¬ 
ters and the stove, nodded respectfully and fell 
back. 

That which they had surrounded lay stretched stark 
and stiff upon the bare floor. It was the body of a 
man which had been at some time sturdy and strong. 
Now it was pinched and wasted, and clad in thin, 
worn garments, and shoes that seemed ready to drop 
from the naked, frost-bitten feet. The unkempt 
iron-grey hair and beard gave the face, at first glance, 
a look of wildness, but, observing more closely, one 
saw that the features, though heavy, were not un¬ 
comely, and wore a look of extreme suffering, which 
even death had not been able to efface. 

“ Looks like a Inglishman, eh, Square ? ” said one 
of the men present. 

Dixon did not seem to have heard him. He stood 
looking down upon the dead man without moving or 
speaking. The ashy ring had again shown itself 
about his lips, and was creeping slowly over his 
face. 

“ It’s the first as I’ve seen in these parts for many a 
year,” said another. “Our county ain’t pop’lar with 
that kind,” he added, grimly. 

“ He took a mighty oncomfortable time o’ year fur 
trampin’,” said a blear-eyed vagabond near the 
stove. “ I’ve ben meditatin’ somethin’ o’ the kind 
myself, but reckon I’ll wait fur warm weather. My 
constitution is delikit.” 

“ Don't wait for warm weather, Shanks,” said 
Buckey himself, leaning comfortably across the 
counter. “ They’ll make it warm enough for you , 
whenever ye go ! ” 

At the laugh which followed this sally, Dixon 
started and looked around him, in a dazed sort of 
way. The laugh died out suddenly, and the men sank 
into a shame-faced silence, but even now he did not 
speak. 

“ They’s somethin’ in his breast pocket, Square,” 
said one of them, bending over the body. “ Some¬ 
thin’ like a book, or a-” 

“ Take it out, Slater,” said Dixon, in a voice at 
which all present started, and looked at him curi¬ 
ously. 

The man did as ordered, producing from the tat¬ 
tered pocket a small, soiled blank-book, whose pages 
appeared to be closely written. He handed it to 
Dixon, who took it mechanically, and, opening it, ap¬ 
peared to glance at the contents at random. 

Those nearest him saw his fingers close suddenly 
upon the book, and heard the sharp indrawn breath 
which he shut back between his teeth. He put his 
hand to his head again, and held it there while his 
eyes swept over the group of respectful but inquisi¬ 
tive faces. 

“ There is something here,” he said, holding the 
book before him, and speaking in the voice which 
had once before made them start. “ There is some¬ 
thing here I would like to look into. Let the—the 
body lie here until I come back.” 


There was a murmur of assent, and he turned and 
left the store. They saw him stand a moment on 
the step outside, his face toward home. Then he 
turned in the opposite direction and disappeared. 

Dixon entered his office, locked the door, and 
flung himself into his chair, the little book open be¬ 
fore him. The ashen ring had widened until his 
whole face was like that of the dead. Not a muscle 
of his rigid face stirred as with desperate eyes he 
read on and on. Only the faint rustle of the leaves 
as he turned the pages, and his heavy breathing 
broke the silence. And this is what he read: 

THE DEAD MAN’S STORY. 

W-, 187-. 

My wanderings are almost over. Exposure and misery 
have nearly finished their work. I feel my strength 
ebbing from day to day, and I know that I must soon die, 
and die, it may be, with the purpose which has sustained 
me all these years unattained. Knowing this, I have de¬ 
termined to write in this book the story of my life, hoping 
that when I am dead—“ found dead,” it may be, like a 
tramp or vagabond—some pitying eye may fall upon these 
words and give me decent burial, for something in me re¬ 
bels at being thrown like a dog into an outcast’s grave. 
Here is the story as I have repeated it over and over to 
myself hundreds of times during the weary years that 
have passed : 

I was accounted a quiet, good-natured fellow in the 
little town in England where I was born and lived before 
I came to this country. I was slow of speech, but I had 
received a fair education, and had a turn for reading, and 
for scribbling down my thoughts. I was a printer by 
trade, like my father before me. He died when I was a 
lad of sixteen, leaving me to care for the mother, and for 
Barbara. She was the daughter of our nearest neighbor, 
and from the time she could walk we were always to¬ 
gether. When she was still very young her parents died, 
and their children were scattered, and Barbara came to 
us. I was the only child left of many, and my mother 
gladly welcomed her as a daughter. We lived together 
for years as brother and sister, but I was not long in find¬ 
ing out that my love for Barbara passed that of any 
brother, and when she was fifteen we became engaged. 

From that day I had but one ambition in life—to put my¬ 
self into circumstances where I could make her my wife, 
for I had vowed in my heart not to do so until I could 
offer her something more than the hard lot of a common 
mechanic's wife. It seemed to me she was born for 
something better. She was a real English beauty, with 
chestnut hair falling far below her waist, and a skin like 
milk and roses. A gay, bright creature she was, fond of 
music and dancing, and company ; fond of me, too, as I 
believe still, though I was slow and silent and awkward ; 
trusting in me, leaning upon me, and confiding in me 
every thought of her innocent heart. 

I did not care for gay scenes myself, but I often went 
with Barbara to such entertainments as the place af¬ 
forded, and enjoyed seeing her happy, and admired, and 
courted. 

When Barbara was about eighteen years old a young 
man came to our place. I will not write his name here 
—there is no need. He was London-born and bred, and, 
though a printer like myself, far cleverer, and full of am¬ 
bitious schemes of which I never dreamed. He was a 







8o 


Treasury of Tales. 


handsome, dashing fellow, with finer ways than we were 
used to. He could do a little of everything, and very well 
too. He sang, and played the guitar, and danced like a 
Frenchman, and in no time had won his way with every¬ 
one. The women folks, of course, were carried away 
with him. 

The first time he saw Barbara was at a dance where I 
had taken her. He pointed her out to me, and asked 
her name. I may have betrayed something of my love 
and pride as I answered, for he gave me a quick, curious 
look, and a moment later asked for an introduction to 
her. After that they danced together a good deal, and 
everyone was saying what a handsome couple they 
made. 

Soon after this the mother became ailing and fretted 
at being left alone of evenings, so I often stayed with her 
while Barbara danced at some neighbor’s house or public 
assembly with the new-comer. 

I never had a thought of jealousy, not even when the 
fellows in the shop began chaffing me for letting my 
sweetheart run about with another man, for I trusted 
Barbara, and was not he my friend ? Unlike as we were, 
had he not singled me out from all the others, and made 
me his confidant and companion on all occasions ? 

Even after I had left the shop, having at last secured 

the position as bookkeeper at the-Mills which I had 

for years been working for, he kept up the former inti¬ 
macy, and often I found him waiting for me when I re¬ 
turned late from my work, and I liked nothing so well as 
to sit and smoke, and listen to him and Barbara, their 
singing, and laughter, and foolish talk. 

It went on so for a good while. I was beginning to lay 
by money, and the time for our marriage was not far off. 
But a strike broke out just then among the spinners. I 
had known it was coming, and done what I could to pre¬ 
vent it, knowing what the result would be, but it was all in 
vain. Their wrongs were too real and of too long stand¬ 
ing. The crisis came ; the mills were closed ; for a 
few days the strikers believed they would win the day. 

At the end of a week the mills opened with a new set 
of operatives hired from a neighboring town. Riots and 
bloodshed followed. Those were troublous times. I 
could not keep my hand from giving aid to the suffering 
wives and children of men I had lived among all my life. 
I took no thought for consequences. One day I received 
my discharge. I was dazed by the cruel blow ; I went 
about like a man walking in his sleep. 

One night as I walked the streets, some one I met told me 
that my friend, the man I am writing of, was ill. I went at 
once to his room, which was in the building over the print¬ 
ing office where he had now gotten to be foreman. I found 
him restless, and feverish, and at his request I stayed 
with him until the small hours of the night. Then I 
went home. No one saw me going in or out of his room, 
but I met two or three stragglers on my way home. I 
had been half an hour in bed when an alarm of fire was 
sounded, and I rose and joined the crowd in the streets. 

The-Mills were burning, and in a short time were 

burned to the ground. The same day I was arrested on 
charge of having set the fire. I laughed at the charge. 
My friend, who was now delirious with fever, would soon 
put me right. My trial was deferred until he was able to 
appear. When the day came at last, he stood up, white 
and haggard, in that crowded court-room, and swore he 
had not seen me at all on the night I had spent with him— 
the night of the fire. There were other things against 
me : my known friendship for the leaders of the strike, my 


discharge, my absence from home at the time the fire 
must have been started, and other small but damning 
evidence. I was convicted, and sentenced to transporta¬ 
tion. I saw my old mother fall as if dead ! I saw Bar¬ 
bara’s white face bending over her ; plainer than all, I saw 
that man who had been my friend, and the look he gave 
the woman who was to have been my wife ! Something 
leaped into life within me then—something which has 
never died. If I could have reached him then and 
there ! 

I do not suppose twenty people in the town believed me 
guilty. I do not believe the jury which convicted me, nor 
the judge who sentenced me, believed me guilty ; but 
everything was against me, except my past life, and that 
had no weight with the law. My sentence was com¬ 
muted to a term of years in the penitentiary. I will not 
write of my prison-life. Three months after it began I re¬ 
ceived a letter from Barbara, telling me of my mother’s 
death, bidding me keep up courage, and pray, but say¬ 
ing nothing of herself, or of him. 

At the end of five years came freedom. The real crimi¬ 
nals had been discovered, and I was discharged. The 
man who went out of that prison door was not the man 
who had entered it. The law, conscious of the fact that 
no human power can make amends to an innocent man 
for a punishment unjustly inflicted, takes no notice of it. 
It is dumb before a wrong so monstrous. I went back to 
my native town. Every hand was stretched out to me. 
My old employers at the mill would have put me in my old 
place, but I refused. I inquired for Barbara and for him. 
They had married after my mother’s death and gone, it 
was said, to America. I took measures to prove this ; 
then I went to work at my old trade. I worked day and 
night, and lived on next to nothing. At the end of a year 
I had what I wanted. A fortnight later I was in New 
York. 

My plan was to work my way over the country—to 
work and watch. I felt sure that the man I was looking 
for would work at his trade, too, and I believed in time 
I should get on his track. I stayed several months in 
New York, and found plenty to do. The only fault found 
with me was my love of change. “You know what is 
said of ‘ rolling stones,’ Jordan,” my employers would say, 
as I was about to leave. “ It isn’t moss-gathering I am 
after," I would answer. 

I took no man into my confidence, but I lost no chance 
of getting acquainted with men of our craft. I frequented 
places where they congregated, set them to talking, ask¬ 
ing them as to Englishmen they had known, etc. 

“ You are looking for some one, Jordan,” was said more 
than once. 

“ Maybe I am,” I would answer. 

Once a man who had been looking on and listening, 
said, with a laugh, “ I’m devilish glad it aint me you’re 
looking for, Jordan ! ” And I knew well enough what he 
meant. 

I have wandered south and west, I have thought many 
a time I was on the right trail, but it has come to naught 
so far. About a year ago I fell ill, and was a long time 
in a hospital. When I was discharged I was a mere 
wreck. Something was the matter with my heart, they 
said. I have not been able to work long at a time since. 
Such work as I get is given me out of compassion. 

At thirty-five I have the face and gait of a feeble man 
of sixty. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection, I am 
like a stranger in my own eyes, yet feeble as is my body, 
the motive for which I live is strong within me. 







8 r 


The Story of Two Lives. 


By every glimpse into a warm cozey fireside where the 
happy husband and wife and children gather, I renew my 
vow to find the man who wrecked my life, to meet him 
face to face, to unmask his villainy, to let him see Barbara, 
his wife, turn from him in horror and loathing, to have 
his craven life at last! This desire, continually thwarted, 
never extinguished, upholds me. It is meat, and drink, 
and clothing, to my famished, shivering body. I must be 
the chosen instrument of God’s vengeance, or I should 
have died of sheer despair before now. Die? No, not 
yet. I must press on. Who knows but I may be even now 
near the goal ? 

March , 187-. 

I am stranded here in a little western town where a 
false trail has led me. I am growing weaker. A slow 
fever is burning out my life. The last three months have 
been terrible. I have had but little work, and I have 
suffered—oh my God, how I have suffered—from cold and 
hunger. 

My appearance is such that I am taken for a tramp. I 
have barely escaped arrest several times as a suspicious 
character. It is hard for me to see little children run 
away at my approach, and women turn pale and tremble 
as they open the door to me. So far I have only asked 
for work, though I have often slept supperless in sheds 
and barns. I have found a little work at my old trade. 
When it is done I shall push on. What with this fever in 
my blood, and the deadly longing in my heart, I have no 
rest. 

Decetnb er, 187-. 

I have found a new trail—the clearest I have come 
across. Chance threw into my hand a newspaper in 
which the name of him I am seeking is mentioned, hon¬ 
orably mentioned, in connection with the politics of a 
certain State. It may not be he. Another man may 
bear the same name, but new life has entered my veins 
since I saw it. Last night I dreamed I had my hand on 
his throat. 

December , 187-. 

I have found him ! From this hill-top where I am sit¬ 
ting I see the town where he lives in comfort and honor— 
the very house that shelters him. The smoke of his fire 
comes up to me. It is a bitter cold day, and I have eaten 
■nothing, but I feel neither cold nor hunger. From the 
day when I started on this last sure trail everything has 
been against me. I have been sick; I have found no work; 
I have begged my bread; I have been hunted for crimes 
of others; I have borne abuse, scorn, insult. The very 
lowest depth of misery and humiliation has been 
reached. But that is all nothing: my purpose is to be 
accomplished. The end is near. 

I reached this spot to-day at noon, and sat down here 
to rest a bit before going down into the town to make as¬ 
surance sure. Soon after, a party of children came up 
the hill with their sleds. When they saw me they ran, 
except one little lass of seven or eight. She stood still 
and looked at me, as if too scared to move. I know I 
am terrible to look at—I have seen my face in pools 
of water as I drank, but I would not fright the child, and 
I tried to make my voice gentle as I said : 

“ Don’t be scared, little one ; I won’t hurt you.” 

Just then the sun came out of a cloud and struck 
across her face and hair. I cried out, I could not help it. 
It was Barbara’s face and hair, but the eyes were his. 

•‘Stop ! ” I said, as the child started off. “ What is your 
name ? ” 

“Barbara,” she answered, and then: “If you are 


hungry," she said, “mamma will give you something to 
eat. We live down yonder in the brown cottage.” 

I stared at her, shutting my teeth together. 

“ May be papa would give you some money,” she said 
again. “ He is such a good man, my papa is.” 

I burst into a laugh. The little lass’s fear came back, 
and she turned and ran away. 

I have not moved from the spot since she left me. I 
have carefully cleaned and loaded the weapon I have 
carried so long—the instrument in my hand of God’s ven¬ 
geance. Before another sun rises it will be over. 

I sit and look at the cottage the child pointed out. I 
can see that it is neat and comfortable. The sun is 
going down, and the windows on this side are red as 
blood. So is all the snow between this place and that. I 
shall wait until night. I feel no fear, no remorse ; and 
yet, if the child had not had his eyes- 

Meanwhile the men who were waiting for Dixon’s 
return became a little restive, as the minutes dragged 
along and he did not appear. Even those ready 
means of beguiling time common to men of their 
stamp—the telling of highly-seasoned and apropos 
stories interspersed with frequent libations, began to 
pall. Some of them stole away to their neglected 
dinners, returning shortly with a renewed sense of 
wonder as they still found him absent. 

And the stark figure lay there in their midst, itself 
for the time forgotten in the stories and conjectures 
its presence had evoked, the faint smile frozen on its 
unshaven lips, the half-open eyes fixed seemingly 
upon the door with a terrible intentness. 

At last one of the men who was near a window 
overlooking the street, said : 

“He’s cornin’!” and a moment or two later, “I 
swear, he’s paler’n the dead man his self! ” 

“ Mebbe it’s his long-lost brother ! ” suggested the 
vagabond Shanks, who was given to pleasantries of 
this sort. 

“ He was always that a-way ! ” declared another. 
“ They’s men as can’t look at a corpse without turn¬ 
in’ white around the gills, an’ Dixon’s one on ’em ! 
I’ve seen him a-fore. An’ he aint no coward, 
neither ! ” 

“ No ! He aint no coward ! ” chorused the others, 
and a moment or two later Dixon pushed open the 
door and came in. Every man’s eye was drawn to 
his face, but he saw no one. He looked straight 
before him into space. 

“ Buckey,” he said, addressing that worthy in one 
of his many capacities, “ I knew this—man. Make 
arrangements to have the—the body brought to my 
house, at once, and to have the funeral from there 
to-morrow morning.” 

He paused a moment, a kind of click in his throat, 
and then added, “ Let every man and woman who 
knows me, be present.” 

He turned and went out, and they saw him, with 
his head sunk on his breast, walking homeward. 

At the appointed hour the small front room of 
Dixon’s cottage was filled with men and women, 
drawn thither in part through deference to his ex- 





82 


Treasury of Tales . 


pressed desire, in part through curiosity excited by the 
rumors which had filled the air since the day before. 

The body of the stranger, now shrouded and 
coffined, rested upon a bier in the centre of the 
room. At its head sat the minister of the one 
church of which the town could boast. 

The people were very silent, even more so than 
the occasion seemed to warrant, but they studied 
each others faces furtively, as if each sought in the 
other some clue to the mystery which was to himself 
impenetrable. 

They were plain, hard-working people, and, for 
the most part, decent law-abiding citizens. The 
man in whose house they were assembled had been 
Avith them for years. What he had been before he 
came among them, they had never asked. It may 
be that some of them had something in their own 
past they would fain have forgotten. He had won 
their respect, and confidence, and in time their affec¬ 
tion, for as has been said, he was generous, brave 
and helpful. He had been their chosen leader. 
They had honored him with such small honors as 
they had to bestOAV, and as his reputation as a polit¬ 
ical Avriter and speaker spread, other and higher 
honors were more than hinted at. 

To-day they Avere disturbed and restless, as if 
under the shadoAV of some impending change or 
calamity. They waited in a tense, constrained silence 
for Avhat might happen. At length a door opened 
noiselessly and Dixon stood before them. A thrill 
ran through e\ r ery breast as they saAV him. A score 
of years might have passed over him, and not have 
Avrought the change of this one night. The assured 
carriage, the look of strength and poAver and pride 
had vanished. The broad shoulders stooped. The 
hair was matted over his broAv, the features pinched 
and livid. 

He let his eyes AA'ander over the faces of those 
present a moment; then, in a strained, husky voice 
began speaking. 

“ You AA r ho have been my friends,” he said, “ Avho 
for years have given me your respect and confidence 
and support, look at the man lying there in his 
coffin ! That is my work!” 

He paused. Every face blanched perceptibly. 
No one moved, but all hung, Avith parted lips, upon 
the next Avords that strange, toneless voice might 
utter. It began again : 

“ That man Avas my friend, and I A\ r as his ; but he 
possessed one thing I Avanted—the love of a Avoman, 
his betrothed Avife. Up to the time I began to covet 
this Avoman’s love, I Avas as truly his friend as he 
was mine. Up to the hour Avhen the devil put it 
into my poAver to SAvear aAvay his good name I had 
never dreamed of being false to him, though I had 
reason to believe that the Avoman I loved cared for 
him as a sister might, and I might have fairly won 
her. He Avas accused of a crime, and my word 
might have cleared him. Instead of that, it con¬ 
victed him. On my false testimony he Avent, an inno¬ 


cent man, to prison, and I came with the Avoman I had 
perjured my soul to Avin as my wife to this country. 

“ For years I tried to forget. I could not. My sin 
folloAved me day and night, and poisoned every 
moment of my existence. At last I made up my 
mind to go back to the old place and give myself 
up, and make amends for what I had done. I left 
my Avife and child here, and Avorked my passage 
back to England. I Avas too late. Justice had been 
done so far as human Hav could do it. The real 
criminals had been found, and he I had Avronged 
Avas free. And he had gone to America. I kneAv 
Avhat for. He Avas sIoav to anger, but, Avhen once 
aroused, his anger Avas terrible. I kneAv that he Avas 
seeking me, and I kneAv that he Avould find me. 
From that time I never lay doAvn to sleep but my 
last thought Avas, ‘ It may be to-morroAv ! ’ I never 
rose in the morning that I did not say to myself, 
‘Perhaps it may be to-day!’ For years I have 
lived Avith this spectre of vengeance at my elboAv. 
What my life has been since I came among you, you 
think you knoAv. What it really has been, no mor¬ 
tal man can guess. At last, Avhat Avas to be came 
to pass. He found me.” 

A shudder shook the speaker, and he Avas silent 
an instant. Then he continued : 

“ He found me. I have read in his OAvn hand- 
Avriting how he found me, and all the history of his 
ruined life. He has stood at my AvindoAv with my 
life in his hands, and at the last moment—God 
alone knoAvs Avhy, perhaps for the sake of the 
woman he loved and her child—he has spared my 
life. I have seen the print of his feet AA-here he 
must have stood outside in the bitter cold looking 
in upon my Avarmth and comfort. I have found the 
very Aveapon Avith which he Avould have taken my 
life lying at my door Avhere he must have flung it, 
and I have traced his steps where he must have fled 
across the field to hide himself in the darkness, 
only to die almost Avithin a stone’s-throAv of this 
house. He had SAvorn to meet me face to face, and 
it Avas to be—like this ! The hand of God Avas in 
it. I might have kept silent. The secret Avas in my 
hands alone. No human Hav could reach me noAv 
that his tongue is silent; but lying there, as he lay- 
yesterday, dead, in rags, he has spoken as no living 
man could speak ! He has accused and convicted and 
sentenced me, as no human Hav could have done! ” 

He ceased as abruptly as he had begun. He 
stood there, broken, self-accused, in a humiliation so 
deep, a despair so utter, that the sternest of his 
listeners Avas moved to a compassion Avhich fought 
desperately Avith the horror his story had inspired. 
Involuntarily, unconsciously, those nearest him had 
shrunk aAvay until he stood apart, alone, at the foot 
of the coffin, from Avhich the dead, half-opened eyes 
seem to hold him in a stony, unrelenting stare. 

For a time there Avas a complete, terrible silence. 
Then the minister Avho had sat all this time at the 
head of the coffin, his venerable head boAved upon 





The Story of Two Lives. 


his hands, rose, and went across the room, his mild 
face illumined with a look of divine pity. He laid his 
withered hands upon Dixon’s folded arms, and spoke: 

“ ‘ When I kept silence my bones waxed old. 
Day and night Thy hand was heavy upon me. 

“ ‘ Mine iniquities are gone over my head, as a 
heavy burden they are too heavy for me. I am 
troubled. I am bowed down greatly. My sorrow 
is continually before me. I will declare my iniquity. 
I will be sorry for my sin. Forsake me not, O Lord ! 
Make haste to help me, O Lord, my salvation ! ’ ” 

All heads were bowed. From the corner where 
the women sat together came the sound of sup¬ 
pressed sobbing. 

The minister went back to his place, and folding 
his hands above the coffin said : 

“ Let us pray.” 

When the prayer was ended, the coffin was closed, 
and, followed by the entire assemblage, was borne 
to the place prepared for it. 

The day was mild. A dense, soft snow was fall¬ 
ing, through which the figures of men and women 
moved with phantasmal noiselessness. Dixon walked 
foremost by the side of the clergyman. When all 
was over, he raised his eyes from the icy clods of 
the new-made grave. The venerable man stood 
silent at its foot. Otherwise he was alone. 

At the door of his cottage, the old man, too, left 
him, with a strong, long hand-pressure. He stood 
for some time before the door. The air was thick 
with the great flakes of snow, the foot-prints beneath 
the window and across the frozen field were already 
hidden from sight, but he knew that they were there, 
and always would be. 

At last, very slowly and heavily, he turned and 
went into the house. It was cold and silent. The 
door of the front room stood open, and the chairs 
were as the people had left them. He went into 
the room and tried to restore things to their cus¬ 
tomary appearance. With a visible shudder he 
crossed the middle of the room where the coffin had 
stood, and threw open the windows. Then he went 
out, closing the door carefully. In the passage he 
listened a moment, but it was still silent. He knew 
that the child had been sent to a neighbor’s, and 
that he should find his wife in her own room. 

He found her sitting by the window. She did not 
move as he entered, and he stood near her for some 
moments waiting vainly for some sign that she was 
aware of his presence. Then he spoke her name. 

She turned slightly toward him. That was all. 

Dixon threw himself upon a chair near her, with a 
groan, 

“ Barbara! ” he cried, in a voice of anguish, 
“ Barbara ! Is this all you have to give me ? ” 

She turned toward him a wan, drawn face with 
dazed, tearless eyes that seemed to look at him as 
from afar off. 

“ I trusted you so completely,” she said, her words 
falling as slowly and coldly as the snow-flakes out- 


83 

side, “so completely ! I never knew that such things 
could be ! I shall never forgive myself that I believed 
him guilty, never ! I shall never forgive myself that 
I helped to drive him to despair. I shall never 
forgive-” 

“ Don’t say it, Barbara! For God's sake, don’t 
say it! ” her husband cried, throwing himself at her 
feet, and burying his face upon her lap. He felt 
her whole body recoil from his touch, and shrank 
back, hiding his face upon his arms. 

“ I was such a child,” she went on, “ such a fool¬ 
ish, weak child—but I might have known better. I 
shall never forgive myself ! ” 

Dixon groaned aloud. “ But I am ready, quite 
ready,” she continued in the same voice. 

“ Ready ? ” 

He started up, and stared at her wildly. He feared 
for her reason. 

“Yes,” she said, “Ready to go with you, away 
from here, anywhere, at any time. You cannot stay 
here ? ” 

There was something in her voice and face impos¬ 
sible to describe—a deadly apathy, an icy coldness, 
a stony acceptance of a hopeless situation 

For the first time in twenty-four hours the color 
returned to Dixon’s face. His eyes flashed, his 
teeth were set, as he sprang to his feet. In that 
instant he set his face against the power that would 
fling him into bottomless abysses of shame and ruin. 

“ I will stay here ! ” he said, fiercely. “ I will not 
fly again ! The worst that could happen has hap¬ 
pened. Where should I go to escape my fate ? 
Why should I attempt it ? No ! I swear to live 
my life here, and to live it as a man should live with 
God’s help, and yours / Barbara ! ” he implored. 
“ Will you drive me to despair ? Will you forsake 
me, or will you help me ?” 

A shiver shook the woman’s slight form, and she 
passed her hand across her eyes once or twice, before 
reaching it toward him. A piteous smile quivered 
across her lips, those soft, tender lips, made one 
would say for smiles and kisses only, but her eyes 
did not seek his. 

He seized her hand, and again threw himself 
before her. 

“ I am your wife Jamie,” she said, gently. “Your 
wife, for better or for worse. Whatever I can do to 
help you, I will do.” 

Then at last the eyes of the two met in a long, 
long gaze, and in that moment Dixon read his fate. 

Everything else might, and did, come back to 
him—the esteem and confidence of his fellow-men ; 
worldly success might, and did, crown his efforts ; 
aye, and the blessing of God rested upon the work 
to which he dedicated the best portion of his remain¬ 
ing years—the raising up of the fallen and unfortu¬ 
nate ; all these things came to him in time, but one 
thing he forever missed—the old look of perfect, un¬ 
questioning trust in one woman’s eyes, the eyes of 
the woman for whose sake he had sinned. 





8 4 


Treasury of Tales. 


THE GOLD-BUG. 

BY EDGAR A. POE. 

What ho ! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad ! 

He hath been bitten by the Tarantula. 

All in the Wrong. 

M ANY years ago, I contracted an intimacy 
with a Mr. William Legrand. He was of 
an ancient Huguenot family, and had once 
been wealthy ; but a series of misfortunes had re¬ 
duced him to want. To avoid the mortification con¬ 
sequent upon his disasters, he left New Orleans, the 
city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at 
Sullivan’s Island, near Charleston, South Carolina. 

This Island is a very singular one. It consists of 
little else than the sea sand, and is about three miles 
long. Its breadth at no point exceeds a quarter of 
a mile. It is separated from the main land by a 
scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through 
a wilderness of reeds and slime, a favorite resort of 
the marsh-hen. The vegetation, as might be sup¬ 
posed, is scant, or at least dwarfish. No trees of 
any magnitude are to be seen. Near the western ex¬ 
tremity, where Fort Moultrie stands, and where are 
some miserable frame buildings, tenanted, during 
summer, by the fugitives from Charleston dust and 
fever, may be found, indeed, the bristly palmetto ; 
but the whole island, with the exception of this 
western point, and a line of hard, white beach on 
the seacoast, is covered with a dense undergrowth 
of the sweet myrtle, so much prized by the horticult¬ 
urists of England. The shrub here often attains 
the height of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an 
almost impenetrable coppice, burthening the air 
with its fragrance. 

In the inmost recesses of this coppice, not far 
from the eastern or more remote end of the island, 
Legrand had built himself a small hut, which he 
occupied when I first, by mere accident, made his 
acquaintance. This soon ripened into friendship— 
for there was much in the recluse to excite interest 
and esteem. I found him well educated, with un¬ 
usual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, 
and subject to perverse moods of alternate enthu¬ 
siasm and melancholy. He had with him many 
books, but rarely employed them. His chief amuse¬ 
ments were gunning and fishing, or sauntering along 
the beach and through the myrtles, in quest of shells 
or entomological specimens ;—his collection of the 
latter might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. 
In these excursions he was usually accompanied by 
an old negro, called Jupiter, who had been manu¬ 
mitted before the reverses of the family, but who 
could be induced neither by threats nor by prom¬ 
ises to abandon what he considered his right of at¬ 
tendance upon the footsteps of his young “ Massa 
Will.” It is not improbable that the relatives of 
Legrand, conceiving him to be somewhat unsettled 
in intellect, had contrived to instil this obstinacy 
into Jupiter, with a view to the supervision and 
guardianship of the wanderer. 


The winters in the latitude of Sullivan’s Island 
are seldom very severe, and in the fall of the year it 
is a rare event indeed when a fire is considered nec¬ 
essary. About the middle of October, 18—, there 
occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness. 
Just before sunset I scrambled my way through the 
evergreens to the hut of my friend, whom I had 
not visited for several weeks—my residence being, 
at that time, in Charleston, a distance of nine miles 
from the Island, while the facilities of passage and 
re-passage were very far behind those of the present 
day. Upon reaching the hut I rapped, as was my 
custom, and getting no reply, sought for the key 
where I knew it was secreted, unlocked the door and 
went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth. 
It was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful 
one. I threw off an overcoat, took an arm-chair by 
the crackling logs, and awaited patiently the arrival 
of my hosts. 

Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most 
cordial welcome. Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, 
bustled about to prepare some marsh-hens for sup¬ 
per. Legrand was in one of his fits—how else shall 
I term them ?—of enthusiasm. He had found an 
unknown bivalve, forming a new genus, and, more 
than this, he had hunted down and secured, with 
Jupiter’s assistance, a scarabceus which he believed 
to be totally new, but in respect to which he wished 
to have my opinion on the morrow. 

“ And why not to-night ? ” I asked, rubbing my 
hands over the blaze, and wishing the whole tribe 
of scarabcei at the devil. 

1 ‘ Ah, if I had only known you were here! ” said 
Legrand, “ but it’s so long since I saw you ; and 
how could I foresee that you would pay me a visit 
this very night of all others ? As I was coming 

home I met Lieutenant G-, from the fort, and, 

very foolishly, I lent him the bug ; so it will be im¬ 
possible for you to see it until the morning. Stay 
here to-night, and I will send Jup down for it at 
sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation ! ” 

“ What ?—sunrise ? ” 

“ Nonsense ! no !—the bug. It is a brilliant gold 
color—about the size of a large hickory-nut—with 
two jet black spots near one extremity of the back, 
and another, somewhat longer, at the other. The 
antenna are-” 

“ Dey aint no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a 
tellin on you,” here interrupted Jupiter ; “ de bug 
is a goole-bug, solid, ebery bit of him, inside and 
all, sep him wing—neber feel half so hebby a bug 
in my life.” 

“Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, some¬ 
what more earnestly, it seemed to me, than the case 
demanded, “ is that any reason for your letting the 
birds burn ? The color”—here he turned to me— 
“is really almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. 
You never saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than 
the scales emit—but of this you cannot judge till to¬ 
morrow. In the mean time I can give you some 








The Gold - Bug. 


85 


idea of the shape.” Saying this, he seated himself 
at a small table, on which were a pen and ink, but 
no paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but 
found none. 

“ Never mind,” said he at length, “ this will an¬ 
swer ; ” and he drew from his waistcoat pocket a 
scrap of what I took to be very dirty foolscap, and 
made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While 
he did this, I retained my seat by the fire, for I was 
still chilly. When the design was complete, he 
handed it to me without rising. As I received it, a 
loud growl was heard, succeeded by a scratching at 
the door. Jupiter open it, and a large Newfound¬ 
land, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, leaped upon 
my shoulders, and loaded me with caresses ; for I 
had shown him much attention during previous visits. 
When his gambols were over, I looked at the paper, 
and, to speak the truth, found myself not a little 
puzzled at what my friend had depicted. 

“ Well! ” I said, after contemplating it for some 
minutes, “ this is a strange scarabceus , I must confess : 
new to me : never saw anything like it before—unless 
it was a skull, or a death’s-head—which it more 
nearly resembles than anything else that has come 
under my observation.” 

“A death’s-head ! ” echoed Legrand—“ Oh—yes— 
well, it has something of that appearance upon paper, 
no doubt. The two upper black spots look like eyes, 
eh ? and the longer one at the bottom like a mouth— 
and then the shape of the whole is oval.” 

“ Perhaps so,” said I ; “ but, Legrand, I fear you are 
no artist. I must wait until I see the beetle itself, if 
I am to form any idea of its personal appearance.” 

“ Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled,“ I draw 
tolerably— should do it at least—have had good masters, 
and flatter myself that I am not quite a blockhead.” 

“ But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said 
I, “ this is a very passable skull —indeed, I may say 
that it is a very excellent skull, according to the vul¬ 
gar notions about such specimens of physiology—and 
your scarabceus must be the queereft scarabceus in the 
world if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a very 
thrilling bit of superstition upon this hint. I pre¬ 
sume you will call the bug scarabceus caput hominis , 
or something of that kind—there are many similar 
titles in the Natural Histories. But where are the 
antennce you spoke of ? ” 

“ The antennce ! ” said Legrand, who seemed to be 
getting unaccountably warm upon the subject; “ I 
am sure you must see the antennce. I made them as 
distinct as they are in the original insect, and I pre¬ 
sume that is sufficient.” 

“Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I 
don’t see them ; ” and I handed him the paper with¬ 
out additional remark, not wishing to ruffle his tem¬ 
per ; but I was much surprised at the turn affairs had 
taken ; his ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the 
drawing of the beetle, there were positively no anten¬ 
nce visible, and the whole did bear a very close re¬ 
semblance to the ordinary cuts of a death’s-head. 


He received the paper very peevishly, and was 
about to crumple it, apparently to throw it in the fire, 
when a casual glance at the design seemed suddenly 
to rivet his attention. In an instant his face grew 
violently red—in another as excessively pale. For 
some minutes he continued to scrutinize the drawing 
minutely where he sat. At length he arose, took a 
candle from the table, and proceeded to seat himself 
upon a sea-chest in the farthest corner of the room. 
Here again he made an anxious examination of the 
paper ; turning it in all directions. He said nothing, 
however, and his conduct greatly astonished me ; 
yet I thought it prudent not to exacerbate the grow¬ 
ing moodiness of his temper by any comment. Pres¬ 
ently he took frofh his coat pocket a wallet, placed 
the paper carefully in it, and deposited both in a 
writing-desk, which he locked. He now grew more 
composed in his demeanor: but his original air of 
enthusiasm had quite disappeared. Yet he seemed 
not so much sulky as abstracted. As the evening 
wore away he became more and more absorbed in 
reverie, from which no sallies of mine could arouse 
him. It had been my intention to pass the night 
at the hut, as I had frequently done before, but, see¬ 
ing my host in this mood, I deemed it proper to take 
leave. He did not press me to remain, but, as I de¬ 
parted, he shook my hand with even more than his 
usual cordiality. 

It was about a month after this (and during the in¬ 
terval I had seen nothing of Legrand) when I received 
a visit, at Charleston, from his man, Jupiter. I had 
never seen the good old negro look so dispirited, 
and I feared that some serious disaster had befallen 
my friend. 

“Well, Jup,” said I, “what is the matter now?— 
how is your master ? ” 

“ Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry 
well as mought be.” 

“ Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What 
does he complain of?” 

“ Dar ! dat’s h !—him neber ’plain of noffin—but 
him berry sick for all dat.” 

“ Very sick, Jupiter!—why didn’t you say so at 
once ? Is he confined to bed ? ” 

“No, dat he aint !—he aint find nowhar—dat’s 
just whar de shoe pinch—my mind is got to be 
berry hebby about poor Mass Will.” 

“Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is 
you are talking about. You say your master is sick. 
Hasn’t he told you what ails him ? ” 

“Why, massa, ’taint worf while for to git mad 
about de matter—Massa Will say noffin at all aint de 
matter wid him—but den what make him go about 
looking dis here way, wid he head down and he 
soldiers up, and as white as a gose ? And den he 
keep a syphon all de time—” 

“Keeps a what, Jupiter?” 

“ Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate—de 
queerest figgurs I ebber did see. Ise gittin to be 
skeered, I tell you. Hab for to keep mighty tight 





86 


Treasury of Tales . 


eye pon him noovers. Todder day he gib me slip 
fore de sun up and was gone de whole ob de blessed 
day. I had a big stick ready cut for to gib him 
deuced good beating when he did come—but I’s 
sich a fool dat I hadn’t the heart arter all—he look 
so berry poorly.” 

“ Eh ?—what ?—ah, yes ?—upon the whole I think 
you had better not be too severe with the poor fel¬ 
low—don’t flog him, Jupiter—he can’t very well 
stand it—but can you form no idea of what has oc¬ 
casioned this illness, or rather this change of con¬ 
duct ? Has anything unpleasant happened since I 
saw you ? ” 

“ No, massa, dey aint been noffln onpleasant since 
den—’twas fore den I’m feared—’twas de berry day 
you was dare.” 

“ How ? what do you mean ? ” 

“Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now.” 

“The what?” 

“ De bug—I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin 
bit somewhere bout de head by dat goole-bug.” 

“And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a 
supposition ? ” 

“ Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I neber did 
see sich a deuced bug—he kick and he bite ebery 
ting what cum near him. Massa Will cotch him 
fuss, but had for to let him go gin mighty quick, I 
tell you—den was the time he must ha’ got de bite. 
I didn’t like the look ob de bug mouff, myself, no 
how, so I wouldn’t take hold ob him wid my finger, 
but I cotch him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. 
I rap him up in de paper and stuff piece ob it in 
he mouff—dat was de way.” 

“And you think then, that your master was really 
bitten by the beetle, and that the bite made him 
sick ? ” 

“ I don’t tink noffin about it—I nose it. What 
make him dream bout de goole so much, if taint 
cause he bit by de goole-bug ? Ise heerd bout dem 
goole-bugs fore dis.” 

“ But how do you know he dreams about gold ? ” 

“ How I know ? why cause he talk about it in he 
sleep—dot’s how I nose.” 

“Well, Jup, perhaps you are right ; but to what 
fortunate circumstance am I to attribute the honor 
of a visit from you to-day ? ” 

“ What de matter, massa ? ” 

“ Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand ? ” 

“No, massa, I bring dis here pissel; ” and here 
Jupiter handed me a note which ran thus : 

My Dear-: 

Why have I not seen you for so long a time ? I hope 
you have not been so foolish as to take offence at any little 
brnsqucrie of mine ; but no, that is improbable. 

Since I saw you I have had great cause for anxiety. I 
have something to tell you, yet scarcely know how to tell 
it, or whether I should tell it at all. 

I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor 
old Jup annoys me, almost beyond endurance, by his 
well-meant attention. Would you believe it ?—he had 


prepared a huge stick, the other day with which to chas¬ 
tise me for giving him the slip, and spending the day, 
solus , among the hills on the main land. I verily be¬ 
lieve that my ill looks alone saved me a flogging. 

I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met. 

'If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over 
with Jupiter. Do come, I wish to see you to-night, upon 
business of importance. I assure you that it is of the 
highest importance. Ever yours. 

William Legrand. 

There was something in the tone of this note which 
gave me great uneasiness. Its whole style differed 
materially from that of Legrand. What could he be 
dreaming of ? What new crotchet possessed his ex¬ 
citable brain ? What “ business of the highest im¬ 
portance ” could he possibly have to transact ? Ju¬ 
piter’s account of him boded no good. I dreaded 
lest the continued pressure of misfortune had, at 
length, fairly unsettled the reason of my friend. With¬ 
out a moment’s hesitation, therefore, I prepared to 
accompany the negro. 

Upon reaching the wharf, I noticed a scythe and 
three spades, all apparently new, lying in the bottom 
of the boat in which we were to embark. 

“ What is the meaning of all this, Jup ?” I inquired. 

“ Him syfe, massa, and spade.” 

“ Very true ; but what are they doing here ? ” 

“ Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will sis 
pon my buying for him in de town, and de debbils 
own lot of money I had to gib for em.” 

“ But what in the name of all that is mysterious is 
your ‘ Massa Will ’ going to do with scythes and 
spades ? ” 

“ Dat’s more dan / know, and debbil take me if I 
don’t blieve ’tis more dan he know, too. But it’s all 
cum ob de bug.” 

Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of 
Jupiter, whose whole intellect seemed to be absorbed 
by “ de bug,” I now stepped into the boat and made 
sail. With a fair and strong breeze we soon ran into 
the little cove to the northward of Fort Moultrie, and 
a walk of some tt-o miles brought us to the hut. It 
was about three in the afternoon when we arrived. 
Legrand had been waiting us in eager expectation. 
He grasped my hand with a nervous empresse?nent 
which alarmed me and strengthened the suspicions 
already entertained. His countenance was pale even 
to ghastliness, and his deep-set eyes glared with un¬ 
natural lustre. After some inquiries respecting his 
health, I asked him, not knowing what better to say, 
if he had yet obtained the scarabceus from Lieutenant 
G-. 

“ Oh, yes,” he replied, coloring violently, “ I got 
it from him the next morning. Nothing should tempt 
me to part with that scarabceus. Do you know that 
Jupiter is quite right about it ? ” 

“ In what way ? ” I asked, with a sad foreboding at 
heart. 

“ In supposing it to be a bug of real gold.” He 
said this with an air of profound seriousness, and I 
felt inexpressibly shocked. 







The Gold-Bug. 


37 


“This bug is to make my fortune,” he continued, 
with a triumphant smile, “ to reinstate me in my fam¬ 
ily possessions. Is it any wonder, then, that I prize 
it ? Since Fortune has thought fit to bestow it upon 
me, I have only to use it properly and I shall arrive 
at the gold of which it is the index. Jupiter, bring 
me that scarabceus /” 

“What! de bug, massa ? I’d rudder not go fer 
trubble dat bug—you mus git him for your own self.” 
Hereupon Legrand arose, with a grave and stately 
air, and brought me the beetle from a glass case in 
which it was inclosed. It was a beautiful scarabceus, 
and, at that time, unknown to naturalists—of course 
a great prize in a scientific point of view. There 
were two round, black spots near one extremity of 
the back, and a long one near the other. The scales 
were exceedingly hard and glossy, with all the ap¬ 
pearance of burnished gold. The weight of the in¬ 
sect was very remarkable, and, taking all things into 
consideration, I could hardly blame Jupiter for his 
opinion respecting it; but what to make of Legrand’s 
concordance with that opinion, I could not, for the 
life of me, tell. 

“ I sent for you,” said he, in a grandiloquent tone, 
when I had completed my examination of the beetle, 
“ I sent for you, that I might have your counsel and 
assistance in furthering the views of Fate and of the 
bug-” 

“ My dear Legrand,” I cried, interrupting him, 
“ you are certainly unwell, and had better use some 
little precautions. You shall go to bed, and I will 
remain with you a few days, until you get over this. 
You are feverish and-” 

“ Feel my pulse,” said he. 

I felt it, and, to say the truth, found not the slight¬ 
est indication of fever. 

“But you may be ill and yet have no fever. 
Allow me this once to prescribe for you. In the 
first place, go to bed. In the next-” 

“You are mistaken,” he interposed, “ I am as 
well as I can expect to be under the excitement 
which I suffer. If you really wish me well, you will 
relieve this excitement.” 

“ And how is this to be done ? ” 

“ Very easily. Jupiter and myself are going upon 
an expedition into the hills, upon the main land ; 
in this expedition, we shall need the aid of some 
person in whom we can confide. You are the only 
one we can trust. Whether we succeed or fail, the 
excitement which you now perceive in me will be 
equally allayed.” 

“ I am anxious to oblige you in any way,” I re¬ 
plied ; “ but do you mean to say that this infernal 
beetle has any connection with your expedition into 
the hills?” 

“It has.” 

“ Then, Legrand, I can become a party to no such 
absurd proceeding.” 

“ I am sorry—very sorry—for we shall have to 

try it by ourselves.” 

2 


“ Try it by yourselves ! The man is surely mad ! 
—but stay—how long do you propose to be 
absent ? ” 

“ Probably all night. We shall start immediately, 
and be back, at all events, by sunrise.” 

“ And will you promise me, upon your honor, 
that when this freak of yours is over, and the bug 
business (good God !) settled to your satisfaction, 
you will then return home and follow my advice im¬ 
plicitly, as that of your physician ? ” 

“ Yes ; I promise ; and now let us be off, for we 
have no time to lose.” 

With a heavy heart I accompanied my friend. 
We started about four o’clock—Legrand,' Jupiter, 
the dog, and myself. Jupiter had with him the 
scythe and spades—the whole of which he insisted 
upon carrying—more through fear, it seemed to me, 
of trusting either of the implements within reach of 
his master, than from any excess of industry or com¬ 
plaisance. His demeanor was dogged in the ex¬ 
treme, and “ dat deuced bug ” were the sole words 
which escaped his lips during the journey. For my 
own part, I had charge of a couple of dark-lanterns, 
while Legrand contented himself with the scarabceus, 
which he carried attached to the end of a bit of 
whip-cord ; twirling it to and fro, with the air of a 
conjuror, as he went. When I observed this last, 
plain evidence of my friend’s aberration of mind, I 
could scarcely refrain from tears. I thought it best, 
however, to humor his fancy, at least for the present, 
or until I could adopt some more energetic meas¬ 
ures with a chance of success. In the mean time I 
endeavored, but all in vain, to sound him in regard 
to the object of the expedition. Having succeeded 
in inducing me to accompany him, he seemed un¬ 
willing to hold conversation upon any topic of minor 
importance, and to all my questions vouchsafed no 
other reply than “ We shall see ! ” 

We crossed the creek at the head of the island by 
means of a skiff, and, ascending the high grounds on 
the shore of the main land proceeded in a northwest¬ 
erly direction, through a tract of country excessively 
wild and desolate, where no trace of a human foot¬ 
step was to be seen. Legrand led the way with de¬ 
cision ; pausing only for an instant, here and there, 
to consult what appeared to be certain landmarks 
of his own contrivance upon a former occasion. 

In this manner we journeyed for about two hours, 
and the sun was just setting when we entered a 
region infinitely more dreary than any yet seen. It 
was a species of table land, near the summit of an 
almost inaccessible hill, densely wooded from base 
to pinnacle, and interspersed with huge crags that 
appeared to lie loosely upon the soil, and in many 
cases were prevented from precipitating themselves 
into the valleys below, merely by the support of the 
trees against which they reclined. Deep ravines, in 
various directions, gave an air of still sterner solem¬ 
nity to the scene. 

The natural platform to which we had clambered 








88 


Treasury of Tales. 


was thickly overgrown with brambles, through which 
we soon discovered that it would have been impos¬ 
sible to force our way but for the scythe ; and Ju¬ 
piter, by direction of his master, proceeded to clear 
for us a path to the foot of an enormously tall tulip- 
tree, which stood, with some eight or ten oaks, upon 
the level, and far surpassed them all, and all other 
trees which I had then ever seen, in the beauty of 
its foliage and form, in the wide spread of its 
branches, and in the general majesty of its appear¬ 
ance. When we reached this tree, Legrand turned 
to Jupiter, and asked him if he thought he could 
climb it. The old man seemed a little staggered by 
the question, and for some moments made no reply. 
At length he approached the huge trunk, walked 
slowly around it, and examined it with minute at¬ 
tention. When he had completed his scrutiny, he 
merely said : 

“Yes, massa, Jup climb any tree he ebber see in 
he life.” 

“ Then up with you as soon as possible, for it will 
soon be too dark to see what we are about.” 

“How far mus go up, massa?” inquired Jupiter. 

“ Get up the main trunk first, and then I will tell 
you which way to go—and here—stop ! take this bee¬ 
tle with you.” 

“ De bug, Massa Will!—de goole-bug ! ” cried the 
negro, drawing back in dismay—“ what for mus tote 
de bug way up de tree !—d—n if I do ! ” 

“ If you are afraid, Jup, a great big negro like you, 
to take hold of a harmless little dead beetle, why you 
can carry it up by this string—but, if you do not take 
it up with you in some way, I shall be under the ne¬ 
cessity of breaking your head with this shovel.” 

“ What de matter now, massa ? ” said Jup, evidently 
shamed into compliance ; “ always want for to raise 
fuss wid old nigger. Was only funnin any how. Me 
feered de bug ! what I keer for de bug ? ” Here he 
took cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string, 
and, maintaining the insect as far from his person as 
circumstances would permit, prepared to ascend the 
tree. 

In youth, the tulip-tree, or Liriodendron Tulipi- 
ferum , the most magnificent of American foresters, 
has a trunk peculiarly smooth, and often rises to a 
great height without lateral branches ; but, in its 
riper age, the bark becomes gnarled and uneven, 
while many short limbs make # their appearance on 
the stem. Thus the difficulty of ascension, in the 
present case, lay more in semblance than in reality. 
Embracing the huge cylinder, as closely as possible, 
with his arms and knees, seizing with his hands some 
projections, and resting his naked toes upon others, 
Jupiter, after one or two narrow escapes from falling, 
at length wriggled himself into the first great fork, 
and seemed to consider the whole business as virtu¬ 
ally accomplished. The risk of the achievement was, 
in fact, now over, although the climber was some 
sixty or seventy feet from the ground. 

“ Which way mus go now, Massa Will ? ” he asked. 


“ Keep up the largest branch—the one on this side,” 
said Legrand. The negro obeyed him promptly, and 
apparently with but little trouble ; ascending higher 
and higher, until no glimpse of his squat figure could 
be obtained through the dense foliage which enveloped 
it. Presently his voice was heard in a sort of halloo* 

“ How much fudder is got for go ? ” 

“ How high up are you ? ” asked Legrand. 

“Ebber so fur,” replied the negro ; “can see de 
sky fru de top ob de tree.” 

“ Never mind the sky, but attend to what I say. 
Look down the trunk and count the limbs below you 
on this side. How many limbs have you passed ? ” 

“One, two, tree, four, fibe—I done pass fibe big 
limb, massa, pon dis side.” 

“ Then go one limb higher.” 

In a few minutes the voice was heard again, an¬ 
nouncing that the seventh limb was attained. 

“Now, Jup,” cried Legrand, evidently much ex¬ 
cited, “ I want you to work your way out upon that 
limb as far as you can. If you see anything strange, 
let me know.” 

By this time what little doubt I might have enter¬ 
tained of my poor friend’s insanity, was put finally at 
rest. I had no alternative but to conclude him stricken 
with lunacy, and I became seriously anxious about get¬ 
ting him home. While I was pondering upon what 
was best to be done, Jupiter’s voice was again heard. 

“ Mos’feered for to ventur pon dis limb berry far 
—tis dead limb putty much all de way.” 

“ Did you say it was a dead limb, Jupiter ?” cried 
Legrand in a quavering voice. 

“Yes, massa, him dead as de door-nail—done up 
for sartin—done departed dis here life.” 

“ What in the name of heaven shall I do ? ” asked 
Legrand, seemingly in the greatest distress. 

“ Do ! ” said I, glad of an opportunity to inter¬ 
pose a word, “ why come home and go to bed. 
Come now !—that’s a fine fellow. It’s getting late, 
and, besides, you remember your promise.” 

“Jupiter,” cried he, without heeding me in the 
least, “ do you hear me ? ” 

“Yes, Massa Will, hear you eber so plain.” 

“ Try the wood well, then, with your knife, and 
see if you think it very rotten.” 

“ Him rotten, massa, sure nuff,” replied the negro 
in a few moments, “but not so berry rotten as 
mought be. Mought ventur out leetle way pon de 
limb by myself, dat’s true.” 

“ By yourself !—what do you mean ? ” 

“Why I mean de bug. ’Tis berry hebby bug. 
Spose I drop him down fuss, and den de limb won’t 
break wid just de weight of one nigger.” 

“You infernal scoundrel! ” cried Legrand, appar¬ 
ently much relieved, “ what do you mean by telling 
me such nonsense as that ? As sure as you drop 
that beetle I’ll break your neck. Look here, Ju¬ 
piter, do you hear me ? ” 

“Yes, massa, needn’t hollo at poor nigger dat 
style.” 





The Gold-Bug. 


89 


“ W ell ! now listen !—if you will venture out on 
the limb as far as you think safe, and not let go the 
beetle, I’ll make you a present of a silver dollar as 
soon as you get down.” 

“ I'm gwine, Massa Will—deed I is,” replied the 
negro very promptly—“mos’ out to the eend now.” 

“ Out to the end! ” here fairly screamed Legrand, 
“ do you say you are out to the end of that limb ! ” 

“ Soon be to de eend, massa—o-o-o-o-oh ? Lor- 
gol-a-marcy ! what is dis here pon de tree ? ” 

“Well! ” cried Legrand, highly delighted, “what 
is it ? ” 

“ Why taint noffin but a skull—somebody ben lef 
him head up de tree, and de crows done gobble 
ebery bit ob de meat off.” 

“A skull, you say !—very well !—how is it fast¬ 
ened to the limb ?—what holds it on ? ” 

“ Sure nuff, massa ; mus look. Why dis berry 
curous sarcumstance, pon my word—dare’s a great 
big nail in de skull, what fastens ob it on to the 
tree.” 

“ Well now, Jupiter, do exactly as I tell you—do 
you hear ? ” 

“ Yes, massa.” 

“ Pay attention, then !—find the left eye of the 
skull.” 

“ Hum ! hoo ! dat’s good ! why dar aint no eye 
lef at all.” 

“Curse your stupidity! do you know your right 
hand from your left ? ” 

“Yes, I nose dat—nose all ab*)ut dat—tis my lef 
hand what I chops de wood wid.” 

“To be sure! you’re left-handed; and your left 
eye is cn the same side as your left hand. Now, I 
suppose, you can find the left eye of the skull, or 
the place where the left eye has been. Have you 
found it ? ” 

Here was a long pause. At length the negro 
asked : 

“ Is de lef eye of de skull pon de same side as de 
lef han of the skull, too !—cause de skull aint got 
not a bit ob a hand at all—nebber mind ! I got de 
lef eye now—here de lef eye ! what mus do wid it ? ” 

“ Let the beetle drop through it, as far as the 
string will reach—but be careful and not let go your 
hold of the string.” 

“ All dat done, Massa Will ; mighty easy ting for 
to put the bug fru de hole—look out for him dare 
below ! ” 

During this colloquy no portion of Jupiter’s person 
could be seen ; but the beetle, which he had suffered 
to descend, was now visible at the end of the string, 
and glistened, like a globe of burnished gold, in the 
last rays of the setting sun, some of which still faintly 
illumined the eminence upon which we stood. The 
scarabceus hung quite clear of any branches, and, if 
allowed to fall, would have fallen at our feet. Le¬ 
grand immediately took the scythe, and cleared with 
it a circular space, three or four yards in diameter, 
just beneath the insect, and, having accomplished 


this, ordered Jupiter to let go the string and come 
down from the tree. 

Driving a peg, with great nicety, into the ground, 
at the precise spot where the beetle fell, my friend 
now produced from his pocket a tape-measure. 
Fastening one end of this at that point of the trunk 
of the tree which was nearest the peg, he unrolled 
it till it reached the peg, and thence farther unrolled 
it, in the direction already established by the two 
points of the tree and the peg, for the distance of 
fifty feet—Jupiter clearing away the brambles with 
the scythe. At the spot thus attained a second peg 
was driven, and about this, as a centre, a rude circle, 
about four feet in diameter, described. Taking now 
a spade himself, and giving one to Jupiter and one 
to me, Legrand begged us to set about digging as 
quickly as possible. 

To speak the truth, I had no especial relish for 
such amusement at any time, and, at that particular 
moment, would most willingly have declined it; for 
the night was coming on, and I felt much fatigued 
with the exercise already taken ; but I saw no mode 
of escape, and was fearful of disturbing my poor 
friend’s equanimity by a refusal. Could I have de¬ 
pended, indeed, upon Jupiter’s aid, I would have had 
no hesitation in attempting to get the lunatic home 
by force ; but I was too well assured of the old 
negro’s disposition, to hope that he would assist me, 
under any circumstances, in a personal contest with 
his master. I made no doubt that the latter had 
been infected with some of the innumerable South¬ 
ern superstitions about money buried, and that his 
phantasy had received confirmation by the finding of 
the scarabceus , or, perhaps, by Jupiter’s obstinacy in 
maintaining it to be “a bug of real gold.” A mind 
disposed to lunacy would readily be led away by such 
suggestions—especially if chiming in with favorite 
preconceived ideas—and then I called to mind the 
poor fellow’s speech about the beetle’s being “ the 
index of his fortune.” Upon the whole, I was sadly 
vexed and puzzled, but at length, I concluded to 
make a virtue of necessity—to dig with a good will, 
and thus the sooner to convince the visionary, by 
ocular demonstration, of the fallacy of the opinions 
he entertained. 

The lanterns having been lit, we all fell to work 
with a zeal worthy a more rational cause ; and, as the 
glare fell upon our persons and implements, I could 
not help thinking how picturesque a group we com¬ 
posed, and how strange and suspicious our labors 
must have appeared to any interloper who, by chance, 
might have stumbled upon our whereabouts. 

We dug very steadily for two hours. Little was 
said ; and our chief embarrassment lay in the yelp¬ 
ings of the dog, who took exceeding interest in our 
proceedings. He, at length, became so obstreperous 
that we grew fearful of his giving the alarm to some 
stragglers in the vicinity;—or, rather, this was the 
apprehension of Legrand ;—for myself, I should have 
rejoiced at any interruption which might have enabled 





90 


Treasury of Tales. 


me to get the wanderer home. The noise was, at 
length, very effectually silenced by Jupiter, who, get¬ 
ting out of the hole with a dogged air of delibera¬ 
tion, tied the brute’s mouth up with one of his sus¬ 
penders, and then returned, with a grave chuckle to 
his task. 

When the time mentioned had expired, we had 
reached a depth of five feet, and yet no signs of any 
treasure became manifest. A general pause ensued, 
and I began to hope that the farce was at an end. 
Legrand, however, although evidently much discon¬ 
certed, wiped his brow thoughtfully and recom¬ 
menced. We had excavated the entire circle of four 
feet diameter, and now we slightly enlarged the limit, 
and went to the farther depth of two feet. Still noth¬ 
ing appeared. The gold-seeker, whom I sincerely 
pitied, at length clambered from the pit, with the bit¬ 
terest disappointment imprinted upon every feature, 
and proceeded, slowly and reluctantly, to put on his 
coat, which he had thrown off at the beginning of his 
labor. In the mean time I made no remark. Jupiter, 
at a signal from his master, began to gather up 
his tools. This done, and the dog having been un¬ 
muzzled, we turned in profound silence toward home. 

We had taken, perhaps, a dozen steps in this direc¬ 
tion, when, with a loud oath, Legrand strode up to 
Jupiter, and seized him by the collar. The astonished 
negro opened his eyes and mouth to the fullest ex¬ 
tent, let fall the spades, and fell upon his knees. 

“You scoundrel,” said Legrand, hissing out the 
syllables from between his clinched teeth—“ you in¬ 
fernal black villain !—speak, I tell you !—answer me 
this instant, without prevarication !—which—which 
is your left eye ? ” 

“ Oh, my golly, Massa Will! aint dis here my lef 
eye for sartin?” roared the terrified Jupiter, placing 
his hand upon his right organ of vision, and holding 
it there with a desperate pertinacity, as if in imme¬ 
diate dread of his master’s attempt at a gouge. 

“ I thought so !—I knew it! hurrah ! ” vociferated 
Legrand, letting the negro go, and executing a series 
of curvets and caracoles, much to the astonishment 
of his valet, who, arising from his knees, looked, 
mutely, from his master to myself, and then from 
myself to his master. 

“ Come ! we must go back,” said the latter, “ the 
game’s not up yet; ” and he again led the way to 
the tulip-tree. 

“Jupiter,” said he, when we reached its foot, 
“ come here ! was the skull nailed to the limb with 
the face outwards, or with the face to the limb ? ” 

“ De face was out, massa, so dat de crows could 
get at de eyes good, widout any trouble.” 

“Well, then, was it this eye or that through which 
you dropped the beetle ? ”—here Legrand touched 
each of Jupiter’s eyes. 

“Twas dis eye, massa—de lef eye—jis as you tell 
me,” and here it was his right eye that the negro in¬ 
dicated. 

“ That will do—we must try it again.” 


Here my friend, about whose madness I now saw, 
or fancied that I saw, certain indications of method, 
removed the peg which marked the spot where the 
beetle fell, to a spot about three inches to the west¬ 
ward of its former position. Taking, now, the tape- 
measure from the nearest point of the trunk to the 
peg, as before, and continuing the extension in a 
straight line to the distance of fifty feet, a spot was 
indicated, removed, by several yards, from the point 
at which we had been digging. 

Around the new position a circle, somewhat larger 
than in the former instance, was now described, and 
we again set to work with the spade. I was dread¬ 
fully weary, but, scarcely understanding what had 
occasioned the change in my thoughts, I felt no 
longer any great aversion from the labor imposed. 
I had become most unaccountably interested—nay, 
even excited. Perhaps there was something, amid 
all the extravagant demeanor of Legrand—some air 
of forethought, or of deliberation, which impressed 
me. I dug eagerly, and now and then caught my¬ 
self actually looking, with something that very much 
resembled expectation, for the fancied treasure, the 
vision of which had demented my unfortunate com¬ 
panion. At a period when such vagaries of thought 
most fully possessed me, and when we had been at 
work perhaps an hour and a half, we were again in¬ 
terrupted by the violent howlings of the dog. His 
uneasiness, in the first instance, had been, evidently, 
but the result of playfulness or caprice, but he now 
assumed a bitter and serious tone. Upon Jupiter’s 
again attempting to muzzle him, he made furious 
resistance, and, leaping into the hole, tore up the 
mold frantically with his claws. In a few seconds 
he had uncovered a mass of human bones, forming 
two complete skeletons, intermingled with several 
buttons of metal, and what appeared to be the dust 
of decayed woollen. One or two strokes of a spade 
upturned the blade of a large Spanish knife, and, as 
we dug farther, three or four loose pieces of gold and 
silver coin came to light. 

At sight of these the joy of Jupiter could scarcely 
be restrained, but the countenance of his master 
wore an air of extreme disappointment. He urged 
us, however, to continue our exertions, and the 
words were hardly uttered when I stumbled and fell 
forward, having caught the toe of my boot in a large 
ring of iron that lay half buried in the loose earth. 

We now worked in earnest, and never did I pass 
ten minutes of more intense excitement. During this 
interval we had fairly unearthed an oblong chest of 
wood, which from its perfect preservation and won¬ 
derful hardness, had plainly been subjected to some 
mineralizing process—perhaps that of the bi-chloride 
of mercury. This box was three feet and a half 
long, three feet broad, and two and a half feet deep. 
It was firmly secured by bands of wrought iron, 
riveted, and forming a kind of open trellis-work 
over the whole. On each side of the chest, near the 
top, were three rings of iron—six in all—by means 




The Gold -Bug. 


91 


of which a firm hold could be obtained by six per¬ 
sons. Our utmost united endeavors served only to 
disturb the coffer very slightly in its bed. We at 
once saw the impossibility of removing so great a 
weight. Luckily, the sole fastenings of the lid con¬ 
sisted of two sliding bolts. These we drew back— 
trembling and panting with anxiety. In an instant, 
a treasure of incalculable value lay gleaming before 
us. As the rays of the lanterns fell within the pit, 
there flashed upward a glow and glare, from a con¬ 
fused heap of gold and of jewels that absolutely 
dazzled our eyes. 

I shall not pretend to describe the feelings with 
which I gazed. Amazement was, of course, predomi¬ 
nant. Legrand appeared exhausted with excitement, 
and spoke very few words. Jupiter’s countenance 
wore, for some minutes, as deadly a pallor as it is pos¬ 
sible, in the nature of things, for any negro’s visage 
to assume. He seemed stupefied—thunderstricken. 
Presently he fell upon his knees in the pit, and, 
burying his naked arms up to the elbows in gold, 
let them there remain, as if enjoying the luxury of a 
bath. At length, with a deep sigh, he exclaimed, as 
if in a soliloquy. 

“And dis all cum ob de goole-bug ! de putty goole- 
bug ! de poor little goole-bug, what I boosed in dat 
sabage kind ob style ! Aint you ashamed ob your¬ 
self, nigger ?—answer me dat? ” 

It became necessary, at last, that I should arouse 
both master and valet to the expediency of removing 
the treasure. It was growing late, and it behooved 
us to make exertion, that we might get every thing 
housed before daylight. It was difficult to say what 
should be done, and much time was spent in delib¬ 
eration—so confused were the ideas of all. We, 
finally, lightened the box by removing two-thirds of 
its contents, when we were >_.nabled, with some trouble, 
to raise it from the hole. The articles taken out were 
deposited among the brambles, and the dog left to 
guard them, with strict orders from Jupiter neither, 
upon any pretence, to stir from the spot, nor to open 
his mouth until our return. We then hurriedly made 
for home with the chest; reaching the hut in safety, 
but after excessive toil, at one o’clock in the morn-' 
ing. Worn out as we were, it was not in human na¬ 
ture to do more immediately. We rested until two, 
and had supper ; starting for the hills immediately 
afterward, armed with three stout sacks, which, by 
good luck, were upon the premises. A little before 
four we arrived at the pit, divided the remainder of 
the booty, as equally as might be, among us, and, 
leaving the holes unfilled, again set out for the hut, 
at which, for the second time, we deposited our 
golden burdens just as the first faint streaks of the 
dawn gleamed from over the tree-tops in the East. 

We were now thoroughly broken down ; but the 
intense excitement of the time denied us repose. 
After an unquiet slumber of some three or four 
hours’ duration, we arose, as if by preconcert, to 
make examination of our treasure. 


The chest had been full to the brim, and we spent 
the whole day, and the greater part of the next night, 
in a scrutiny of its contents. There had been noth¬ 
ing like order or arrangement. Every thing had been 
heaped in promiscuously. Having assorted all with 
care, we found ourselves possessed of even vaster 
wealth than we had at first supposed. In coin there 
was rather more than four hundred and fifty thou¬ 
sand dollars—estimating the value of the pieces, as 
accurately as we could, by the tables of the period. 
There was not a particle of silver. All was gold of 
antique date and of great variety—French, Spanish, 
and German money, with a few English guineas, and 
some counters, of which we had never seen speci¬ 
mens before. There were several very large and 
heavy coins, so worn that we could make nothing of 
their inscriptions. There was no American money. 
The value of the jewels we found more difficulty in 
estimating. There were diamonds—some of them 
exceedingly large and fine—a hundred and ten in all, 
and not one of them small ; eighteen rubies of re¬ 
markable brilliancy ;—three hundred and ten emer¬ 
alds, all very beautiful ; and twenty-one sapphires, 
with an opal. These stones had all been broken 
from their settings and thrown loose in the chest. 
The settings themselves, which we picked out from 
among the other gold, appeared to have been beaten 
up with hammers, as if to prevent identification. 
Besides all this, there was a vast quantity of solid 
gold ornaments ;—nearly two hundred massive fin¬ 
ger and ear rings ;—rich chains—thirty of these, if 
I remember ;—eighty-three very large and heavy 
crucifixes ;—five gold censers of great value ;—a pro¬ 
digious golden punch-bowl, ornamented with richly 
chased vine-leaves, and Bacchanalian figures, with 
two sword-handles exquisitely embossed, and many 
other smaller articles which I cannot recollect. The 
weight of these valuables exceeded three hundred and 
fifty pounds avoirdupois ; and in this estimate I have 
not included one hundred and ninety-seven superb 
gold watches—three of the number being worth each 
five hundred dollars, if one. Many of them were 
very old, and as time-keepers valueless ; the works 
having suffered, more or less, from corrosion—but 
all were richly jewelled and in cases of great worth. 
We estimated the entire contents of the chest, that 
night, at a million and a half of dollars ; and, upon 
the subsequent disposal of the trinkets and jewels (a 
few being retained for our own use), it was found 
that we had greatly undervalued the treasure. 

When, at length, we had concluded our examina¬ 
tion, and the intense excitement of the time had, in 
some measure, subsided, Legrand, who saw that I 
was dying with impatience for a solution of this most 
extraordinary riddle, entered into a full detail of all 
the circumstances connected with it. 

“You remember,” said he, “the night when I 
handed you the rough sketch I had made of the 
scarabceus. You recollect also, that I became quite 
vexed at you for insisting that my drawing resembled 




9 2 


Treasury 


a death’s-head. When you first made this assertion 
I thought you were jesting ; but afterward I called 
to mind the peculiar spots on the back of the insect, 
and admitted to myself that your remark had some 
little foundation in fact. Still, the sneer at my graphic 
powers irritated me—for I am considered a good 
artist—and, therefore, when you handed me the scrap 
of parchment, I was about to crumple it up and throw 
it angrily into the fire.” 

“ The scrap of paper, you mean,” said I. 

“ No ; it had much of the appearance of paper, and 
at first, I supposed it to be such, but when I came to 
draw upon it, I discovered it, at once, to be a piece 
of very thin parchment. It was quite dirty, you re¬ 
member. Well, as I was in the very act of crumpling 
it up, my glance fell upon the sketch at which you 
had been looking, and you may imagine my astonish¬ 
ment when I perceived, in fact, the figure of a death’s- 
head just where, it seemed to me, I had made the 
drawing of the beetle, For a moment I was too 
much amazed to think with accuracy. I knew that 
my design was very different in detail from this— 
although there was a certain similarity in general 
outline. Presently I took a candle, and seating my¬ 
self at the other end of the room, proceeded to 
scrutinize the parchment more closely. Upon turn¬ 
ing it over, I saw my own sketch upon the reverse, 
just as I had made it. My first idea, now, was mere 
surprise at the really remarkable similarity of out¬ 
line—at the singular coincidence involved in the 
fact, that unknown to me, there should have been a 
skull upon the other side of the parchment, imme¬ 
diately beneath my figure of the scarabceus , and that 
this skull, not only in outline, but in size, should 
so closely resemble my drawing. I say the singular¬ 
ity of this coincidence absolutely stupefied me for a 
time. This is the usual effect of such coincidences. 
The mind struggles to establish a connection—a se¬ 
quence of cause and effect—and, being unable to do 
so, suffers a species of temporary paralysis. But, 
when I recovered from this stupor, there dawned 
upon me gradually a conviction which startled me 
even far more than the coincidence. I began dis¬ 
tinctly, positively, to remember that there had been 
no drawing upon the parchment when I made my 
sketch of the scarabceus. I became perfectly certain 
of this ; for I recollected turning up first one side 
and then the other, in search of the cleanest spot. 
Had the skull been there, then of course I could not 
have failed to notice it. Here was indeed a mystery 
which I felt it impossible to explain ; but, even at 
that early moment, there seemed to glimmer, faintly, 
within the most remote and secret chambers of my 
intellect, a glow-worm-like conception of that truth 
which last night’s adventure brought to so magnifi¬ 
cent a demonstration. I arose at once, and putting 
the parchment securely away, dismissed all further 
reflection until I should be alone. 

“When you had gone, and when Jupiter was fast 
asleep, I betook myself to a more methodical inves¬ 


of Tales. 

tigation of the affair. In the first place I considered 
the manner in which the parchment had come into 
my possession. The spot where we discovered the 
scarabceus was on the coast of the main land, about a 
mile eastward of the island, and but a short distance 
above high-water mark. Upon my taking hold of it, 
it gave me a sharp bite, which caused me to let it 
drop. Jupiter, with his accustomed caution, before 
seizing the insect, which had flown toward him, 
looked about him for a leaf, or something of that 
nature, by which to take hold of it. It was at this 
moment that his eyes, and mine also, fell upon the 
scrap of parchment, which I then supposed to be 
paper. It was lying half buried in the sand, a corner 
sticking up. Near the spot where we found it, I 
observed the remnants of the hull of what appeared 
to have been a ship’s long boat. The wreck seemed 
to have been there for a very great while ; for the 
resemblance to boat timbers could scarcely be traced. 

“Well, Jupiter picked up the parchment, wrapped 
the beetle in it, and gave it to me. Soon afterward 
we turned to go home, and on the way met Lieuten¬ 
ant G-. I showed him the insect, and he begged 

me to let him take it to the fort. Upon my consent¬ 
ing, he thrust it forthwith into his waistcoat pocket, 
without the parchment in which it had been wrapped, 
and which I had continued to hold in my hand 
during his inspection. Perhaps he dreaded my 
changing my mind, and thought it best to make sure 
of the prize at once—you know how enthusiastic he 
is on all subjects connected with Natural History. 
At the same time, without being conscious of it, I 
must have deposited the parchment in my own 
pocket. 

“ You remember that when I went to the table, for 
the purpose of making a r ketch of the beetle, I found 
no paper where it was us' ally kept. I looked in the 
drawer, and found none there. I searched my 
pockets, hoping to find an old letter, when my hand 
fell upon the parchment. I thus detail the precise 
mode in which it came into my possession ; for the 
circumstances impressed me with peculiar force. 

“ No doubt you will think me fanciful—but I had 
already established a kind of connection. I had put 
together two links of a great chain. There was a 
boat lying upon a sea-coast, and not far from the 
boat was a parchment —not a paper —with a skull de¬ 
picted upon it. You will, of course, ask ‘where is 
the connection ? ’ I reply that the skull, or death’s- 
head, is the well-known emblem of the pirate. The 
flag of the death’s-head is hoisted in all engagements. 

“ I have said that the scrap was parchment, and 
not paper. Parchment is durable—almost imperish¬ 
able. Matters of little moment are rarely consigned 
to parchment; since, for the mere ordinary purposes 
of drawing or writing, it is not nearly so well adapted 
as paper. This reflection suggested some meaning— 
some relevancy—in the death’s-head. I did not fail 
to observe, also, the form of the parchment. Although 
one of its corners had been, by some accident, de- 






The Gold-Bug. 


93 


stroyed, it could be seen that the original form was 
oblong. It was just such a slip, indeed, as might 
have been chosen for a memorandum—for a record 
of something to be long remembered and carefully 
preserved.” 

“ But,” I interposed, “ you say that the skull was 
not upon the parchment when you made the drawing 
of the beetle. How then do you trace any connec¬ 
tion between the boat and the skull—since this latter, 
according to your own admission, must have been 
designed (God only knows how or by whom) at some 
period subsequent to your sketching the scarabceus ? ” 

“Ah, hereupon turns the whole mystery ; although 
the secret, at this point, I had comparatively little 
difficulty in solving. My steps were sure, and could 
afford but a single result. I reasoned, for example, 
thus : When I drew the scarabceus there was no skull 
apparent upon the parchment. When I had com¬ 
pleted the drawing I gave it to you, and observed 
you narrowly until you returned it. You , therefore, 
did not design the skull, and no one else was present 
to do it. Then it was not done by human agency. 
And nevertheless it was done. 

“At this stage of my reflections I endeavored to 
remember, and did remember, with entire distinct¬ 
ness, every incident which occurred about the period 
in question. The weather was chilly (oh rare and 
happy accident!), and a fire was blazing upon the 
hearth. I was heated with exercise and sat near the 
table. You, however, had drawn a chair close to 
the chimney. Just as I placed the parchment in 
your hand, and as you were in the act of inspecting 
it, Wolf, the Newfoundland, entered, and leaped 
upon your shoulders. With your left hand you ca¬ 
ressed him and kept him off, while your right, hold¬ 
ing the parchment, was permitted to fall listlessly 
between your knees, and in close proximity to the 
fire. At one moment I thought the blaze had caught 
it, and was about to caution you, but, before I could 
speak, you had withdrawn it, and were engaged in 
its examination. When I considered all these par¬ 
ticulars, I doubted not for a moment that heat had 
been the agent in bringing to light, upon the parch¬ 
ment, the skull which I saw designed upon it. You 
are well aware that chemical preparations exist, and 
have existed time out of mind, by means of which it 
is possible to write upon either paper or vellum, so 
that the characters shall become visible only when 
subjected to the action of fire. Zaffre, digested in 
aqua regia , and diluted with four times its weight of 
water, is sometimes employed ; a green tint results. 
The regulus of cobalt, dissolved in spirit of nitre, 
gives a red. These colors disappear at longer or 
shorter intervals after the material written upon cools, 
but again become apparent upon the re-application 
of heat. 

“ I now scrutinized the death’s-head with care. Its 
outer edges—the edges of the drawing nearest the 
edge of the vellum—were far more distinct than the 
others. It was clear that the action of the caloric 


had been imperfect or unequal. I immediately kin¬ 
dled afire, and subjected every portion of the parch¬ 
ment to a glowing heat. At first, the only effect 
was the strengthening of the faint lines in the skull; 
but, upon persevering in the experiment, there be¬ 
came visible, at the corner of the slip, diagonally 
opposite to the spot in which the death’s-head was 
delineated, the figure of what I at first supposed to 
be a goat. A closer scrutiny, however, satisfied me 
that it was intended for a kid.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ” said I, “ to be sure I have no right to 
laugh at you—a million and a half of money is too 
serious a matter for mirth—but you are not about to 
establish a third link in your chain—you will not 
find any especial connection between your pirates 
and a goat—pirates, you know, have nothing to do 
with goats ; they appertain to the farming interest.” 

“ But I have just said that the figure was not that 
of a goat.” 

“Well, a kid then—pretty much the same thing.” 

“ Pretty much, but not altogether,” said Legrand. 
“You may have heard of one Captain Kidd. I at 
once looked upon the figure of the animal as a kind 
of punning or hieroglyphical signature. I say sig¬ 
nature ; because its position upon the vellum sug¬ 
gested this idea. The death’s-head at the corner 
diagonally opposite, had, in the same manner, the air 
of a stamp, or seal. But I was sorely put out by the 
absence of all else—of the body to my imagined in¬ 
strument—of the text for my context.” 

“ I presume you expected to find a letter between 
the stamp and the signature.” 

“ Something of that kind. The fact is, I felt ir¬ 
resistibly impressed with a presentiment of some vast 
good fortune impending. I can scarcely say why. 
Perhaps, after all, it was rather a desire than an actual 
belief;—but do you know that Jupiter’s silly words 
about the bug being of solid gold had a remarkable 
effect upon my fancy ? And then the series of acci¬ 
dents and coincidences—these were so very extraordi¬ 
nary. Do you observe how mere an accident it was 
that these events should have occurred upon the sole 
day of all the year in which it has been, or may be, 
sufficiently cool for fire, and that without the fire, or 
without the intervention of the dog at the precise 
moment in which he appeared, I should never have 
become aware of the death’s-head, and so never the 
possessor of the treasure ? ” 

“But proceed—I am all impatience.” 

“ Well; you have heard, of course, the many stories 
current—the thousand vague rumors afloat—about 
money buried, somewhere upon the Atlantic coast, 
by Kidd and his associates. These rumors must 
have had some foundation in fact. And that the 
rumors have existed so long and so continuous, could 
have resulted, it appeared to me, only from the cir¬ 
cumstances of the buried treasure still remaining en¬ 
tombed. Had Kidd concealed his plunder for a time, 
and afterward reclaimed it, the rumors would scarcely 
have reached us in their present unvarying form. 




94 


Treasury of Tales. 


You will observe that the stories told are all about 
money-seekers, not about money-finders. Had the 
pirate recovered his money, there the affair would 
have dropped. It seemed to me that some accident 
—say the loss of a memorandum indicating its local¬ 
ity—had deprived him of the means of recovering it, 
and that this accident had become known to his fol¬ 
lowers, who otherwise might never have heard that 
treasure had been concealed at all, and who, busying 
themselves in vain, because unguided, attempts to 
regain it, had given first birth, and then universal 
currency, to the reports which are now so common. 
Have you ever heard of any important treasure being 
unearthed along the coast ? ” 

“Never.” 

“ But that Kidd’s accumulations were immense, is 
well known. I took it for granted, therefore, that 
the earth still held them ; and you will scarcely be 
surprised when I tell you that I felt a hope, nearly 
amounting to certainty, that the parchment so 
strangely found, involved a lost record of the place 
of deposit.” 

“ But how did you proceed ?” 

“ I held the vellum again to the fire, after increas¬ 
ing the heat, but nothing appeared. I now thought 
it possible that the coating of dirt might have some¬ 
thing to do with the failure ; so I carefully rinsed the 
parchment by pouring warm water over it, and, having 
done this, I placed it in a tin pan, with the skull down¬ 
ward, and put the pan upon a furnace of lighted 
charcoal. In a few minutes, the pan having become 
thoroughly heated, I removed the slip, and, to my 
inexpressible joy, found it spotted, in several places, 
with what appeared to be figures arranged in lines. 
Again I placed it in the pan, and suffered it to re¬ 
main another minute. Upon taking it off, the whole 
was just as you see it now.” 

Here Legrand, having re-heated the parchment, 
submitted it to my inspection. The following charac¬ 
ters were rudely traced, in a red tint, between the 
death’s-head and the goat: 

53ttt3°5)) 6 * ;4826)4t)4); 806* ;48f8l6o))85; i| 
(; :J*8t83(88)5*f; 4 6(;88* 9 6*?;8)*J( 5485); 5 *ta:*t(; 
4956*2(5*—4)818* 54069285);)6f8)44; i(t 9 ;48o8i;8 
:8|i;48t85;4)485t5288o6*8i(t 9 ; 4 8; (88 54(^34 548)4!; 
1615: 188;!?; 

“ But,” said I, returning him the slip, “ I am as 
much in the dark as ever. Were all the jewels of 
Golconda awaiting me upon my solution of this 
enigma, I am quite sure that I should be unable to earn 
them.” 

“And yet,” said Legrand, “ the solution is by no 
means so difficult as you might be led to imagine 
from the first hasty inspection of the characters. 
These characters, as any one might readily guess, 
form a cipher—that is to say, they convey a mean¬ 
ing ; but then, from what is known of Kidd, I could 
not suppose him capable of constructing any of the 
more abstruse cryptographs. I made up my mind, 


at once, that this was of a simple species—such, how¬ 
ever, as would appear, to the crude intellect of the 
sailor, absolutely insoluble without the key.” 

“And you really solved it ? ” 

“ Readily ; I have solved others of an abstruse¬ 
ness ten thousand times greater. Circumstances, and 
a certain bias of mind, have led me to take interest 
in such riddles, and it may well be doubted whether 
human ingenuity can construct an enigma of the 
kind which human ingenuity may not, by proper ap¬ 
plication, resolve. In fact, having once established 
connected and legible characters, I scarcely gave a 
thought to the mere difficulty of developing their 
import. 

“ In the present case—indeed in all cases of secret 
writing—the first question regards the language of 
the cipher ; for the principles of solution, so far, es¬ 
pecially, as the more simple ciphers are concerned, 
depend upon, and are varied by, the genius of the 
particular idiom. In general, there is no alternative 
but experiment (directed by probabilities) of every 
tongue known to him who attempts the solution, 
until the true one be attained. .But, with the 
cipher now before us, all difficulty was removed by 
the signature. The pun upon the word ‘ Kidd ’ is 
appreciable in no other language than the English. 
But for this consideration I should have begun my 
attempts with the Spanish and French, as the tongues 
in which a secret of this kind would most naturally 
have been written by a pirate of the Spanish main. 
As it was, I assumed the cryptograph to be English. 

“You observe there are no divisions between the 
words. Had there been divisions, the task would 
have been comparatively easy. In such case I should 
have commenced with a collation and analysis of the 
shorter words, and, had a word of a single letter oc¬ 
curred, as is most likely (a or /, for example,) I should 
have considered the solution as assured. But, there 
being no division, my first step was to ascertain the 
predominant letters, as well as the least frequent. 
Counting all, I constructed a table, thus : 

Of the character 8 there are 33. 

; “ 26. 

4 “ i 9 ‘ 

t) “ 16. 

* “ i 3 - 

5 “ 12. 

6 “ 11. 

t 1 8. 

o “ 6. 

92 “ 5- 

: 3 “ 4- 

? “ 3 - 

1 “ 2. 

U 

- . I. 

“ Now, in English, the letter which most frequently 
occurs is e. Afterward, the succession runs thus : 
aoidhnrstuyc f g l m w b k p q x z. E pre¬ 
dominates so remarkably that an individual sentence 







95 


The Gold -Bug. 


of any length is rarely seen, in which it is not the 
prevailing character. 

“ Here, then, we have, in the very beginning, the 
groundwork for something more than a mere guess. 
The general use which may be made of the table is 
obvious—but, in this particular cipher, we shall only 
very partially require its aid. As our predominant 
character is 8, we will commence by assuming it as 
the e of the natural alphabet. To verify the supposi¬ 
tion, let us observe if the 8 be seen often in couples 
—for e is doubled with great frequency in English— 
in such words, for example, as ‘ meet,’ ‘ fleet,’ ‘speed,’ 
‘seen,’ ‘been,’ ‘agree,’ etc. In the present instance 
we see it doubled no less than five times, although 
the cryptograph is brief. 

“ Let us assume 8, then, as e. Now, of 'all words 
in the language, ‘ the ’ is most usual; let us see, there¬ 
fore, whether there are not repetitions of any three 
characters, in the same order of collocation, the last 
of them being 8. If we discover repetitions of such 
letters, so arranged, they will most probably repre¬ 
sent the word ‘ the.’ Upon inspection, we find no 
less than seven such arrangements, the characters 
being 548. We may, therefore, assume that ; repre¬ 
sents /, 4 represents h, and 8 represents e —the last 
being now well confirmed. Thus a great step has 
been taken. 

“ But, having established a single word, we are 
enabled to establish a vastly important point; that 
is to say, several commencements and terminations 
of other words. Let us refer, for example, to the 
last instance but one, in which the combination 548 
occurs—not far from the end of the cipher. We 
know that the ; immediately ensuing is the com¬ 
mencement of a word, and, of the six characters 
succeeding this ‘ the,’ we are cognizant of no less 
than five. Let us set these characters down, thus, 
by the letters we know them to represent, leaving a 
space for the unknown— 

t eeth. 

“ Here we are enabled, at once, to discard the ‘ ///,’ 
as forming no portion of the word commencing with 
the first t; since, by experiment of the entire alpha¬ 
bet for a letter adapted to the vacancy we perceive 
that no word can be formed of which this th can be 
a part. We are thus narrowed into 

t ee, 

and, going through the alphabet, if necessary, as 
before, we arrive at the word ‘tree,’ as the sole pos¬ 
sible reading. We thus gain another letter, r, repre¬ 
sented by (, with the words ‘ the tree ’ in juxtaposition. 

“ Looking beyond these words, for a short dis¬ 
tance, we again see the combination 548, and employ 
it by way of termination to what immediately pre¬ 
cedes. We have thus this arrangement: 

the tree ;4(J?34 the, 

or, substituting the natural letters, where known, it 
reads thus : 

the tree thrj?3h the. 


“ Now, if, in place of the unknown characters, we 
leave blank spaces, or substitute dots, we read thus : 
the tree thr...h the, 

when the word ‘ through ’ makes itself evident at 
once. But this discovery gives us three new letters, 
0, u and g , represented by X ? and 3. 

“ Looking now, narrowly, through the cipher for 
combinations of known characters, we find, not very 
far from the beginning this arrangement, 

83(88, or egree, 

which plainly, is the conclusion of the word ‘ degree,’ 
and gives us another letter d, represented by f. 

“Four letters beyond the word ‘degree,’ we per¬ 
ceive the combination 

;48(;88. 

“ Translating the known characters, and represent¬ 
ing the unknown by dots, as before, we read thus : 
th rtee. 

an arrangement immediately suggestive of the word 
‘ thirteen,’ and again furnishing us with two new 
characters, i and n, represented by 6 and *. 

“ Referring, now, to the beginning of the crypto 
graph, we find the combination, 

53ttt* 

“ Translating, as before, we obtain 
. good, 

which assures us that the first letter is A, and that 
the first two words are ‘A good.’ 

“ It is now time that we arrange our key, as far as 
discovered, in a tabular form to avoid confusion. It 
will stand thus : 


5 represents a 
f “ d 



4 

6 


X “ o 

( “ r 

; “ t 

“We have, therefore, no less than ten of the most 

important letters represented, and it will be unneces¬ 
sary to proceed with the details of the solution. I 
have said enough to convince you that ciphers of 
this nature are readily soluble, and to give you some 
insight into the rationale of their development. But 
be assured that the specimen before us appertains to 
the very simplest species of cryptograph. It now 
only remains to give you the full translation of the 
characters upon the parchment, as unriddled. Here 
it is : 

l A good glass in the bishop's hostel in the devil's seat 
forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes northeast and by 
north main branch seventh limb east side shoot from the 
left eye of the death's-head a bee line from the tree 
through the shot fifty feet out.' " 

“But,” said I, “ the enigma seems still in as bad a 
condition as ever. How is it possible to extort a 







Treasury of Tales. 


go 


meaning from all this jargon about ‘devil’s seats,’ 
‘ death’s-heads,’ and ‘ bishop’s hotels ? ’ ” 

“ I confess,” replied Legrand, “ that the matter 
still wears a serious aspect, when regarded with a 
casual glance. My first endeavor was to divide the 
sentence into the natural division intended by the 
cryptographist.” 

“ You mean to punctuate it ?” 

“ Something of that kind.” 

“But now how was it possible to effect this?” 

“ I reflected that it had been a point with the 
writer to run his words together without division, so 
as to increase the difficulty of solution. Now, a not 
over-acute man, in pursuing such an object, would 
be nearly certain to overdo the matter. When, in 
the course of his composition, he arrived at a break 
in his subject which would naturally require a pause, 
or a point, he would be exceedingly apt to run his 
characters, at this place, more than usually close 
together. If you will observe the MS., in the present 
instance, you will easily detect five such cases of un¬ 
usual crowding. Acting upon this hint, I made the 
division thus : 

‘ A good glass in the Bishop's hostel in the Devil's 
seat — forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes—northeast 
and by north—main branch seventh limb east side — 
shoot from the left eye of the death's-head—a bee-line 
from the tree through the shot fifty feet out.' " 

“ Even this division,” said I, “ leaves me still in 
the dark.” 

“ It left me also in the dark,” replied Legrand, 
“ for a few days ; during which I made diligent in¬ 
quiry, in the neighborhood of Sullivan’s Island, for 
any building which went by the name of the ‘ Bish¬ 
op’s Hotel ; ’ for, of course, I dropped the obsolete 
word ‘ hostel.’ Gaining no information on the sub¬ 
ject, I was on the point of extending my sphere of 
search, and proceeding in a more systematic manner, 
when, one morning, it entered into my head, quite 
suddenly, that this ‘ Bishop’s Hostel ’ might have 
some reference to an old family, of the name of Bes- 
sop, which, time out of mind, had held possession of 
an ancient manor-house, about four miles to the 
northward of the Island. I accordingly went over 
to the plantation, and re-instituted my inquiries 
among the older negroes of the place. At length 
one of the most aged of the women said that she had 
heard of such a place as Bessop's Castle , and thought 
that she could guide me to it, but that it was not a 
castle, nor a tavern, but a high rock. 

“ I offered to pay her well for her trouble, and, 
after some demur, she consented to accompany me 
to the spot. We found it without much difficulty, 
when, dismissing her, I proceeded to examine the 
place. The ‘castle ’ consisted of an irregular assem¬ 
blage of cliffs and rocks—one of the latter being 
quite remarkable for its height as well as for its in¬ 
sulated and artificial appearance. I clambered to 
its apex, and then felt much at a loss as to what 
should be next done. 


“ While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell 
upon a narrow ledge in the eastern face of the rock, 
perhaps a yard below the summit upon which I stood. 
This ledge projected about eighteen inches, and was 
not more than a foot wide, while a niche in the cliff 
just above it, gave it a rude resemblance to one of 
the hollow-backed chairs used by our ancestors. I 
made no doubt that here was the ‘ devil’s-seat ’ al¬ 
luded to in the MS., and now I seemed to grasp the 
full secret of the riddle. 

“The ‘good glass’ I knew, could have reference 
to nothing but a telescope ; for the word ‘ glass ’ is 
rarely employed in any other sense by seamen. Now 
here, I at once saw, was a telescope to be used, and 
a definite point of view, admitting no variation , from 
which to use it. Nor did I hesitate to believe that 
the phrases, ‘forty-one degrees and thirteen min¬ 
utes,’ and ‘northeast and by north,’were intended 
as directions for the levelling of the glass. Greatly 
excited by these discoveries, I hurried home, pro¬ 
cured a telescope, and returned to the rock. 

“ I let myself down to the ledge, and found that it 
was impossible to retain a seat upon it except in one 
particular position. This fact confirmed my pre¬ 
conceived idea. I proceeded to use the glass. Of 
course, the ‘forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes’ 
could allude to nothing but elevation above the visi¬ 
ble horizon, since the horizontal direction was clearly 
indicated by the words, ‘ northeast and by north.’ 
This latter direction I at once established by means 
of a pocket-compass ; then, pointing the glass as 
nearly at an angle of forty-one degrees of elevation 
as I could do it by guess, I moved it cautiously up 
or down, until my attention was arrested by a circu¬ 
lar rift or opening in the foliage of a large tree that 
overtopped its fellows in the distance. In the cen¬ 
tre of this rift I perceived a white spot, but could not, 
at first, distinguish what it was. Adjusting the focus 
of the telescope, I again looked, and now made it 
out to be a human skull. 

“ Upon this discovery I was so sanguine as to con¬ 
sider the enigma solved : for the phrase ‘ main branch, 
seventh limb, east side,’ could refer only to the posi¬ 
tion of the skull upon the tree, while ‘ shoot from the 
left eye of the death’s-head ’ admitted, also, of but 
one interpretation, in regard to a search for buried 
treasure. I perceived that the design was to drop a 
bullet from the left eye of the skull, and that a bee¬ 
line, or, in other words, a straight line, drawn from 
the nearest point of the trunk through ‘ the shot ’ (or 
the spot where the bullet fell), and thence extended 
to a distance of fifty feet, would indicate a definite 
point—and beneath this point I thought it at least 
possible that a deposit of value lay concealed.” 

“All this,” I said, “ is exceedingly clear, and, 
although ingenious, still simple and explicit. When 
you left the Bishop’s Hotel, what then ?” 

“ Why, having carefully taken the bearings of the 
tree, I turned homeward. The instant that I left 
‘ the devil’s-seat,’ however, the circular rift vanished • 





97 


Mrs. Banweirs Legacy. 


nor could I get a glimpse of it afterward, turn as I 
would. What seems to me the chief ingenuity in 
this whole business, is the fact (for repeated experi¬ 
ment has convinced me it is a fact) that the circular 
opening in question is visible from no other attain¬ 
able point of view than that afforded by the narrow 
ledge upon the face of the rock. 

“ In this expedition to the ‘Bishop’s Hotel ’ I had 
been attended by Jupiter, who had, no doubt, ob¬ 
served, for some weeks past, the abstraction of my 
demeanor, and took especial care not to leave me 
alone. But, on the next day, getting up very early, 
I contrived to give him the slip, and went into the 
hills in search of the tree. After much toil I found 
it. When I came home at night my valet proposed 
to give me a flogging. With the rest of the adven¬ 
ture I believe you are as well acquainted as myself.” 

“ I suppose,” said I, “ you missed the spot, in the 
first attempt at digging, through Jupiter’s stupidity 
in letting the bug fall through the right instead of 
through the left eye of the skull.” 

“ Precisely. This mistake made a difference of 
about two inches and a half in the ‘ shot ’—that is to 
say, in the position of the peg nearest the tree ; and 
had the treasure been beneath the ‘ shot ’ the error 
would have been of little moment ; but ‘ the shot,’ 
together with the nearest point of the tree, were 
merely two points for the establishment of a line of 
direction ; of course the error, however trival in the 
beginning, increased as we proceeded with the line, 
and by the time we had gone fifty feet, threw us quite 
off the scent. But for my deep-seated impressions 
that treasure was here somewhere actually buried, 
we might have had all our labor in vain.” 

“ But your grandiloquence, and your conduct in 
swinging the beetle—how excessively odd ! I was 
sure you were mad. And why did you insist upon let¬ 
ting fall the bug, instead of a bullet, from the skull ? ” 

“ Why, to be frank, I felt somewhat annoyed by 
your evident suspicions touching my sanity, and so 
resolved to punish you quietly, in my own way, by a 
little bit of sober mystification. For this reason I 
swung the beetle, and for this reason I let it fall from 
the tree. An observation of yours about its great 
weight suggested the latter idea.” 

“ Yes, I perceive ; and now there is only one point 
which puzzles me. What are we to make of the 
skeletons found in the hole ? ” 

“ That is a question I am no more able to answer 
than yourself. There seems, however, only one 
plausible way of accounting for them—and yet it is 
dreadful to believe in such atrocity as my suggestion 
would imply. It is clear that Kidd—if Kidd indeed 
secreted this treasure, which I doubt not—it is clear 
that he must have had assistance in the labor. But 
this labor concluded, he may have thought it ex¬ 
pedient to remove all participants in his secret. Per¬ 
haps a couple of blows with a mattock were suffi¬ 
cient, while his coadjutors were busy in the pit; 
perhaps it required a dozen—who shall tell ? ” 


MI\S. BANWELL’S LEGACY. 

RS. BANWELL was a widow ; doubly so, 
indeed, for she had “ planted ” two hus¬ 
bands—item, a retired butcher, and item, a 
small money-lender. Each had borne fruit after 
his kind ; and Mrs. Banwell lived comfortably on 
the produce, about four hundred a year. We called 
her, perhaps rather unkindly, the Vampire. 

Yet there was one thing we could not but admire 
about the widow—she was so consistent. There was 
no nonsense about her, no hypocrisy, nor affecta¬ 
tion of fine motives. We had known her as a “ girl ” 
—well, say of seven or eight and thirty, buxom, 
comely, and with a capacity for making herself ex¬ 
ceeding agreeable when she choose. 

She never made any secret of her intentions ; she 
doted on old men, and would marry an old man—or 
two, if needful—to obtain a respectable maintenance 
and due provision for the future. There was no re¬ 
liance to be placed in young men, she used to say 
(regarding them in the light of an investment); no 
knowing how they would turn out; whether, having 
money, they would not risk and lose it ; or having 
none, if they would ever push their way on to fortune. 
It was a great speculation to marry a young man ; 
and not being of a speculative turn of mind, she pre¬ 
ferred the more solid investment of a comfortable 
old gentleman who had been through the world, 
gathered up his earthly dross into the Three per 
Cent.’s, and only wanted a companion to see him 
home the last mile or two through this vale of 
tears. 

So she married the butcher. All butchers are 
mortal ; but old butchers, accustomed all their lives 
to the blue serge smock and the dangling steel, when 
they retire, go out of business, out of their element, 
and out of the world nearly together. With nothing 
more to kill, there was nothing more to live for, so 
the retired butcher retired for good. The butcher 
died ; and, after decently mourning his loss for two 
years, and settling up his affairs, his relict became 
Mrs. Banwell. 

Three per Cent.’s killed Mr. Banwell. Deprived of 
the risk and excitement attached to lending small 
sums, and discounting bills at exorbitant rates, and 
receiving nothing but steady, fixed, half-yearly pay¬ 
ments of three per cent., broke his heart. He would 
gladly have returned to business, but had sold his 
connection ; and he possessed neither aptitude nor 
liking for any other sort of monetary business than 
his own particular walk, and he was too old to com¬ 
mence again in that in some other town. There was 
little left for him to do but to die ; which, after ma¬ 
ture reflection, he did. 

Mrs. Banwell had done her duty by both husbands. 
She had been kindly and affectionate, and had proved 
a most agreeable companion to smooth the declining 
years of each. She had spent the evening of their 
days with them, seen them home ; and having her- 









98 


Treasury of Tales . 


self returned to the world, she lived on the two 
dead men. That was why we called her the Vam¬ 
pire. 

Her first husband, the butcher, had no immediate 
relatives who felt themselves aggrieved at the dispo¬ 
sition of his property. The widow took her third 
share, whilst the remainder was distributed among 
the distant relations. 

In Mr. Banwell’s case, however, his widow re¬ 
ceived, by the will, two-thirds of the estate real and 
personal of which he died possessed, whilst the resi¬ 
due went to deceased’s nephew, Mr. Loney, wharfin¬ 
ger of St. Katherine’s Docks, London, who had 
always been brought up to consider himself heir to 
his uncle’s entire property. 

Of course Mr. Loney was not well pleased on first 
hearing of his uncle’s marriage ; but frequent visits 
had convinced him that Mrs. Banwell was a very 
affable and agreeable sort of person, whom it was 
desirable, moreover, to “ keep in ” with. So they 
had always been on friendly terms. Mr. Loney was 
even less pleased on hearing the will read ; but not 
seeing how a rupture with his aunt could mend mat¬ 
ters, he continued to maintain friendly relations with 
her. Indeed, Mrs. Banwell found his services of 
great use in settling Mr. Banwell’s affairs ; and in 
many difficult matters had appealed to him for ad¬ 
vice, which he always gave in a business-like way, 
still, however, regarding Mrs. Banwell in his heart, 
notwithstanding her affability, as a professional 
woman, who made it her business to marry old men, 
and live on them after they were dead, and one who, 
in the exercise of that profession, had “ done him ” 
out of a considerable sum of money. 

We must all live—if we can—but we, none of us, 
like those who, very immediately and very obviously, 
live upon us. Whilst, therefore, Mr. Loney fully ac¬ 
corded Mrs. Banwell her right and title to live upon 
him (as he considered she was doing by receiving 
the largest share of his uncle’s money under the will), 
he did not like her any the more for it, especially as 
he had a wife and a large family to provide for. 
Yet, as he said, what is the good of a quarrel ? It 
would infallibly alienate any possible intentions she 
may have of restoring part of the money to us at her 
death ; or, on the other hand, it will put it out of 
my power to repay her in kind for the very grasping 
and covetous disposition I think she has evinced. 

Accordingly, there was no quarrel ; and some four 
years after the death of her last lamented, found 
Mrs. Banwell (tztat about fifty) retired from the pro¬ 
fession of marrying old people, having amassed a 
competence on which to live for the rest of her days 
in the neat and pretty cottage called Woodbury, 
situated just outside our town of Winterford, where 
she dwelt at peace with all mankind, and particu¬ 
larly respected by shopkeepers, as she paid cash for 
everything. At this point of Mrs. Banwell’s history, 
when a novelist would certainly have done with her, 
my veracious story in reality commences ; the pre¬ 


ceding portion being taken by way of a prologue 
necessary to its due comprehension. 

About this time, an old gentleman of very unas¬ 
suming habits came to Winterford, and rented an 
humble little cottage not far from Mrs. Banwell’s 
more pretentious residence of Woodbury. His 
name was Chatfield, a little old man, with very 
twinkling eyes, and a seedy wig of nut-brown hair, 
as palpably the work of men’s fingers as the thatch 
over his cottage. 

He must have been very old indeed—how old, I 
am afraid to guess—but his eyes had always a con¬ 
tented, and often a merry twinkle, as though secretly 
enjoying a joke, puckering up the very crow’s-feet in 
spite of themselves. He was not a good-looking old 
man, for he had a complexion like a bad medlar. 
He lived very frugally, and quite alone, saving for 
an old housekeeper who attended on him ; and sel¬ 
dom went out, except for half an hour’s airing on 
foot, when the weather was mild. His dress was re¬ 
markable only for the genteel shabbiness attained by 
vigorous brushing combined with long and careful 
wear. 

He had resided in Winterford quite a twelvemonth 
without a soul taking any notice of him except the 
milkman, the postman, and the few tradespeople 
who deemed it worth while to call for his scanty 
orders, when it began to be whispered that Mr. 
Chatfield was very rich. It was impossible to trace 
any foundation for the rumor ; but once started, 
the old man’s penurious habits, shabby clothes, and 
reserved demeanor, afforded, to superficial inquirers, 
a proof that he was of a miserly turn. 

Folks were still speculating on the subject, when, 
one day, looking out of her drawing-room window, 
Mrs. Banwell saw this identical Mr. Chatfield cling¬ 
ing to her garden railings for support, as though 
taken suddenly ill. In real alarm, the widow went 
out, and finding him seized with a fit, and speech¬ 
less, at once obtained assistance to convey him to 
his cottage. Arrived there, Mrs. Banwell and those 
neighbors who had accompanied her, waited down 
stairs, in Mr. Chatfield’s little front-parlor, to hear 
the doctor’s opinion of the case. 

While waiting, the widow regarded the room with 
some curiosity, to see if it afforded any evidence of 
Mr. Chatfield’s rumored wealth. None, apparently. 
The furniture was scanty, poor, and of the precise 
degree of shabbiness of the owner’s clothes. The 
one thing distinctive about the room was that it 
belonged obviously to a man who had to do with 
ships. It was hung with shipping pictures—litho¬ 
graphs mostly, representing screw and paddle steam¬ 
ers, with particulars of tonnage and horse-power, 
plans and sections of vessels, together with draw¬ 
ings of various clipper-built barks and brigs of large 
size. Several models of vessels were placed about 
the room, and these, with the pictures, constituted 
the sole articles of an ornamental character, except¬ 
ing, perhaps, a very old chess-board, marked “ His- 





Mrs. Banwell's Legacy. 


99 


tory of England, in Two Volumes;” and another 
much smaller volume of dark wood, about four 
inches by three, in shape and general appearance 
like a small prayer-book, which occupied a con¬ 
spicuous position on the mantel-shelf. 

Presently, the doctor came down, and stated there 
was no cause for alarm, that Mr. Chatfield would do 
very well, his attack having been nothing more than 
the result of general debility. 

On returning home, still thinking about Mr. Chat- 
field and his probable connection with the shipping 
interest it occurred to Mrs. Banwell to write to her 
nephew Mr. Loney, who, from his position in St. 
Katherine’s Docks, had largely to do with shipping. 
So, by way of postscript to a friendly letter, she said : 
“ By-the-bye, we have a strange old gentleman who 
has taken a cottage near mine—a Mr. Chatfield—and 
a silly report has got about that he is rich. It appears 
he has had to do with shipping in some way, and if 
so, I thought it possible you might know something 
of him. It is the merest curiosity on my part, but 
one does like to know who one’s neighbors are.” 

Now, it so happened Mr. Loney did know Mr. 
Chatfield very well, having had a good deal to do 
with him in the way of business, and having also 
spent many pleasant evenings at the old gentleman’s 
house in London in past times. Tossing the letter 
to his wife, he said : “ Here’s my blessed old step- 
aunt, I do verily believe, looking out a step-uncle for 
me.” 

However, after a little consideration, he wrote a 
reply to Mrs. Banwell’s letter. The part relating to 
Mr. Chatfield was as follows: “ Respecting your 
inquiry about Mr. Chatfield, I knew him for many 
years while he was in London, and shall be pleased 
to pay him my respects when I come to Winterford. 
I cannot ascertain the precise amount of his wealth, 
but this I can tell you—that, although he has now 
renounced all active connection with the shipping 
interest, he is at the present time a part-owner of a 
vessel of more than fifteen hundred tons burden. I 
must say no more, and even this is in sacred con¬ 
fidence, as Mr. Chatfield is an eccentric person, and 
particularly reticent about his affairs.” 

Mr. Loney was wrong in his surmise about Mrs. 
Banwell. To do the widow justice, her intentions 
were not matrimonial ; nevertheless, on receipt of 
this intelligence, she began to take a very lively 
interest in old Mr. Chatfield’s welfare, and com¬ 
menced sending daily to ask after his health—a 
simple civility which none but the uncharitable could 
misconstrue, except on the ground that she had not 
done so before. 

When sufficiently recovered, the old man used his 
first strength to call at Woodbury Cottage, and 
thank Mrs. Banwell for the assistance rendered him 
when taken ill, and for her solicitude. The widow 
on her part was particularly gracious. She chided 
him for keeping himself so much shut up from inter¬ 
course with other people, and told him plainly that 


society was what he wanted, and what he must have. 
And she insisted that this his first visit was to be the 
prelude of a great many more. 

“ My good Mr. Chatfield, you really must do as I 
prescribe. What are we here for in this world, if 
not to minister to each other’s comforts ? It will 
not do for you to bury yourself underground like a 
mole. And I do insist that whenever you feel a 
little dull or lonely, as you must feel at times—a 
man used to active life such as yourself—that you 
come over here for a little cheerful change. And if 
you do not come often, I shall come to see you in a 
neighborly way, and try and cheer you up. We are 
both of us too old for the world to talk nonsense 
about, and may as well be sociable.” 

Mr. Chatfield seemed unaffectedly surprised. His 
shrewd little eyes puzzled over Mrs. Banwell’s face, 
to find some motive for her interest in his happiness 
—but gave it up. However, he at once promised 
to avail himself of her kindness. 

“ It is lonely at times,” he said, “for I have neither 
chick nor child belonging to me to write me a letter 
even. And it is the more kind of you, Mrs. Banwell, 
because I am a poor man—a very poor man, mum. 
But then it takes a great deal of money to make a 
rich man, don’t it, mum ? ” 

“Very true,” assented the widow. 

“ How much money do you think now, for 
instance ? ” asked Mr. Chatfield. 

“ Well, really, that altogether depends upon cir¬ 
cumstances of position ; but should you not think 
twenty thousand pounds enough to make the gen¬ 
erality of people rich ? ” 

“ More than that, mum; that’s not enough to 
satisfy a man—only enough to give him an appetite 
for more ; and at five times that, a man would feel 
hungry still.” 

“ Gracious ! Mr. Chatfield, you’re never con¬ 
tented.” 

“That’s where ’tis, mum. You’ve hit it : no one 
is rich till he is content.” 

“Are you content, then, yourself?” 

“No, mum, I ain’t; and, what’s more, ain’t likely 
to be, or to meet the man who is.” 

Mrs. Banwell had at first thought the old gentle¬ 
man was going to give her some notion of the extent 
of his resources, but found he was only talking in a 
circle to leave off where he began, which aggravated 
her as much as his persistent use of the word 
“ mum.” 

However, Mr. Chatfield soon became a constant 
visitor at Woodbury Cottage, and the widow had 
every reason to congratulate herself on being installed 
in his good graces. She gave a goodly number of 
parties, and invited him to all of them. He always 
came scrupulously neat and clean, but in a well-worn 
dress coat, and a wig a shade better than the one he 
usually mounted. In point of fact, Mrs. Banwell 
spent a good deal of money on the old fellow, and, 
what is more, thought it money well laid out. Some 






IOO 


Treasury of Tales. 


months passed so. Then Mr. Loney came down to 
pay a short visit to his aunt, in the course of which 
he smoked his pipe more than once at Mr. Chatfield’s. 

From that time, Mr. Chatfield became less reserved 
in his allusions to his own fortune when in Mrs. 
Banwell’s company. He even admitted to her that 
he was, in fact, part-owner of a vessel of large ton¬ 
nage—and in addition to that, spoke of dividends he 
was receiving from another source—not obtrusively, 
but in the most casual manner in conversation. The 
reason of this change, not to make any mystery about 
it, was, that he had either discovered himself, or 
else (and more likely) Mr. Loney had helped him to 
discern that the lively interest the widow took in him 
and his affairs was not wholly of an unselfish nature. 
Not that he had any dread of being married, like the 
butcher or the money-lender, whose fate he had 
heard about from Mr. Loney; not at all : he saw 
that Mrs. Banwell had other notions respecting him. 
Those two, metaphorically speaking, the Vampire 
had cooked before eating. (Had they not both passed 
the fires of Hymen first ?). But she did not mean to 
marry Mr. Chatfield. It was her desire to eat Mr. 
Chatfield raw, without any cooking. However, her 
victim reconciled himself to his horrible prospects 
with the best grace imaginable, and with the utmost 
docility even prepared to truss himself ready for the 
Vampire’s table, as follows : 

One day he walked into Mrs. Banwell’s sitting- 
room, apparently perturbed in his mind. 

“ What is the matter, my dear Mr. Chatfield ? ” 

“ Oh, mum,” he said, “ I’ve had some money left 
me.” 

“ Surely a legacy is no cause for sorrow ? ” she re¬ 
marked. 

“ It ought to be, mum, if the person who leaves it 
is dear enough to us to make the gift really valuable. 
But I didn’t say any one had left me money, but the 
other way—the money has left me. It is not much, 
but enough to worry about, and enough to remind 
me that, in the course of nature, I shall soon leave 
all my money. I am going, mum, to make my will. 
I have no near relative in the world ; I have out¬ 
lived them all. The question is, who am I to leave 
it to ? What do you say ? ” 

“ Really, Mr. Chatfield—such a question—and to 
me—I don’t know what to say.” She hesitated. 
e ' There are hospitals.” 

“Yes, mum, there are hospitals. There are also 
penitentiaries. But there are also friends —friends, 
who, though they may now see in a legacy no cause 
of sorrow-” 

“ Not in the legacy itself,” interrupted Mrs. Ban- 
well, trying hard to cry, whilst in an ecstasy of de¬ 
light ; “ but the deplorable event which made it im¬ 
mediately payable would be a cause of excruciating 
woe.” 

“Friends, mum,” he continued, “who would , »ve 
will say, see a matter of mourning in a legacy (Yes,” 
he thought to himself, “ a matter of fifty pounds’ 


worth black silk and crape, and very becoming wear 
to a woman of her age), but who would naturally 
feel slighted if deprived of such a cause of woe : 
friends who have been generously kind when the 
world frowned upon us, and whom we can only re¬ 
pay by leaving them the handkerchief of affliction, 
with the blessed assurance that our loss is their gain. 
Oh, my dear mum, you’ve been a true friend to me— 
you know you have. Haven’t you ? ” 

(“ He certainly wanders, the old silly,” thought 
Mrs. Banwell; “ but for all that, as good-hearted an 
old soul as ever breathed.”) 

“ But, indeed, Mr. Chatfield,” she continued, aloud, 
“you should not distress yourself # thus. The only 
advice I can give is, that you act on the dictates of 
your own generous impulses ; and if, indeed, I am 
so happy as to be deemed a friend, leave me at least 
—your regard, friendship’s dearest legacy.” 

“ Mum, you have decided me. I will at once get 
the matter off my mind. I have only one more 
favor to beg, and that is, that you will kindly honor 
my poor cottage with your company, and make tea 
for us this evening, as I shall have the lawyer and 
his clerk there to execute the document.” 

Mrs. Banwell promised, and Mr. Chatfield with¬ 
drew. 

When the widow arrived at Mr. Chatfield’s she 
was shown into the little front room by the house¬ 
keeper, who said her master would be down-stairs 
in a few minutes. The lawyer had not come ; and 
when the housekeeper withdrew, Mrs. Banwell was 
left quite alone in the room. On a rickety three- 
legged side-table, she espied Mr. Chatfield’s desk. 
It was not quite shut, for there was a stiffly folded 
parchment, which not only prevented the desk shut¬ 
ting, but projected far enough to show the nature of 
the document. It was undoubtedly the will, which 
had been sent to Mr. Chatfield to read over before 
executing it in the evening. Listening for a minute, 
to satisfy herself she was safe from intrusion, Mrs. 
Banwell gently slipped the parchment from the desk 
and hurriedly skimmed it through. 

“ Dear old fellow ! ” she murmured to herself 
when she had done ; “ he has left me everything he 
possesses, except the furniture—all his estate real 
and personal, all his moneys and investments in 
consols and elsewhere ; and, yes—also his share in 
the large ship R. G. —‘ of which,’ it says, ‘ my execu¬ 
tor has full and particular information in a private 
letter of instructions.’ And the executor is Mr. 
Loney. Well, that is good. And what a grateful 
old soul! ” 

Hurriedly replacing the document in the desk 
precisely as she had found it, and withdrawing to the 
opposite side of the room, she awaited Mr. Chat¬ 
field’s advent. 

There is nothing further to say about the tea- 
party, except that the lawyer and his clerk arrived in 
good time, and that after a course of muffins and 
crumpets, the will was executed by Mr. Chatfield 






The Damp Straw of the Cell. 


IOI 


and duly attested by the legal gentleman. It was 
not read aloud ; but from certain obscure hints and 
allusions, the testator gave Mrs. Banwell unmistak¬ 
ably to understand what she had previously ascer¬ 
tained by her own eyesight—namely, that she was 
the person principally interested in his bequests. 

From that time, Mrs. Banwell became devoted to 
the old gentleman. She was to him as a daughter, 
as a niece, and as a grandchild. She studied his 
comforts, made him presents, and laid out herself 
and her money to please him in every way. 

The worst of him was, he was so tough. The 
butcher and the money-lender were nothing to 
Mr. Chatfield. He only seemed to thrive and to 
grow younger and stronger for relinquishing his 
frugal habits in favor of dining three times a week 
at Woodbury Cottage. Yet Mrs. Banwell dared not 
relax her attentions lest the old man should alter his 
will. Three or four years passed so lightly over Mr. 
Chatfield’s head that he seemed to have taken a fresh 
lease of life ; and the widow began to fear he would 
outlive her after all. 

However, one winter’s morning, without any pre¬ 
monitory illness, the old man was found dead in his 
bed. There was an examination, but of a purely 
formal kind, for that he had died of natural causes 
was as plain as that his life had been eked out, for 
the past year or two, by generous diet. His death 
was, in truth, no very heavy blow to Mrs. Banwell— 
it was a happy release to her as well as to him. She 
was getting tired of it; and her sigh at receiving 
the intelligence was one of heart-felt relief. 

Mr. Loney came down to the funeral; and when 
that was over, the will was read. 

It was all true. With the exception of the few 
sticks of furniture, given to the housekeeper, Mrs. 
Banwell was bequeathed the whole of the property 
—moneys, bonds, securities of all sorts, and Mr. 
Chatfield’s share of the vessel. She was likewise left 
residuary legatee. Well, that was a comfort to the 
mourner, at any rate. Mrs. Banwell proceeded to 
ask Mr. Loney for some particulars as to the prop¬ 
erty of the deceased. 

In reply, Mr Loney stated, with a woeful shake of 
his head, that the particulars were contained in a 
letter addressed to him, and this enclosed a second 
note to Mrs. Banwell, which note, he concluded, 
would save him the pain of explanation. The note 
to the widow ran thus : 

“ Mum—* What are we here for in this world but to min¬ 
ister to each other’s comforts ? ’ I told you I was poor, 
yet you ministered to mine. You are a good woman. 
You have done your duty. Duty is its own rew'ard. I 
therefore think that, on the whole, you invested your 
money well. But it was a speculation, you must admit, 
and the security was not first-rate. I can only show my 
sense of your conduct by leaving you all I have in the 
world. This at least shows generosity of motive on my 
part ; and, if your kindness was really disinterested, you 
will take the will for the deed. All my moneys and 
securities everywhere don’t amount to sixpence. My pro¬ 


fession (ship-draughtsman and designer) enabled me to 
save just enough to buy a life-annuity, which dies with me. 
But I am part-owner of a vessel—a ship of large tonnage 
and great value—that share I can at least bequeath to 
you ; and Mr. Loney has my instructions to put you in 
possession thereof. Besides this, I leave you (by particu¬ 
lar request) my regard—friendship’s dearest tribute, trust¬ 
ing you will not think it dearly bought.—Yours truly, 

To Mrs. Banwell. W. Chatfield.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Loney, going to the mantel-shelf. 
“ Oh dear, yes. It is quite right about the ship. The 
late Mr. Chatfield was part-owner in a vessel of im¬ 
mense tonnage. And this is his part.” 

He placed in Mrs. Banwell’s hands a small and 
neat wooden volume about four inches by three, 
tastefully inscribed in gilt letters—“ A Piece of the 
Royal George .” 


THE DAMP STI^AW OF THE CELL. 

BV JEAN RICHEPIN. 

H E passed his first ten years of imprisonment 
without doing anything; just time to turn 
himself round, settle down and get into the 
ways of the place. 

Then, as he had still twenty years to serve out, 
he said to himself one fine morning that it jvas 
shameful to lead so lazy a life, and that he must find 
some occupation worthy—not of a free man, for he 
was a prisoner—but simply of a man. 

He devoted a year to reflecting, to weighing the 
different ideas which passed through his head, and 
examining what should be the definitive object of 
his life. 

To train a spider ? That was very old, well known ! 
Copy Pellison, peugh ! flat plagiary ! 

To count on his fingers the wrinkles on the wall ? 
What ! that was a ridiculous and useless amusement; 
nothing worth while. 

He said to himself, “ I must find something which 
would be at once curious, profitable and gratifying 
to my desire for vengeance. I must invent a task 
which will make the time pass, which will produce 
some benefit and which will have the value of a 
protest.” 

A fresh year was spent on this discovery, and 
finally success rewarded so much perseverance. 

The prisoner lived in a veritable dungeon, where 
the sun entered only for half an hour a day, and 
then only by a thin line like a single hair of light. 
The wretched pallet on which the unfortunate man 
rested his cramped limbs was literally nothing but a 
heap of damp straw. 

“ Now then,” he cried with energy, “ I shall bother 
my jailors and bluff the law. I will dry my straw ! ” 
He first of all counted the stalks which formed 
his bundle. There were one thousand three hun¬ 
dred and seven. A poor bundle. 

Translation . Copyrighted, 1883 . 







102 


Treasury of Tales. 


He next made an experiment to find out how 
much time it needed to dry one of the straws. It 
needed three-quarters of an hour. 

This made then altogether, for the one thousand 
three hundred and seven straws, a sum of nine hun¬ 
dred and eighty hours and fifteen minutes ; or— 
taking it at half an hour sunlight a day—nineteen 
hundred and sixty-one days. 

Assuming that the sun shone, on an average, only 
one day in three, he arrived at a total of sixteen 
years, one month, one week and six days. 

At the end of six months this was what remained 
for him to do. 

He set to work then. 

Every time that the sun shone the prisoner held 
one of the straws in the ray and thus utilized all his 
sunlight. The rest of the time he kept warm be¬ 
neath his clothes what he had been able to dry. 

Ten years passed away. The prisoner had now 
only a third of his damp bundle to sleep on, and 
had his chest stuffed with the two other thirds which 
had gradually been dried. 

Fifteen years passed. Oh ? joy, only one hundred 
and thirty-six stalks of damp straw left ! Four hun¬ 
dred and eight days more and the prisoner would be 
finally able to stand erect, proud of his work, victor 
over society and cry with the vengeful voice and Sa¬ 
tanic laughter of insurgents : 

“ Ha ! ha ! You condemned me to damp straw in 
your dungeon ! Then weep with rage ! I lie on 
dry straw ! ” 

Alas ! cruel fate was waiting in ambush for its 
prey ! * 

One night when the prisoner was dreaming of his 
future happiness, in his ecstasy he made furious 
gestures, knocked over his pitcher and the water fell 
on his chest. 

All the straw was wetted. 

What was to be done now ? Begin again the 
Sisyphus task ? Pass another fifteen years in getting 
bits of sun into bits of straw. 

And his discouragement! You, the lucky ones 


of the world, who give up a pleasure if you have to 
take twenty-five steps to get it, dare you throw the 
first stone at him ? 

But, you will say, he had only a year and a half to 
wait! 

And do you reckon for nothing his wounded 
pride, his abortive hopes ? What, this man shall 
have worked fifteen years in order to sleep on a 
bundle of dry straw, and then consent to leave his 
prison with bits of damp straw on his hair ! Never! 
There is nothing between self respect and lying down 
in the gutter. 

Eight days and eight nights he debated in anguish, 
struggling with despair, trying to find a footing again 
in the annihilation which overwhelmed him. 

He ended by surrendering and confessing himself 
vanquished. He had lost the battle. 

One evening he fell on his knees, crushed, de¬ 
spairing. 

“ My God,” he said with tears, “ I ask thy forgive¬ 
ness for being without courage to-day. I have suf¬ 
fered for thirty years, I have felt my limbs decay, 
my skin wither, my eyes wear away, my blood be¬ 
come pale, my hair and teeth fall out. I have fought 
against hunger, cold, solitude. I had one desire 
which sustained my efforts, I had one object in my 
life. Now my desire can not possibly be satisfied. 
Now my object has fled for ever. Now I am dis¬ 
honored. Pardon me for deserting my post, for 
leaving the battle, for running away like a coward. 
I can no more.” 

Then in a fit of indignation, he resumes : 

—“ No,” he cried, “no, a thousand times no ! It 
shall not be said that I have lost my life for nothing. 
No ; I am not conquered ! No ; I shall not desert! 
No ; I am not a coward ! No ; I will not lie a min¬ 
ute longer on the damp straw of the dungeons. No ; 
society shall not get the better of me ! ” 

And the prisoner died during the night, van¬ 
quished like Brutus, grand as Cato. 

He died of an heroic indigestion. He had eaten 
all his straw. 






A Luxurious Bofiemian. 


103 



A LUXURIOUS BOHEMIAN. 

BY MEL R. COLQUITT. 

( Told in letters from the Thousand Islands.) 

RANK CARRINGTON was bored—bored 
beyond all endurance—and was in no mood 
for the platitudes of his friend Will Morrison, 
as they sat together in Frank’s aesthetic apartments 
in Madison Avenue that sweet June evening. 

“I do think, Frank, you are the most incompre¬ 
hensible fellow I ever knew. There you sit in ease¬ 
ful luxury ; the cost of the cigar you are smoking 
would buy a day’s rations for a Baxter Street family. 
A r our rooms are as daintily appointed as the boudoir 
of a marquise , and yet you sigh, and wrinkle your 
brows as if you had overdrawn your account at your 
banker’s, and hadn’t a friend in the world. Here 
you live the life of a Nineteenth Century sybarite, 
and haven’t a thing to do in the world ! ” 

“That’s just it, Morrison. You have struck the 
key-note of my lament: I am dying by inches for 
the lack of something to do. I have worked myself 
to the bone doing nothing, and now I am dead 
tired, and every muscle in me aches for something 
to do. I have faith in your unfailing common 
sense : think up something for me. What is a man 
fit for who has no end of money, who is full of views 
and the ardor to carry them out, and yet does not 
seem to find his groove, and longs for some stimu¬ 
lating zest in life? ‘Fall in love?’ I’ve tried that, 
and the only woman I ever knew bright enough to 
take me completely out of myself was another man’s 
wife. I tell you, I can’t stand it, and if you don’t 
•come to the rescue, I’ll rush off to the Chinese war 
and emulate Archibald Forbes in frenzied desire 
for news and utter disregard of gore.” 

“ Here’s a letter from my sister Claire, unopened. 
She is a favorite of yours, so you shall enjoy it with 
me. It is written from her summer home on the 
.St. Lawrence.” 

Clairehaven, June 6th. 

My Dear Frank : 

Not a line from you since the scrap written in 
May, just after your return from Florida. The 
notelet in question was singularly lacking in the 
true Florida aroma. You had so little to tell of 
•citrons, alligators, curlews, orange blooms, Indian 


River, and above all did not, like all Florida tourists, 
offer to teach me how to eat an orange without soil¬ 
ing my gloves. I should scarcely believe you have 
been there, but that Celia Brande testifies that she 
left you at St. Augustine, swinging in a hammock in 
your usual listless way. She claims to have detected 
a volume of “ South Sea Idyls ” in your hand, and 
that identifies you beyond peradventure. She says 
you did not seem to care for society or sport. What 
is the matter with you ? I am forced to think that 
you have drunk life’s wine to the lees, and that it 
has nothing left for you. 

Suppose you come to me for a month ? I want 
you to see Clairehaven (Fred would name it for 
me !) and not Clairehaven alone, but all the magical 
wonderland. And you need not be idle here : there 
is plenty of strong, pure work for robust arms to do. 
I will promise to keep you busy six hours a day 
rowing me in and out of these crystal by-ways. 
Don’t tell me of the rivers you have seen in the Old 
World. I am true to my river, and believe it is God’s 
noblest handiwork—such expanse, such depth, such 
diamond clearness—and the air !—it is like iced 
sunlight, spiced by the fleeting perfume of some 
hidden lily-pond. Oh ! it is—but come and see for 
yourself. I am three miles from Clayton, on a little 
island all my own. 

It may sharpen your interest to know that away 
in the old historic days my little cove has often 
rippled to the oars of sturdy Bill Johnston and his 
winsome daughter Kate. Our yacht Happy Thought 
will meet you at Clayton any day you name. Ask 
Mr. Morrison to come with you. I always enjoy his 
society and want him to join me in the diversion of 
transforming you into that contented paradox— a 
hard working lotus-eater. 

Your loving sister , 

Claire C. Livingstone. 

“ Well, what do you think of her plan, Will ? 
Would you go if you were me, and will you go if 
you are you ? ” 

“ As for my part of the tempting project, Carring¬ 
ton, I cannot accept. Some business matters will 
keep me here till late in July, and after that I have 
promised mother to go with her for a visit to the old 
homestead in New Hampshire. Your sister’s invita¬ 
tion is most alluring, and I shall try to join you in 



Copyright , 1883 . 































































104 


Treasury of Tales . 


August when that big fish, the muscallonge, is at its 
best. You must not hesitate, but close the invita¬ 
tion at once. It is just what you need. Mrs. Liv¬ 
ingstone’s letter smacks a little of super-enthusiasm, 
but I know enough of the St. Lawrence to feel that 
even a woman with a poet’s heart could not over¬ 
rate the influences of the great river. I shall try to 
join you in the course of the summer. When do you 
go ? I take it for granted, you see.” 

“ Let me see, this is the 8th. I see nothing to 
keep me here later than the ioth. Must you go ? 
Well, good-by, old boy. If I do not see you again 
before Thursday, I will write you from Lotus-land.” 

Clairehaven, June i Jh. 

Dear Morrison : 

My delay in writing was caused by my falling in, 
en route , with some Boston friends who induced me 
to stop at Trenton Falls, which far surpass Mont- 
morenci, Minnehaha, and all the other famous cas¬ 
cades I’ve scampered over the country to see. I 
remember that you have been there, so need add 
only that to me it seems the Great Poet’s daintiest 
idyl bound in amber and green. Claire is right. I 
have been here only two days, and I now marvel at 
the tameness of her description. Word-painting is 
not a family failing of ours, but I will try to give 
you an idea of Claire’s home. 

Her island is three miles from Clayton—that mod¬ 
ern Arcadia of warm hearts and ready hands—and 
is within hearing of the car and steamer whistles. 
Clairehaven is shaded with silver birches—“ like 
beggared princes of the wood, in silver rags the 
birches stood,”—the little pink and cream Queen 
Anne cottage is all that could be desired for ease 
and picturesqueness ; the boat-house is in the same 
style and coloring ; there are hammocks in the trees. 
In the boat-house are three skiffs of cedar and oak, 
with nickel row-locks and ornaments, the name 
Clairehaven and the island’s crest—a water-lily—are 
in silver on the bow of each boat. These skiffs are 
so deftly inlaid and fashioned that they look more 
like floating Florentine mosaics than anything I can 
think of. The cottage is a model for a summer 
lounging place. Light rattan furniture and thin 
draperies add to the coolness and ease. The grounds 
are ablaze with asters and fiery geraniums. 

Back of the cottage is a quiet cove where great 
white lilies lie in pulsing beauty. I find myself in 
an almost unrecognizable state of mind. Already 
I feel as calm, as pure, as lifted up and buoyant as 
a boy ; the old weight of weariness and lethargy has 
fallen from me like a discarded garment. Life has 
for me a new zest, and at the same time a sensation 
of ineffable peacefulness. But to my manner of 
spending the day. You will scarcely believe me 
when I tell you that I am plunging about in the 
water every morning by sunrise. When I have 
bathed in the liquid prism, I slip out one of the skiffs 
and row four or five miles down the river, my path¬ 


way a flood of glory. You should see me in my 
rough flannels, sleeves rolled up, rowing for dear 
life and singing at the top of my voice. I am apt to 
have the river to myself, save here and there a sun¬ 
lit sail in the distance, or a birch canoe manned by 
silent Indians slips past me, the brown oarsmen eye¬ 
ing with a wild wonder the queer “ pale-face ” who 
is rowing at lightning speed and seems to like hard 
work well enough to sing over it. 

On my return I find Claire waiting at the boat¬ 
house to take me to breakfast. Fred, just out of his 
sleeping-room, scoffs at my absorption in this novelty, 
and predicts that my ardor will be short-lived, and 
that I will soon lapse back to my old indolence and 
let the sunrise take care of itself. If we are going 
fishing we start by eight o’clock, as it is two hours’ 
row to the best fishing-grounds. If we have decided 
to pass the day at home, we stroll about until the 
Maynard puffs up with our mail. The news from 
the outer world lures us for a time from our world- 
forgetting day-dream. After dinner, at noon, there 
comes the nap, and later a row or sail on the river. 
Yesterday we went to Clayton, in the evening, to see 
the anglers from Oak Point and Halliday’s come in. 
It was positively bewildering to see the riches un¬ 
loaded from skiffs and yachts ; still more so to hear 
of the fish that were “ almost hooked and landed.” 

I heard there that Clayton had become such a fa¬ 
vorite resort for those wishing to avoid the noise and 
so-called fashionable society of “ The Bay ” that 
boatmen were very much in demand. Several par¬ 
ties from the South have telegraphed ahead, and as 
yet there seems small hope of supplying them. Now, 
old fellow, I know that you are going to laugh your¬ 
self sore over my latest whim. But hear me, my 
lord, ere you condemn me. It promises work, 
novelty, mystery—what more could I ask ? No one 
knows me, and I can indulge my humor to my heart’s 
content. I’ve decided to turn St. Lawrence oars¬ 
man for awhile, hire myself out by the day to some 
of these Southerners, and see what they are like to 
their valet or oarsman. I shall take “ Commodore ” 
J., of the hotel, into my secret, and get him to en¬ 
dorse me as trustworthy and needy. He has a keen 
sense of fun and I shall be safe with him. If he rep¬ 
resents me as a friend of his, the other oarsmen 
will not question my right to a share of custom. My 
youthful training and love of the oars will enable 
me to hold my own with the rest, and these visitors 
from the far South will never suspect me. I am al¬ 
ready a good mixture of terra-cotta and tan color, 
and a two-days’ growth on my chin will give me the 
required roughness. I can slip up to Clayton in the 
early morning, take my place on the hotel piazza 
with the others, and will be known simply as Frank 
—let me borrow from you—“ Morris ”—that will 
do. 

No wonder you laugh ! Fancy me hanging around 
the Izaak Walton House, eager for a job and keen 
about earning my three dollars a day! I don’t 





A Luxurious Bohemian. 


know how long I can keep it up, but the conception 
strikes me as one of masterly originality, and we’ll 
see if there is not some fun in it. Don’t whisper it, 
or some of those club boys would ask no racier fun 
than to ru» up here and unmask me. Claire is go¬ 
ing to send you a champagne basket of black bass 
next Monday—the most tempting fish you ever put 
fork into. 

Yours truly , 

Frank De L. Carrington. 

New York, June ijth. 

Dear Carrington : 

Your rhapsody on the great river received. You 
cannot hereafter tax Mrs. Livingstone with a woman¬ 
ish enthusiasm, as your rapt enthusiasm goes way 
beyond her well-ordered and cool-blooded letter. 
The spell is on you, my friend, and you may as well 
resign yourself to it, and give it full sway. A man 
sorely needs, now and then, a season of ecstatic up¬ 
lifting. “ Gather ye ”—not roses, but lilies—“ while 
ye may,” and steep your soul in the balm of nature. 
I am amused at your scheme from its very strange¬ 
ness. It certainly is original. It will give you a 
rare opportunity to study human nature behind the 
scenes, and see how those fine ladies and gentle¬ 
men look in the sickly glare of the green-room. I 
can scarcely picture you a laboring man whose best 
day’s work is worth the opulent sum of three dol¬ 
lars ! Let me know how you succeed. 

I am hard at work finishing poor Birch’s picture 
for him. He is too sick to do it himself. We stud¬ 
ied together in Rome, and he is good enough to say 
that I can do as good work as he, so I have sent 
him out of town, and earnestly hope that his queer 
little monogram in the corner will carry the land¬ 
scape through. While I am simply painting a pict¬ 
ure, you are living in the heart of the grandest one 
ever conceived, touched with sunshine and emer¬ 
alds, silver and blue, and the pale radiance of fair 
lilies. 

Faithfully yours , 

W. J. Morrison. 

P. S.—Read Cable’s Creole Sketches. Perhaps 
they will give you an insight into these people from 
the far South. They deal with the romance of 
earlier days still. I take it that in the South race 
peculiarities are more strongly marked, and that 
the piquant creole of to-day is a very fair reproduc¬ 
tion of her own grandmother. W. J. M. 

Clairehaven, June 20 th. 

My Dear Will : 

Don’t promise yourself a long letter this time, 
although your favor of the 17th demands the best 
in my ink-bottle. It is nine o’clock p.m., and I am 
just through my supper and my evening smoke. I 
am actually sleepy and long to go to bed. All pre¬ 
liminaries—as per former letter—having been ar¬ 
ranged, I was off for Clayton this morning by five 
o’clock, and was soon at the Izaak Walton House 


*05 

awaiting orders. The clerk informed me that I had 
been assigned to Mr. Levois and his sister, of New 
Orleans (creoles, sure enough [j, and I was instruct¬ 
ed to go to the pantry and get their lunch-basket. 
You can imagine my feelings as I saw the steward 
packing the basket with uncooked meats, chickens 
and chops ready for the boiler : eggs, potatoes and 
other things in the raw. He eyed me, and said : 
“You know how to cook these things ?” I gulped 
down my surprise, and said in an off-hand way: 
“ What kind of an oarsman do you take me for ? ” 
Being reassured, he continued to pile in everything 
cookable in the larder. I remembered that there 
were pots, etc., in the skiff, and determined to put 
a bold face on the matter. Fortunately, the worst 
was done. I turned cold at the thought of all that 
might have been left on and i?i the chickens but for 
the steward’s help. My outings in the woods have 
taught me some rude cookery. I was in for it, and 
had to make the best of it. 

As I went down to the slip I was joined by Will 
Marshall, the noted oarsman, who informed me that 
he was to row Mr. and Mrs. Gordon, of Georgia, 
and that the Levois’ were to be of the party— 
adding, with a twinkle in his kindly eye : “You 
needn’t be uneasy ; they are going to meet at the 
dinner-ground, and I’ll do the cooking.” This gave 
me twofold relief, as I knew by his low tone that 
he was posted, and his fame as a cook secured us 
a delightful dinner. The Gordons were soon in 
Will’s skiff, and away to Hickory Flats. 

Mr. and Mrs. Levois (she is his sister-in-law, I 
guess) stood on the wharf drawing on their gloves, 
and looking over toward the sunlighted pinnacles 
and soft slopes of Prospect Park. One glance at 
Mr. L. was enough. He is one of those dapper 
little creole gentlemen we are all familiar with, and, 
despite the coolness and the occasion, was dressed 
just as he would be for a morning stroll through 
Rue Royale, or Rampart Street. 

The lady was as fair a vision as ever blessed the 
eye of man. She is a type of her section—small, 
lithe ; her girlish form was neatly clad in a dress 
of some dark-green stuff. At the neck was a line 
of white linen clasped by a filigree silver crescent. 
She wore a soft, wide straw hat tied under her 
apple-blossom chin by a coral-colored silk hand¬ 
kerchief. Her little hands were cased in long tan- 
colored gloves, and her dainty feet were sheathed 
in black silk hose and jaunty kid Oxford ties. You 
know I will take in the details of a woman’s dress. 
You, who care so little for such things, will exclaim : 
“ Don’t tell me of her dress, but of her eyes, her 
hair, her lips.” I would have done that at the out¬ 
set had I not faltered at the task. Well, if I must: 
her eyes are—what color ? I cannot say ; but they 
are dark and soft—tender, bright, merry, dreamy— 
all that a woman’s eyes should be. As for the rest, 
I can only say that I believe she was fashioned from 
the flowers of her own tropic State, so charmingly 




io6 


Treasury of Tales. 


do the magnolia, pomegranate and orange blossom 
mingle together, in the matchless mixture of cream 
and scarlet that go to make up her radiant face. 

While I was revelling in the fair portrait in ivory- 
before me, I pretended to busy myself arranging the 
seats and tackle. I was aroused by the Conunodore , 
who said: “All right, Frank. Well, give Mrs. 
Levois your hand and help her in.” These chairs, 
you will remember, are fixed so that one passenger 
sits with his back to the oarsman, the other faces 
him. A sort of shiver ran over me as I realized that 
by a moment’s bungling I might pay for it for eight 
mortal hours by gazing into the little gentleman’s 
listless face instead of feasting my eyes on the en¬ 
chantment of his lovely sister-in-law; so taking 
Mrs. Levois* shawl from her, I folded it in the seat 
facing mine, and she floated into it as softly as a 
wind-blown rose petal. Lucien (as she calls him) 
said nothing. How could he see anything out of 
the way in the admiring stare of his boatman ? It 
did not take me long to pull myself back to the fact 
that I was simply a machine. Looking up the river 
and seeing Will Marshall pulling away for “ the 
flats,” I felt easy about the hitherto maddening or¬ 
deal of dinner, and my spirits rose in consequence, 
and I settled down to the oars with an untroubled 
heart. 

In an hour’s time we were off Coral Island, and 
were putting out our lines, making ready for the 
big muscallonge that was to give us a name in his¬ 
tory. Mrs. Levois is an ardent angler, and refers 
with true fisherman’s pride to her achievements on 
the Gulf Coast, in the way of sheepshead and pom- 
pano. Now and then she turned to her brother-in- 
law and spoke in French, in happy innocence of the 
fact that the language she spoke was not a dead 
tongue to her oarsman. Once she said (in answer 
to Mr. L.’s comment on the exhilarating effect of 
boating) : “Yes, it is charming, but the poor oars¬ 
man, is he not tired ? See how flushed he looks.” 
At this Mr. Levois laughed the lazy little ripple of 
his like and replied : “ Tired ? Oh ! no, he could row 
all day without stopping (heavens !), and as to his 
color, that is usual with these common people who 
make their living out of doors.” 

I wanted to strangle the little wretch, and was still 
more murderously inclined when I saw him lean 
over with a caressing movement and replace the 
mutinous little curl that had escaped from the rim 
of her hat. I don’t like these creoles—the mascu¬ 
line ones. What right has this brother-in-law to be 
so tender ? The worst of it is she takes it all as if 
used to it, with the utmost serenity. I found myself 
asking, with unnecessary abruptness, “ Mr. Levois, 
will your brother be here this summer ? ” 

“Ah ! you mean Prosper? No, I think not. He 
has gone to France for six months.” 

For some occult reason his answer pleased me, 
and I waxed more amiable toward him. 

We had caught a box of nice pickerel, with half a 


dozen black bass for good measure, and Marshall 
had just signalled that it was time to land, when 
Mrs. Levois called out: “Oh, Frank, please help 
me. Something terrible has my line ! ” With a fright¬ 
ened gasp she relinquished her line to me none too 
soon, for the “ something terrible ” was tugging at it 
fearfully. I pulled it in, never giving it the slack 
for a moment, and soon was justified by a tremen¬ 
dous churning of the water. Mr. Levois asked in 
an agitated whisper : “ What is it—a sturgeon or a 
devil fish ? Let it go, don’t let it get in here.” And 
Madame, with a white face and dilated eyes, whis¬ 
pered, “ Cut the line and let the terrible thing go, 
or it will turn us over in the river.” I had only to 
utter the magic word muscallonge to calm their fears. 
In a moment more I was struggling with the ugly 
tiger. A sharp rap on the head from my gaff tamed 
his heart of fire, and I laid the splendid fellow (ac¬ 
tual weight 47 1 lbs.) at the feet of his fair captor. 
This, I am told, is the largest muscallonge ever 
caught here as early as June. 

You should have seen the flutter. “Ah ! Lucien, 
is he not awful and beautiful ? Poor thing ! how he 
struggles ! how lovely he is, all gray satin and sil¬ 
ver ; and see his teeth ! they are pointed, sharp, and 
as clear as glass ! ” 

So busy were they inspecting the panting monster 
that they did not notice that I had raised the white 
flag which, in St. Lawrence short-hand, means mus¬ 
callonge. Will Marshall sighted it, and called out, 
“How big?” I made a rough guess at 35 lbs., 
much to Mrs. Levois’ disgust, who exclaimed : “ Why, 
Frank, he is as large as I am, and I weigh a hundred 
and eighteen pounds ! ” 

We were soon anchored in the shady little cove 
off Cement Point, and were making preparations for 
dinner. Mr. Levois stretched himself on the grass 
under the cedar trees, and Duffed away at his perique 
cigarette. Mr. Gordon sat down beside the boat and 
examined the muscallonge, while the ladies strolled 
about gathering flowers and cutting birch bark. I 
waited for Marshall to give some signs as to how to 
set about the Delphic mysteries of dinner, and he, 
duly appreciating my greenness, gave me the pota¬ 
toes to peel and the bread to slice, and said I could 
set the table. I put the two folding tables together, 
and with the hotel dishes and some wild flowers man¬ 
aged to make them quite presentable. 

Soon the odors from Marshall’s improvised stone 
oven began to fill the air, and in thirty minutes after 
we landed the dinner was ready. Marshall declared 
that his hands were too stained from the broiler for 
him to wait upon the table, and I -was detailed for 
that novel duty. You should have seen the goilt 
with which the dinner was relished. Mrs. Levois 
and Mrs. Gordon were not a bit abashed by their 
startling feats in gastronomy, and it nearly made my 
hair stand on end to hear them order piece after 
piece of broiled bass, and steak after steak of fried 
pickerel. I made a well-worn path in the grass be- 





A Luxurious Bohemian. 


107 


tween the table and the kitchen. Mr. Levois and 
Mr. Gordon affirmed that the dinner far surpassed 
the famous restaurants of New Orleans and New 
York, and announced their conviction that it was 
never intended for civilized man to dine under close 
roofs hemmed in by brick walls. 

I found that the table talk had served as a sauce 
piquante for my dinner, and fully equalled Mar¬ 
shall’s robust achievements, paying a substantial trib¬ 
ute to his skill. After dinner was over, the dishes 
washed and stored away in the lockers, we were at 
liberty to stretch ourselves out on the grass, a little 
apart, of course, and rest. Every muscle and nerve 
in me thrilled with the unwonted exercise and the 
utter novelty of the situation. Marshall contented 
himself with a clay pipe filled with rank Canadian 
tobacco. Mr. Levois, with that courtesy which is 
innate in the creoles of all classes, strolled over and 
offered me his cigarette-case. I invented a fiction 
about not smoking, as I had once before tested those 
fiery periques and found them to be solidified ab¬ 
sinthe, warranted to fly to the head of any save 
hardened creoles. 

As I lay there on the grass with my eyes half 
closed, I keenly enjoyed the loveliness of the picture 
before me, and longed for George Innes or Moser 
(or even you, old fellow), to paint the magical scene. 
Most beautiful of all was the ria?ite little crtollse sit¬ 
ting under a silver birch tree, her hat off and her 
dark, shapely head with its riot of pluffy hair clearly 
outlined against the shining white satin bole of the 
tree. The tremulous lights sifted down through the 
crinkled green silken leaves, touching her hands, her 
brow, and the tip of her little foot. 

It was hard to say which was whitest, her flower¬ 
like hands, the smooth trunk of the tree, or the bunch 
of freshly gathered daisies caught in her belt. It was 
a dream of luxuriousness, a picture of modern Lotus- 
Eaters never to be forgotten ; and, as if nothing was 
to be lacking to render the vision complete, Mrs. 
Levois and her brother-in-law, by some strange com¬ 
munion of mood, broke simultaneously into one of 
those fine Southern barcarolles. His voice is a pure 
though not a powerful tenor ; hers is just what I 
should have sworn it would be—a rich, passion-full 
contralto. The words were French and were full of 
love and youth. The rhythmic refrain seemed to rise 
and fall with the soft lapping of the water on the 
sandy beach of our little haven. 

I know I am spinning all this out to alarming pro¬ 
portions, but the truth is, Will, I have passed the 
happiest day of all my days, and although I have 
worked like a coal-heaver and posed all day in the 
role of a hired oarsman, I never felt more satisfied 
in my life. I must leave to your creative fancy the 
row back to Clayton in the glow of sunset, with fish 
boxes running over and all in proud, conquering 
mood. I cannot tell you how the long, slanting rays 
streamed upon the gray-green surface of the river, 
nor how, when the skiff shot into a broader band of 


sunlight, it was reproduced in the gleaming waters, 
and the fair face of my pretty passenger looked at 
me again from the very water under my oars. 

She was lying back in her chair in one of those 
indolent attitudes so easy to her picturesque race, 
and with the rosy cloud of her soft wrap around her 
looked like a new-born Aphrodite. It was all so 
dream-like, so ineffable, so unreal, that I should be 
tempted to look upon it as a fancy but for the ting¬ 
ling of my veins, my brown hands, and a certain 
heaviness of my eyelids. I can scarcely realize that 
I am setting down the experiences of an actual day 
that has crowded into its paltry hours “ the sweet¬ 
ness of a hundred Junes.” But it is now eleven 
o’clock, and I, who generally commence to live at 
that hour, am tired to death, and as sleepy as a jaded 
child. Frank Morris, the oarsman , will, with unbe¬ 
lievable effrontery, betake himself to one of Mrs. 
Livingstone’s daintiest apartments, and fall asleep 
on a bed of down covered with a silken spread. 

To-morrow my employers are going to Gananoque 
by steamer, and Mr. Levois kindly informed me that 
I could take the day for myself, and that my wages, 
or as he delicately expressed it, my “salary,” would 
go on just the same. The humor of the thing ! I 
have read many novels that were in nowise novel, 
but the living of one is decidedly new and bewilder¬ 
ing. 

Good-bye , 

F. De L. C. 

The Maples, N. H., June 25 th. 
My Dear Carrington : 

Your diverting letter detailing your first day’s 
doings as a professional oarsman followed me to this 
place, where I am taking things very easily in the 
home of my forefathers—or rather my foremothers, 
for I am writing at the self-same desk, a queer 
bandy-legged affair of cherry wood and brass that 
was used by my grandmother, and it was upon this 
same square of puce-colored cloth that she wrote 
her quaint little book “ Chronicles of Maplewood ; 
or, the story of Dorothy Granberry’s heartless antics.” 
My grand aunt, Melissa, a cheery, withered little 
spinster, now our hostess, is the veritable Dorothy 
Granberry whose idle flirtations with the young men 
of her day are but thinly veiled under the “ heartless 
antics ” of my grandmother’s heroine. 

While you, my erstwhile sybarite, are working 
like a beaver, I am spending my days in the veriest 
midsummer dalliance—the entire day bringing me 
no harder labor than the managing of a pair of sleek 
grays when Aunt Melissa and mother order out the 
rumbling old Jersey for a drive “over the hills and 
far away ” to take tea with some of mother’s girl¬ 
time friends. In one only, of these old homesteads, 
have I found a young girl, and she, Lois Howell, is 
so shy that I do not hope to find out much about her, 
save that she is fair and graceful, and that her little 
head is rippling over with short, boyish curls of a 







io8 


Treasury of Tales. 


decided red — just that polished bronze-red that 
sometimes shows itself in a frost-painted oak leaf. 

After tea we drive home through the dusky 
reaches of woodland, the birds coo themselves to 
rest, and the air is filled with their drowsy whispers. 
The subtle odors from the closing flowers make 
our roadway an aisle of unseen incense. You would 
be complimented if you knew what a lively interest 
I take in your original little drama. Your account 
of la petite cre'olese is quite to my taste, and I am 
sorry for you that she is Mrs. Levois and not Ma¬ 
demoiselle, as should you ever feel inclined to re¬ 
move your green-room artifices you ■null always be at 
arm’s length, as these warm-hearted daughters of the 
South have a delicate sense of the fitness of things, 
and she will be beyond the reach of all tender ap¬ 
proaches while her husband is abroad. 

I wonder if he is as jealous as the typical creole ? 
"What a blunderer I am ! Do I not know that such 
a suggestion to a man of your temperament is the 
very way to redouble your interest ? I should have 
kept in mind some of your former “ heartless antics.” 
I gladly hail the ruse which for the time being has 
placed you hors de combat, for be Madame never so 
facile and coquettish, the far-away husband never so 
exacting, the little charmer is so hedged in by the 
implacable tenets of her race that she would never 
look twice at her oarsman. Ha ! ha ! my Machia- 
velli—I hope you are still content with your diplo¬ 
macy. To be candid with you, I do not think your 
invention “ fills a long felt want! ” 

( Yours pining for news), 

Will J. Morrison. 

Clairehaven, July $th. 

My Dear Morrison : 

Your letter was all interesting to me as a record 
of how you are spending your summer rest, but 
somehow those few closing lines dwell in my mind 
more than all the rest, and have set me to thinking. 
Suppose, after all, I’ve made a fool of myself mas¬ 
querading in this absurd way as my lady’s boatman ? 
If she were Miss instead of Mrs. Levois I should be 
quite sure of my mistake, and as it is may I not have 
missed some tender scenes with madame? Not that 
I should ever have gone very far or rendered myself 
or the lady in question very desperate, but it might 
have served to heighten the charm of the summer 
for both of us without doing serious damage to any 
one concerned. Why should I look after the inter¬ 
ests of a man on “the other side” whom I have 
never seen ? But, as you say, I am quite out of the 
question, and am convinced that the tropical bloom 
of the magnolia and pomegranate hangs far above 
the reach of the brawny hand of Mrs. Levois’ oars¬ 
man. 

Well, it is spicy enough as it is. Physically, my 
strength is a marvel. Mentally, I am in splendid 
tune, and sentimentally I am just enough involved 
to take a more personal interest in the coming of 


each day that promises me her presence. Yesterday, 
just as she was stepping into the boat, the slender 
chain about her throat snapped, and her locket fell 
at my feet; in the fall it became unclasped, and as 
I handed it to her I saw the face of a man very like 
Mr. Levois—only handsomer, stronger. The absent 
husband doubtless—and I fear he is no mean rival. 
I had but a glimpse, but the spirited face fixed 
itself on my memory. 

What is the matter with me ? I am becoming a 
riddle to myself, and stand in need of some kind 
friend to unravel me. Oh ! kind, wise friend, do 
not forget that friendship (according to George 
MacDonald) imposes not only “ the right of silence, 
but the duty of speech.” Tell me what you see in 
all these signs. I am afraid of your answer, because 
I am afraid of myself. 

To lighter thoughts. Yesterday’s record was a 
red-letter one as regards fishing. We spent most of 
the day in the unfrequented and historic neighbor¬ 
hood of “ Pike Shoals,” and the result was eighty- 
two black bass and nine pike—these latter are more 
like shad than any other fish I know, though not 
quite so delicate in flavor. Mrs. Levois was the 
lucky one, and was in a pretty flutter of elation and 
triumph. My good luck did not desert me, and Will 
was on hand to cook the dinner. While it was in 
preparation, Mrs. Levois read aloud from a volume 
of Paul Hayne, “ lending to the rhyme of the poet 
the beauty of her voice.” Mr. and Mrs. Gordon 
were with us as usual. She is a true Southerner, all 
softness and grace strengthened by a quiet repose 
and purity of mind and heart. They are delightful 
additions to our party, and Will is an absolute neces¬ 
sity as well as one of the best fellows in the world. 

On our homeward way we got into a tangle of all 
sorts of water-craft, as it was the Fourth, and the 
river was alive with patriotism. Thus ended another 
day of peaceful adventure and enlivening recrea¬ 
tion. As I rode back to Claire’s in the twilight, it 
seemed to me that I had never felt so perfectly con¬ 
tent and at rest in all my life. My soul was filled 
with the entrancing beauty of the world. My mind 
was occupied with absorbing memories of the lovely 
face and bewitching manners of the most inspiring 
little woman I have ever known, and my body was 
invigorated and refreshed by my day’s hard pull at 
the oars. 

But, after all, where am I drifting ? As I sit here 
alone scribbling to you, my day’s happiness is not 
all rose-colored, and I begin to tremble lest there be 
a fatality and shadow of evil in it. What, if I became 
seriously involved with la belle creole ? but pshaw ! 
Can’t a man admire a woman, aye, and love her too 
in an indefinite, intangible, indifferent way, without 
getting desperate himself, or giving her the heart¬ 
ache ? I almost wish-; but those steamers ply¬ 

ing between New Orleans and Havre are, I’m told, 
exasperatingly staunch and sea-worthy. A man, 
with a wife like this “ one fair woman ” who goes to 







A Luxurious Bohemian. 


Paris alone and remains there six months ought- 

What l Well, not come back. “ Murder will out,” 
Will, and my confession is made. I am breaking the 
last commandment every hour of my life, but I’ll 
promise you one thing. I’ll never say a word to my 
ideal woman that will make her turn one tint rosier, 
or make her regret for one moment that she ever 
turned her sweet eyes entrancingly on—whom ? 

Frank, “the Oarsman.” 

The Maples, July 1 6 th. 

Dear Frank : 

Your letter has just come to hand, owing to the 
fact that I have been away in the hills trout-fishing 
for a week or more. We had a congenial party, 
Peters and Willingham among them, and had more 
than fair luck. 

As for your case, my dear boy, with all due respect 
for your self-immolating honesty of purpose, I beg 
leave to remind you that although you are “ Frank, 
the Oarsman ” outwardly, you are the same careless, 
self-indulgent Pagan at heart. You have taken my 
fancy captive in your pen-pictures of the little creole, 
and candidly I should be half in love with her myself 
if she were free. Do not overlook that conclusive 
fact, old fellow—she is not free—and all these rhap¬ 
sodies can end in but one way. You must conquer 

the 7 )i. 

There is one view of the case which seems to have 
escaped you—may she not become interested ? You 
surely underrate your physical gifts if you think that 
your oarsman’s dress could ever make a plebeian of 
you or anything but a pre-eminently handsome fel¬ 
low. I mean no flattery : your good looks go with¬ 
out saying, and I doubt if you have been able, no 
matter how wary and non-committal you have been, 
to entirely disguise a certain charm of voice and 
trick of manner that scores of women—(more’s the 
pity !) have recognized as that impalpable alchemy 
known as fascination. 

With no lack of reverence for the “ one fair 
woman,” let me suggest that she is young and beau¬ 
tiful—twin perils—belongs to an impressionable 
race, and is surrounded by insidious and favoring 
circumstances. And that her husband, who evi¬ 
dently has not chained her affection very tightly, is 
away. I do not believe that women “ make love to 
the lips that are nearest,” but nine out of ten of the 
pretty, young ones are willing to listen to love’s sub¬ 
tle harmonies, and forget the sound of lips out of 
hearing distance. 

Suppose you run away ? Believe me, it is the best 
course. Madame Levois can get another oarsman. 
He may not be a gentleman sailing under false colors, 
or so accomplished a society comedian, but she can 
find some one to row her around the emerald high¬ 
ways, and you can come here. Away from the al¬ 
luring spell of her sweet presence, you can patch up 
the rifts in your imagination, for I hardly think the 
heart is gone yet, and you will soon congratulate 
yourself and thank me that you are safely out of 


109 

what threatened a dangerous complication. I know 
you only as Frank Carrington, the gentleman, and 
secure in that knowledge, shall expect to have you 
name the day when I may drive down to Westerly 
to meet you. 

Faithfully yours , 

W. J. Morrison. 

Clairehaven, July 25 th. 

My dear Morrison : 

I have delayed replying to you in the hope that I 
could nerve myself to the point of giving you the 
desired answer, but I must face the consequences 
now and admit that I am weaker than I ever 
dreamed I could be. Bear with me, friend of mine. 
I am really to be condoled with rather than censured. 
After receiving your true and just words of admo¬ 
nition, I did try with all my strength and mind to 
break off the alluring ties that net me in like wires 
of steel, but I found that “ M. E. W. S.” speaks truth 
when she says : “ When the heart speaks it is a 

giant, and conscience becomes a pigmy.” 

All of my preconceived laws of manliness and 
duty, fortified by your wise counsel, have been shat¬ 
tered at the first touch. Believe me, I did strive— 
I resolutely kept away from Clayton and Madame L. 
—for nearly a week, feigning sickness, and sending 
Will Marshall out with my boat, but on the fifth 
evening he sought me, bringing a little scrap from 
Mrs. L., bearing these words : 

“ I am genuinely sorry that you are sick—and what 
shall I do for my lilies ? Can you direct Will where to 
find them ? You remember you spoke to me of a remote 
lagoon where they grow in great numbers. Will pretends 
not to know how to go there. Please direct him, as I 
want to go for them early to-morrow morning, before the 
sun is warm on the river. Get well soon ; we miss you. 

“ FfiLiciTfi Levois.” 

That settled it. I told Will to say to the lady that I 
was much better and would call for her the next morn¬ 
ing at 5 o’clock. So this morning I was up and away 
while yet the dawn was blossoming in pale violet and 
delicate pink. I found her alone (thank the gods !) 
standing on the wharf waiting for me. She excused 
Mr. L. on the plea that it was too early for him to get 
his small cup of cafd noir , and he was afraid to vent¬ 
ure out without it on account of the malaria—malaria 
on the St. Lawrence ! one might as well complain of 
the ventilation and sewerage of the New Jerusalem ! 
It is useless to say how my heart rejoiced at the little 
fellow’s fancied insecurity, and I inwardly blessed 
him for serving me so good a turn. 

We were soon scudding away for Lily-pad Lake 
(as I have christened my crystal treasure-house), and 
it was a study to watch her as she sat in the shadow 
of the white sail, her beauty shining out like a star. 
She was in buoyant spirits and chatted with a kind 
of nervous abandon that I had never seen in her be¬ 
fore. Now and then her glad spirit would run over 
into song ; little quaint scraps of creole melody— 






I IO 


Treasury of Tales. 


love ballads or barcarolles—one Francadillo that I 
had heard at St. Augustine was full of the languorous 
love of the tropics, and seemed to catch the very 
motion and rhythm of the water. 

As her ripe lips unclosed with the music of love, it 
seemed to me that, of all women on earth, she was 
the fairest, the sweetest, the best. You should have 
seen her fresh and childish delight as I suddenly 
shot the skiff, and lowered the sail, in the water 
garden where acres of starry lilies rise and fall with 
the pulsation of the water. Her dainty hands flew 
like white doves in and out among the lily-pads, 
rushes, and long purple water-hyacinths, now bring¬ 
ing up full blossoms and buds, now a purple spike 
of bloom or a yellow lily which some one has named 
“ the golden door knob to Undine’s palace.” 

You can picture her rich, sweet face kindling 
with her perfect happiness. How these Southern¬ 
ers love nature, and how enthusiastic they are ! 
She had thrown a magazine in the bottom of the 
boat, and, fearing it might be wet by the lilies, I 
picked it up. As it fluttered open my eyes were 
chained by these words, which I had read before, 
but now shall never forget: 

“ Oh! who, foreknowing, ever chose a fate like this ? 
What woman out of all the breathing world 
Would be a woman could her heart select, 

Or love her lover could her life prevent ? 

Then let me be that only, only one. 

Thus let me make that sacrifice supreme 
No other ever made, or can or shall. 

Behold the future shall stand still to ask, 

What man was worth a price so isolate , 

And rate thee at its value for all time ? ” 

These words, which mean for me everything or 
nothing, have burned themselves into my very soul. 
Either she returns my admiration and tenderness (ah! 
sweet misery !) or there is some one else whom she 
loves, and in loving whom she feels what a supreme 
sacrifice it costs her to count the world well lost 
for love. In either event, what do I promise my¬ 
self ? If she cares for me—and there is ecstasy 
and despair both in the thought—I shall be at once 
the happiest and the most miserable man alive. If 
there is some one else, I know that my sorrow and 
jealousy will wreck me. I am tempest-driven, and 
can dwell no longer on my fate. 

I wish you could have looked upon her as she 
sat on her stainless throne of radiant blossoms, for 
the skiff was full of them. She was dressed in a 
cream-colored dress of soft silk ; her hair was pro¬ 
tected only by a large silk handkerchief, and she 
held over her a parasol with a fall of yellow lace. 
Ah ! she was beautiful ! beautiful !—peerlessly beau¬ 
tiful ! 

I do not ask you now, dear untroubled old 
Puritan, what I shall do. I know I will not listen 
to your healthful advice. I am on the stream of a 
grand, absorbing passion, and must drift where¬ 
soever it leads me. I cannot ask even for your 


sympathy. I am conscious of the fact that the very 
sarcasm of my destiny puts me beyond the fellow- 
feeling and co-operation of my most trusted friend. 
At least I crave your pity. Give me that, and try, 
with some little remnant of faith in me, to await the 
outcome of all this mingled sorrow and bliss. 

Devotedly your friend, 

F. De L. C. 

Clairehaven, August 2d. 

Dear Will : 

Your silence is ominous. It has been ten days 
since I wrote to you. 

What is the matter, old fellow ? I try to quiet my¬ 
self with the idea that the girl with the “ autumn-leaf 
hair ” has something to do with it, but the unsettling 
reflection that you have lost faith in me, and disap¬ 
prove of my present, while distrusting my past, will 
obtrude itself, and will not down at my bidding. At 
the risk of piling up the indictments against me, I 
must go on with my story. The soul-mastering, joy¬ 
ful pain, which now holds me in its mighty grasp, 
pants for expression, and, cold and critical though 
you be, you are the only one to whom I can utter 
the thoughts that arise in me. 

I shall not ask you to follow me on the two or 
three fish-hunts that have intervened since my former 
letter. Each one has been to me a season of rare 
delight—still, they have been much alike in the exter¬ 
nals—the brother-in-law has always been with us, 
and generally we were joined by other boats and 
went out in an imposing flotilla. 

Mrs. Levois puzzles me. She is either tired of 
these scenes, after the manner of her novelty-loving 
race, or her foreign letters do not come to suit her. 
At any rate, she has lost a good deal of her eager 
zest in fishing, and her girlish buoyancy has deserted 
her. Sometimes she does not fish at all, but sits 
quietly under the shade of her umbrella, saying little 
and seemingly absorbed in the study of some prob¬ 
lem that evidently brings her disquiet and trouble. 
It is an odd change, and pains me. I find myself 
pondering on it by day, and dreaming of it by night. 
I cannot say that this strange abstraction robs her of 
her charm—it seems to heighten it. 

The French say, “// faut souffrirpour fare belle," 
and this very shadow of sadness on her sweet face is 
the one thing necessary to complete a loveliness, 
which, to my mind, was absolute before. She sings 
less and dreams more, and when I see her sitting 
opposite me, with that chastened, perplexed look in 
her dear eyes, the poem in the magazine comes before 
me, and I wonder if, under all that calm serenity 
she has a nature deep and intense enough to feel 
the words of Galatea which I have quoted to you. 
Her manner to me has suffered a change—this is not 
fancy—I know it. 

She used to be as free and untrammelled as a 
child, clinging to me in getting in and out of the 
skiff, and frequently calling me by name. Now, she 






A Luxurious Bohemian. 


111 


rarely addresses me directly, and avoids my prof¬ 
fered hand in embarking and disembarking. Can 
she have seen my love in my eyes, and does she 
scorn me and resent my affection ? I throw my pride 
to the winds and ask you what am I to do ? Propose 
anything but your former plan (how fervently I wish 
I had gone to you !), and I will follow your counsel. 
Do not delay in answering. My days are full of 
anxiety, and my nights are burdened with troubled 
dreams. 

Yotirs trustingly , 

Frank De L. C. 

The Maples, August io th. 

Poor Fellow : 

My silence was in nowise connected with the win¬ 
some maiden with the bronze-red hair, and it was a 
real penance to me not to be chatting to you every 
day or so, but I had reached the boundary line of 
my ability as adviser, and concluded to let you work 
out your own salvation. 

Your position is just as bad as it could be. You 
are hopelessly in love with another man’s wife, and, 
Oh ! crown of all sorrows— she is in love with you. 

Do not pretend to be startled. You know you 
have lulled your heart to rest with the sorrowful 
solace of it a thousand times. Her abstraction, her 
fluctuations of mood, the serious expression of her 
once riante face (I use your own word), all have said 
to you over and over again the same truth. 

I pity her from the inside core of my heart. Of 
all people on earth to be commiserated is, foremost, 
the woman who wakes with a start to find that she 
loves another man better than she does her husband. 
This newer love, so perilously dear, is fraught with 
ineffable blessings and undying curses, full of fleet¬ 
ing consolations, and burdened with deathless re¬ 
morse. 

Ah ! dear boy, how pained I am that you should 
have wrought this wretchedness. Do not shut your 
eyes to it. Grasp it, stifle it, kill it. How ? Great 
heavens ! how can I tell you ? Absence will not do 
it—it is too late for that now. The very irony of 
your masquerade puts beyond your reach the count¬ 
less trickeries known to men of the world for putting 
an end to such entanglements. 

You are in for it, and praying that some saving 
chance may yet come to you, 

I am yours , in gladness or in sorrow , 

' W. J. Morrison. 

Clairehaven, August 20th. 
My Dear Morrison : 

I have been quite ill. Claire, poor innocent, says 
it is the exposure on the river, and declares that I 
shall not go rowing at midday any more. Little 
does she dream of the true cause of the fever which 
sends the blood rioting through my veins like lava. 
Little does she or any one else know of the terrible 
battle I have been waging with my own soul—trying 
with all that is best and strongest in me to renounce 


the only thing I ever yearned for in my life—the 
confessed love of this dear woman. 

Since I’ve been sick Will has brought me one or 
two kind, conventional little notes from Mrs. Levois, 
and her brother has considerately offered to call 
upon me. Imagine him finding his oarsman the 
honored and petted guest of one of the most exclu¬ 
sive homes on the river ! 

Clever Will made some plausible excuse about the 
doctor forbidding visitors, and I’m still sailing under 
false colors, and still playing the diverting comedy 
which now bids fair to be the one tragic era of my 
whole happy-go-lucky life. 

During my sickness I have turned the bewildering 
question over in a hundred ways, and I see no happy 
issue out of all this trouble. On one thing I am 
resolved. I must tell her how I love her—that I will 
do if I am banished from her sweet presence for¬ 
ever. If she would only love me ! I am not such 
a black-hearted scoundrel as to ask her to come to 
me. I love her far too well for that. But I feel that 
I could go away from her for all time content to 
carry with me a saddened heart if I could only be 
assured that she treasured me in hers. The knowl¬ 
edge of that would sweeten and sanctify my whole 
life. 

I am trying to get well now, so that I can speak 
with her. Upon the light in her eyes, the quiver of 
her lips, the trembling of her little hand, depend the 
making or the ruin of my future. Oh, she need not 
put it into words—I shall know if her heart beats 
right, for I shall look into her very soul. 

I beg that you will not blame me. Oh ! the glory 
of it! Only to know, as “ Ouida” says : “A passion 
that is shut in between his own heart and one 
other’s, like a culled flower between the pages of a 
poem.” Is it not enough to set a man’s whole being 
to celestial music ? I feel almost justified —what do 
I say l Is it not pitiful that love, the only elevating 
passion of the human heart, should ever need justi¬ 
fication ? Write to me if you can without showing 
me how keenly you feel my weakness. Now, I care 
for but one thing on earth, and that I will secure if 
I live. 


Yours as ever , 

Frank De L. C. 


Clairehaven, August 23d. 

My Dear Morrison : 

Not yet can I give you the verdict for which I 
am waiting with tempest-driven heart. I have seen 
Mrs. Levois twice since writing—the first time only 
for a moment. The next glimpse I had of her was 
a day or two since, when I found on going to Clay¬ 
ton that she was just going off with a large party to 
Hallidays. They had chartered a steamer and I 
was “ out of a job,” to speak in my new r 61 e. 

She spoke with me in a kind and feeling way, but 
showed no more concern about my recent indispo¬ 
sition than was perfectly conventional under the 




I 12 


Treasury of Tales. 


circumstances. She is as pale as death, and if I do 
not mistake the signs, has not been sleeping well of 
late. Just as she was entering the steamer, she 
turned to me and said in a low tone, “ Frank, could 
you take me out on the river to-night ? I long to 
see it under the full moon. Lucien is afraid to have 
me go. He says distances are deceptive at night, 
and there is danger of collisions and other horrors ; 
so I shall have to slip off when he is playing bill¬ 
iards—between nine and eleven o’clock. Could you 
bring your boat down to the lower wharf at nine ? ” 

Could II How my heart jumped with rapture at 
the thought. I carelessly replied that “ I guessed I 
could get off,” and then rowing back to Claire’s, 
spent the entire day trying to quell the delicious 
tumult in my heart and make the hours fly faster. 

To forget that the interval must be over twelve 
hours, I entertained myself with the clever novel, 
“The First Violin.” One sentence in it reminded 
me of your recent letter. The reference was to a 
woman who had sounded her heart, and had discov¬ 
ered that she did not love her husband, and did love 
some one else. It runs thus : 

“ Not one short, sharp pang and over—all fire quenched 
in the cool mists of death and unconsciousness, but long 
years to come of daily, hourly paying the price—incessant 
compunction, active punishment. A prospect for a mar¬ 
tyr to shrink from, and for a woman who has made a mis¬ 
take to—live through.” 

This almost made me falter, but my over-master¬ 
ing desire to speak to her of my passion, persuaded 
me to reflect that the woman in the novel knew that 
she was beloved, and I began to question my right 
to keep that knowledge from the darling woman 
who has so enthralled me. She was waiting for me 
in the shadow of the white willows—a lovely per¬ 
sonification of starlight, robed in gray silken gauze, 
about her shapely little head a cloud of the 
same filmy texture, caught at her throat with a 
gleaming diamond crescent. Surely, thought I, my 
love is right and the gods have granted me this 
chance to declare it. But as I rowed out into the 
pathless calm of the great river, the serenity and 
holiness of the scene worked such a spell upon me 
that not a word would come to me. 

At first the water was untouched by the moon, 
and was as cold and gray as a sheet of steel ; soon, as 
the harvest moon mounted higher and higher, the 
river became a sea of glass full of opalescent fires, 
and later, as the full radiance streamed upon the 
water, the whole surface was transmuted by its weird 
alchemy into a pulsing, quivering expanse of quick¬ 
silver. 

We were stilled into speechlessness by the miracle, 
and I rowed silently from one enchanted isle to 
another, now out into the crinkling stream of unset 
jewels, now slipping along under the shadow of some 
quiet isle. 

At last words came to her and she said : “ Frank, 


whatever happens to me, I shall never forget the 
glory of this night.” 

A thousand words of teifcierness rushed to my 
lips, and I would have given them burning utterance, 
but that just at that fateful moment there was a rough 
cry of warning, and I found that in my mad abstrac¬ 
tion I had carelessly allowed my skiff to drift almost 
under the bows of an approaching tug. I saw that 
Mrs. Levois was pale to the very lips, and seizing 
my oars with the energy of desperation, I whispered, 
“I will save you, my darling.” 

I saw the color surge into her face, and the light 
that I have so ardently hungered and thirsted for, 
flashed into her eyes. It was enough, so chastened 
was I by the danger we had escaped that I could 
not speak another word. In a tremulous voice she 
said that she was tired and chilly, and asked me to 
take her home. In half an hour I was grasping her 
little hand in farewell. 

Since then I have been writing to you, drawing 
my curtains aside now and then to watch the moon¬ 
light pale, and the dawn blossom. I could no more 
sleep than if I were standing at the gates of para¬ 
dise. Now I believe that my wish will come to 
me. May I never know “the misery of a granted 
prayer.” 

There ! the whole face of the river has flushed 
into bloom, as pinTc as the petals of a wild rose, as 
airy as a spider’s web. I pray that my day has dawned 
for me, for the next few hours will make or mar all 
the days of my life. I must throw myself on my 
bed, and after awhile pretend to wake. 

Yours, with hope ahead, 

Frank Carrington. 

Clairehaven, August 25 th. 

My Dear Will : 

Oh ! for a good, strong clasp of your hand and a 
fervent “ God bless you ! ” 

You need not fear to take my hand now, old 
friend, it is void of offence toward God and man. 
All my weakness, misery, and indecision are things 
of the past, and I am happier than I ever dreamed a 
man could be. Oh ! the joy of living and revelling 
in the maddeningly sweet assurances of her love ! 

I can scarcely trust myself to give you anything 
like a coherent narration of how this blessedness 
has come to me, but I will try. My letter of the 
23d will have prepared you for the finale, but never 
such an ending as this. Last evening about nine 
o’clock I rowed up to Clayton to see Mrs. Levois. 
As soon as I landed I met Will Marshall, who in¬ 
formed me that the Levoises were to leave in the 
morning. If there had been the faintest doubt in 
my mind as to the overpowering impulse to tell her 
of my love, this news would have shattered all my 
compunctions. As I passed by the low parlor win¬ 
dow I saw Mrs. Levois standing there alone. There 
was a dim light inside, and as she recognized me 
she shrunk into the shade of the curtains. I walked 






Mother Antoine s Lad. 


quickly forward and said : “ Madame Levois, I have 
come to say good-by.” 

She drew nearer, and without a word extended 
her slender hand. At its touch my heart burst its 
bonds, and clasping her hand strongly in both of 
mine I said: “ Oh ! my love, I cannot let you go 
out of my life. What do I care that you are not 
free to listen to my pleading ! I believe that you do 
care for me a little, and I must tell you that you are 
dearer to me than all the world. Why did you give 
yourself to some one before we met ? Could you 
not feel that I was waiting for you some where. ” 

She wrenched her hand from me and said in an 
excited whisper : “ Oh ! Frank, what do you mean ? 

Do you believe I am a married woman ? Oh ! no, 
it is not so. When we came, the clerk registered 
-my name as Mrs. Levois, and Lucien said it might 
as well stay so, since no one knew us here, and as a 
married lady I should be freer from the demands of 
society, of which I was somewhat weary. 

“ Who is the man in Paris ? Prosper Levois, my 
own brother. You thought he was my husband, and 
that Lucien was my brother-in-law ? Yes, I can see 
now how blundering was the foolish whim which 
seemed so harmless.” 

I clasped her hand and murmured : “ Thank God! 
thank God ! there is now no obstacle to bar me out 
of heaven.” Her face clouded and she replied : 
“ Frank, I will not bear false witness to my own heart 
—I do love you ; love you with my whole strength, but 
I am as far away from you still as if I were indeed 
Madame Levois—Oh ! how can I say it ? how can I 
be so cruel to you and myself ? Do you not see that 
my people, the Cormier-Levois family of New Or¬ 
leans, the most exclusive of all the old clan, would 
never let me mar their record by an alliance with— 
Oh ! what do I care ! I reverence labor and inde¬ 
pendence, and your brown hands are dearer to me 
than all the kid-gloved men in New Orleans.” 

The time for raising my mask had come. 

“ Love,” I said, “ I too have been flying false 
colors. I am not a St. Lawrence river oarsman.” 
Seeing Will Marshall on the opposite side Pcalled 
to him and said, as he neared us : 

“ Will, the time has come to tell the truth—who 
am I ?” 

“ As near as I can make it,” he answered, “you are 
Mr. Carrington, of New York, the brother of Mrs. 
Fred. Livingstone, of Clairehaven Island.” 

The glory that flashed into Felicite’s eyes warned 
the good fellow that he had fulfilled his mission, and 
that we would be better alone. 

I know that I have made a confused, common¬ 
place record of the most celestial experience that 
ever fell to the lot of man, but my heart is in a bliss¬ 
ful flutter and my brain is drunk with Lotus wine. 

She came out to me in the moonlight and we were 
together for an hour on the porch of the pretty little 
Episcopal church, framed in by silver poplars ; a 
fitting place to consecrate our happiness. They will 


1 x 3 

delay their trip for a day or two, so that I may join 
them. 

I had a long talk with Lucien when I returned to 
the hotel, and find him one of the most charming 
gentlemen I ever met. He cordially desires me 
to go with them to the White Mountains, but will 
not hear of anything being settled until he can con¬ 
fer with other members of his family. Claire, whom 
I have waked up out of her beauty sleep, to tell the 
good news to, is aghast with wonder and delight, 
and declares she has interested me in spite of my¬ 
self, this summer. She is all impatience to see la 
belle crdollse, and promises to join us in the moun¬ 
tains later. Cannot you come? You owe me some 
compensation for those severe lectures which, thank 
heaven, I did not or do not need. 

I have not urged Felicite to tell me when I may 
claim her for my very own, but have decided in my 
own mind that I shall see the next carnival on the 
Gulf Coast, and that when I come home I will not be 
alone, and I should not be greatly surprised (if you 
fail to join us in the mountains) if the next time you 
meet me you will find me steeped in a delicious sin 
—loving a married woman. 

Yours faithfully , 

Frank. 

MOTHER ANTOINE’S LAD. 

BY JEAN RICHEPIN. 

H OW did I learn the story that I am going to 
tell you ? What concern is that of yours, 
provided I tell it well ? Now, I am sure of 
telling it well. I declare this beforehand, and with¬ 
out any of an author’s conceit ; for I have nothing 
to do with it as an author, and shall confine myself 
to simply noting the facts just as I have gathered 
them. 

Once on a time there was a poor grandmother and 
her poor grandson, who possessed nothing in the 
world but their affection for each other ; and the 
grandmother was seventy-seven years of age and the 
grandson was eight. 

They lived on the sixth story in a tenement house 
in an alley between Belleville and Menilmontant, a 
quarter where there are few rich people. Now, even 
among this wretched population, the wretchedness of 
these two was marked. That tells how great it was. 

Look at it. The child was sick, crippled, confined 
to bed during the past twelve months, and the old 
woman was very old, very feeble, so that with the 
best good-will in the world she could not really work 
much. 

Fortunately, beggars are good to their fellows. 
The poor folk of the quarter bestowed alms on this 
poverty, more pitiable still than their own, and their 
charity, joined to some allowance from the Board of 
Relief, supported the life of grandmother and grand¬ 
child. 


Translation Copyrighted, 1883. 







Treasury of Tales. 


114 

The old woman was called Mother Antoine, and 
the child was called Mother Antoine’s Lad (raome). 
He was not known by any other name, for he had 
never been seen running and playing in the street 
with the gamins of his age ; no comrade had ever 
been heard calling to him across the street ; all you 
heard was, from time to time, among the neighbor 
women— 

“Well, Mother Antoine’s lad, how is he ?” 

Alas! he was going from bad to worse, was Mother 
Antoine’s lad. The poor boy was consumptive and 
sickly, and when he was not crying from the dull 
pain of his hip disease, he was coughing a dry and 
bloody cough, which brought two bunches of dull 
violets to his cheeks. 

During his childhood, although he limped and 
was often on his back, he had had, nevertheless, 
some fairly good turns. Then the grandfather, who 
was still working (although he was eighty years old), 
took him nice walks in the fresh air and the sunlight, 
and gained means to buy, here or there, the remedies 
which set him up for a few weeks. But since they had 
lived in this wretched garret, on the sixth story, over 
a court yard, from which arose the stale odor of the 
sinks, since the old woman could not scrape together 
more than was just needed to keep them from dying 
of hunger—since December of last year Mother An¬ 
toine’s lad had never got up, and in all probability 
would never get up again. 

The last time he had been out was Christmas day. 

On that day Mother Antoine had wrapped him up 
as best she could in a big muffler which she had 
made of her old shawl; she had put on him her two 
only pairs of stockings to keep his feet warm in his 
new rubbers, and she had taken him to the boule¬ 
vard, along the little stalls full of toys, figures, and 
dolls that made a splendid many-colored fairy¬ 
land. 

This fairy-land had remained in the eyes and in 
the imagination of the sick boy, and ever since he 
had spoken of it with thrills of regret and desire, 
opening his mouth wide in ecstasy and stretching 
out his thin little arms to the mirage of all these 
unforgetable marvels of which he had caught a 
glimpse. 

There was, first and foremost, away down near 
the Place du Grand Opera, a superb punchinello— 
striped and gilded, almost as tall as the little stunted 
being himself—which, when one pulled the string, 
shook gayly its bells and rattles, raised its arms, flung 
out its legs and looked at you at the same time with 
its illumined face and almost living grin. 

“ Oh, how pretty it was, how pretty it was! ” 
Mother Antoine’s lad often cried ; “ It is very dear, 
mammy, is it not, a punchinello like that ? ” 

And the old woman always replied, “ Come now, 
I will buy you one of them, when we are richer.” 

“And when shall we be richer?” 

“ Soon, my pet, soon.” 

“ Then I shall have it, eh ? the punchinello ?” 


“Yes, yes ; you shall have it.” 

“For you see, mammy, I am sure that if I had it 
I should be cured at once.” 

This same idea recurred incessantly as though he 
were possessed by it. And when he was worse than 
usual, the poor little thing, when his pains racked 
him fiercest ; when his terrible cough shook him 
as if it would tear the breath out of him, oh, then, 
the desire became more active—almost poignant. 
Any body could see that it added to his sufferings, 
and that in reality the possession of the toy would 
ease his pain like a charm. 

And she knew this, old Mother Antoine. By dint 
of promising the punchinello she came to feel that she 
must keep her promise, and that she had no other way 
but this to keep her cherub alive a little longer. Yes ; 
he should have it, his punchinello. And he would 
be cured ! She, too—she herself had ended by be¬ 
lieving in this mad hope. 

Yes, he should have it. But how? As he said 
himself with tears of impotent longing, it must cost a 
deal, a punchinello like that! It was a toy for the 
rich. At least twenty francs. Perhaps more. Where 
could she find this gold, she who no longer knew 
the color even of silver, and who only saw at long, 
long intervals, a few big copper sous among the 
alms she received. Twenty francs ! Why, a for¬ 
tune ! 

She traded off the rags that were given her at the 
beginning of winter. She even sold the occasional 
tickets for bread and meat which she had such 
trouble to get. She reserved only enough for the 
little one. She herself fasted. And when he was 
eating by himself and said to her—“ So you are not 
hungry, mammy ? ” 

“ No,” she answered ; “ they made me swallow a 
plate of soup in the cabinetmaker’s shop.” 

Thus she passed two days together, sometimes, 
without tasting anything. What matter ! He should 
have his punchinello. 

She had economized in this fashion for three 
months, and on the day before yesterday she had al¬ 
together nine francs three sous. 

“At least ten francs,” she thought; “ I must have 
at least ten francs ! Still seventeen sous to find 
between now and to-morrow ! ” 

That day, Mother Antoine’s lad was terribly sick. 
With the fortnight’s cold spell just passed you see 
in what a state the dear little angel must have been. 
And her poor neighbors cannot bestow much charity 
on the old woman, they themselves dying of cold 
and hunger. No more rags to sell ; three tickets for 
bread and wood ; that was all that remained in the 
garret. 

But the little one is so low—so low that he can 
swallow nothing. What use, then, for bread to-day ? 
For her? Not a word of that. And to-morrow? 
Ah, to-morrow she will find some. What is wanted 
at the moment, the necessary, the indispensable 
thing, is not food, but the punchinello. If he had 





A Hidden Witness. 


it, there, now, in his trembling little fingers, surely 
he would be better. 

“ How pretty it was ! ” he said with a stifled rattle 
in his throat. 

And his eyes grow large ; his nostrils, pinched by 
disease, suddenly quiver, a warm glow comes on his 
skin, life returns to his pale lips. Life, yes, life. 
He will live if his dream is realized. 

“ How pretty it was ! ” 

“ I am going to get it for you, yes, I am going right 
away.” 

“ What, the punchinello ? ” 

“ Yes, the punchinello.” 

“ So, we are rich, mammy ? ” 

“ Yes, my pet. Look here ! ” 

She shows him her nine francs three sous. It is 
all in sous, there is a big heap of them. 

The child claps his hands. 

“Go quick, mammy ; go quick, now. Do not be 
long.” 

She has gone. No, she will not be long. With 
her old feeble limbs she first runs about to her neigh¬ 
bors to sell the three tickets, the last ones. 

“ It is to buy a remedy for the lad,” says she ; and 
she speaks the truth. It is, indeed, a remedy that 
she is going in search of. 

Ten francs, she has them at last! She had to 
waste half an hour on it, but at last she has them. 
How she hurries on, tottering and stumbling, in spite 
of the slippery pavement, in spite of the numbing cold 
that freezes her bones ; for she has eaten nothing 
yesterday, nothing to-day, and she has put her crusts 
on the sick child’s bed ! She has only a wretched 
petticoat and a thin jacket over her shift. B-r-r-r ! 
She will go spite of all. It is a long way, too. She 
will not go to the first store she comes to. She must 
go away—away, near the Grand Opera. The punchi¬ 
nello, perhaps, is still there this year, and who knows ? 
perhaps it does not cost more than ten francs. 

Yes : it was indeed the same, and for ten francs 
she got it, by bargaining. It was indeed the same. 
She recognized it. She returns, pressing it close to 
her heart, with all a mother’s care, as though afraid 
of hurting it. She, too—she said : 

“ How pretty it is ! ” 

Let us cut short. Fate is the most terrible of 
dramatic creators. No one invents such striking 
effects as Reality. When you attempt to set forth 
one of the supreme situations in life, all that is left 
is to do so in two words. 

The old woman had been away two full hours. 
On her return she found the child dead. 

Yesterday Mother Antoine’s lad was buried. 

Mother Antoine placed in the little coffin, on the 
shroud made out of a patched gown, the pretty 
punchinello, covered with dazzling colors, tinkling 
bells, wonderful gilding. And thus the little corpse 
had its Christmas box 

May Mother Antoine soon have her New Year’s 
gift—Death ! 


I 15 

A HIDDEN WITNESS. 

BY CHARLES DICKENS. 

“ HE is positively starving, and this money 
will be the saving of her.” 

These words were spoken in the course of 
a conversation between my old friend Mr. John 
Irwin, retired civil-servant, and myself ; both sit¬ 
ing on a fine September morning in a little summer¬ 
house, in the garden of our mutual friend the Rev. 
Henry Tyson, rector of Northwick-Balham, in the 
county of Berkshire. The subject of our conversa¬ 
tion had been a piece of very flagitious behavior on 
the part of a wealthy retired tradesman, Harding by 
name, who lived in the neighborhood. A sum of 
money, amounting to a hundred pounds, was owing 
by this man to a widow, living also close at hand, 
for work done by her husband just before he died. 
The validity of the claim had been denied by Mi. 
Harding and payment obstinately refused. 

“I have made it all right, however,” said my 
friend, with something approaching to a chuckle. “ It 
happens that this Harding is to a certain extent in 
my power. The particulars of a transaction in 
which he was engaged some years ago, not of the 
most creditable nature, and all the facts relating to 
which came before me in the course of my official 
career, are not only perfectly well known to me, but 
he knows that I know of them, and is aware that I 
could even at this day use them against him if I 
chose. Consequently he is always exceedingly civil 
to me, and when, in the course of a conversation be¬ 
tween us yesterday, I explained to him—assuming 
as I did so a dangerous look, which I could see had 
its effect—that I should take it exceedingly ill if he 
did not at once consider this poor woman’s claim, 
and forthwith pay her what he had owed to her 
husband, he turned very pale, and informed me that 
since a person on whose judgment he could so en¬ 
tirely rely as he could on mine, was of opinion, after 
duly considering the claim, that it was a just one, he 
would at once give up his own view of the case, 
which had certainly hitherto been opposed to mine, 
and would without delay discharge the liability. He 
only begged that he might be spared the annoyance 
of a personal interview with his creditor, and that I 
would undertake in my own person to see the widow 
and transact the business part of the arrangement 
myself. 

“You know,” continued Mr. Irwin, “how in¬ 
terested I have always been in this poor soul’s case, 
and you will believe how readily I undertook the 
charge. This very afternoon the business is to be 
brought to a conclusion. I have arranged to call 
on Harding (who, as you know, lives close by) at 
three o’clock, to get the money, and I will then con¬ 
vey it with my own hands to the poor woman as a 
surprise.” 

“You have never done a better day’s work,” I 
said. “ How do you mean to go ? ” 




Treasury of Tales. 


116 


“ I shall walk. It is not over a couple of miles. 
The path across the fields by Gorfield Copse is the 
nearest way, isn’t it ? ” 

“Yes, by a good deal,” I answered. “Would you 
like a companion ? ” 

“ Well, I should like one, certainly,” was my friend’s 
answer; “ but I feel a little delicacy about introduc¬ 
ing a stranger into the business—either that with 
Mr. Harding himself, or with my friend the widow, 
who is the proudest and most sensitive woman in 
the world.” 

I assented to the justice of this objection, and 
having some letters to write, got up to go, leaving my 
friend sitting in the summer-house. As I quitted it 
turning sharply round to go into the house, I came 
suddenly upon a man who w r as emerging from among 
the shrubs which formed the back of the little arbor. 

He was an occasional helper about the place, and 
I had noticed him more than once, and not with 
favor. He was a very peculiar, and, as I thought, 
a very ill-looking man. He was a shy, slouching 
sort of creature, who always started and got out of 
the way when you met him. A man with hollow, 
sunken eyes, a small, mean, pinched sort of nose, and 
a prominent savage-looking under-jaw, with teeth 
like tusks, which his beard did not always conceal. 
This beard, by-the-by, was one of the most marked 
characteristics of the man’s appearance, it being— 
as was his hair also—of that flaming-red color which 
is not very often seen—really red, with no preten¬ 
sions to those auburn, or chestnut, or golden tints 
which have become fashionable of late years. The 
blazing effect of this man’s coloring was increased 
very much by the head-dress he wore: an old 
cricketing cap of brightest scarlet. He was other¬ 
wise dressed in one of those short white canvas 
shirts or frocks which are much worn by engineers, 
stokers, and plasterers, over their ordinary clothes. 
There was a great brown patch of new material let 
into the front of this garment which showed very 
conspicuously, even at a distance. His lower ex¬ 
tremities were clad in common velveteen trousers, 
old and worn. 

Such was the man who appeared suddenly in my 
path as I left the summer-house, and who disap¬ 
peared as suddenly out of it a moment after our en¬ 
counter, gliding stealthily off in the direction of the 
kitchen garden. 

I saw my good friend Mr. Irwin once more before 
he started on his beneficent errand. He was in 
high spirits, and had got himself up in great style 
for the occasion, with a light-colored summer over¬ 
coat to keep off the dust, and a white hat. I think 
he had a flower in his button-hole. 

There was one part of Mr. Irwin’s equipment a 
little out of the common way, and this was a butter¬ 
fly net fixed to the end of a stick. My friend was a 
most enthusiastic entomologist, and when in the 
country never stirred without carrying with him this 
means of securing his favorite specimens. I joked 


him a little on the introduction of this unusual ele¬ 
ment into a business transaction, suggesting that Mr. 
Harding would think that he had brought it as a 
receptacle for the widow’s money. 

“ I must have it with me,” said the old gentleman, 
“ for if I ever venture to go out without it, I invari¬ 
ably meet with some invaluable specimen which 
escapes me in a heartrending manner. But,” he 
added, “ I’m not going to let Harding discover my 
weakness, you may be sure. I’ll leave it outside 
among the bushes, and recover it when the interview 
is over.” 

“Well, good luck attend you anyway,” I called 
after him, “a successful end to your negotiations, 
and plenty of butterflies.” 

The good-hearted old fellow gave me a nod and a 
smile, and, flourishing his net, was presently off on 
his mission. 

I had what we familiarly call “ the figdets ” that 
afternoon. I could not settle down to anything. 
Having tried wandering about the garden, I now 
took, in turn, to wandering about the house, going 
first into one room and then into another, looking 
at the pictures, taking up different objects which lay 
about, and examining them in an entirely purpose¬ 
less way. 

At the top of my friend’s house there was a little 
room in a tower, which was used as a smoking- 
room and also as a kind of observatory : my host 
being in the habit of observing the heavenly bodies 
though his telescope when favorable occasion offered. 

I remembered the existence of this apartment now, 
and feeling that a small dose of tobacco would suit 
my present condition very well, determined to climb 
the turret staircase, and enjoy a quiet smoke in the 
observatory. 

The room was charming. There were large win¬ 
dows in it, and the view was most extensive, taking 
in scenery of a very varied kind—hill and dale, wood, 
river, and plain. The signs of habitation were not 
numerous, the country being but thinly populated : 
still there were cottages and farmhouses scattered 
here and there, and even one or two villages in the 
distance. I lighted my cigar and gave myself up to 
tranquil enjoyment of the scene before me. 

As I sat thus, the clock of my host’s church struck 
three. Remembering that to be the hour of Mr. 
Irwin’s interview with Harding, my thoughts reverted 
to the subject of the widow’s debt, and to the good¬ 
nature which my old friend had displayed in giving 
himself so much trouble and undertaking such a 
thankless office. My mind did not dwell long on 
these things, however. I happened to catch sight 
of the telescope, which was put away in a corner of 
the room ; and, being restless, and not in a mood in 
which total inaction was agreeable to me, I deter¬ 
mined to have it out and examine the details of the 
landscape which I had just been studying on a large 
scale. 

The day was very favorable for my purpose. The 




A Hidde n Witness , 


ii; 


sun was shining and there was an east wind—a 
combination which often produces a remarkable 
clearness in the atmosphere. Circumstances could 
not possibly be more suitable for telescopic opera¬ 
tions, so placing the instrument on its stand before 
one of the open windows, I sat down and com¬ 
menced my survey. 

It was a superb telescope, and although I knew it 
well, and had often used it before, I found myself 
still astonished at its power and range. I set my¬ 
self to trying experiments as to the extent of its 
capacity, taking the time by the church clock of a 
village two miles off, trying to make out what peo¬ 
ple were doing in the extreme distance, and in other 
ways putting the capabilities of the instrument to 
the test. That done, with results of the most satis¬ 
factory kind, I went to work in a more leisurely 
fashion, shifting the glass from point to point of the 
landscape, as the fancy took me, and enjoying the 
delicious little circular pictures, which, in endless 
variety, seemed to fit themselves, one after another, 
into the end of the instrument. 

The little round pictures were some of them very 
pretty. Here was one—the first the telescope showed 
me—in the front of which was a small patch of pur¬ 
ple earth just brought under the plow. A little copse 
bounded one side of this arable land ; there was a 
very bright green field in the distance ; and in the 
foreground the plow itself was crawling slowly along, 
drawn by a couple of ponderous and sturdy horses, 
a bay and a white, whose course was directed by an 
old man with a blue neckerchief, the ends hanging 
loose, a boy being in attendance to turn the horses 
at the end of each furrow, and generally to keep 
them up to their work. 

A turn of the glass, and another picture takes its 
place. A road-side ale-house now. One of the 
upper windows has a muslin half-blind betokening 
the guest chamber ; another on the ground floor is 
ornamented with a red curtain : —the tap-room, this, 
where convivial spirits congregate on Saturday 
nights. The inn has a painted sign ; somebody in a 
scarlet coat and with something on his head which I 
can’t quite make out; perhaps it is a three-cornered 
hat, and perhaps the inn is dedicated to the inevitable 
Marquis of Granby. Stay ! I recollect now seeing 
such an inn in one of my walks in the neighbor¬ 
hood. It is the Marquis of Granby, as I well re¬ 
member. An empty cart is standing in front of the 
house, the driver watering his horses, and “beering” 
himself, just before the house door, where I can see 
him plainly. 

Another and more extensive turn, and the little 
railway station comes within the limits of the magic 
circle. Not much to interest here ; a small white¬ 
washed, slate-roofed, formal building, hard, and 
angular, and hideous. A lot of sacks piled up 
against the wall, waiting to be sent off by the lug¬ 
gage train ; a great signal post rising into the air, a 
row of telegraph poles stretching away in perspective. 


Now a prosperous farm-stead, with a big thatched 
house, where the farmer and his family reside, with 
well-preserved sheds and outhouses ; there is a 
straw-yard, too, with cattle standing knee-deep, and 
eating out of racks well filled with hay ; and there are 
pigs wallowing in the mire, and there are cocks and 
hens jerking themselves hither and thither, and 
pecking, and generally fussing, as their manner is. 
This picture, in its circular frame, pleases me well, 
and so does the next. A gentleman’s seat of the 
entirely comfortable, not of the showy and ostenta¬ 
tious, sort. The grounds are large enough to be 
called a park, and the house lying rather low, as it 
was the fashion to build a century or two ago, stands 
in the midst of them, with a trim and pleasantly 
formal flower-garden round about it. It is a red 
brick house of the Hanoverian time, with a rather 
high slate (green slate) roof, with dormer windows 
in it. The other windows have white sashes, which 
are flush with the wall, and not, as in these days, 
sunk in a recess. 

I look long on this scene, and then, not without 
reluctance, shift my glass, and turning away from 
human habitations, begin to examine the more re¬ 
tired and unfrequented parts of the landscape. The 
magic circle now encloses nothing but trees and 
meadows, and little quiet nooks and corners, where 
the lazy cows stand about in shady places too idle 
even to feed, or where the crows blacken the very 
ground by their numbers, unmolested by shouting 
boys, unscared by even the old traditional hat and 
coat upon a stick. 

I came presently to a little bright green paddock, 
with a pony feeding in it—a refreshing little round 
picture pleasant to dwell on. There is a pond in 
one corner of the paddock, surrounded with pollard 
willows, the water reflecting them upon its surface, 
as also a little patch of sky which it gets sight of 
somehow, between the branches. It is a comfortable 
and innocent little place this, with a small wood 
close by, with a haystack near the gate, and—stay— 
what is this ? There are figures here—two men— 
how plainly I see them ! But what are they doing ? 
They are in violent movement. Are they fighting, 
wrestling, struggling ? It is so. 

A struggle is going on between them, and one 
of the two*—he wears a bright red cap—has the 
best of it. He has his antagonist, who seems to 
be weak and makes but faint resistance, by the 
throat; he strikes fiercely at the wretched man’s 
head with a thick stick or club he holds, and press¬ 
ing on him sorely, beats him fiercely to the ground. 
The man who has the best of it—there is something 
more of red about him besides his cap ; is it his 
beard ?—does not spare the fallen man, but beats 
him still about the head—a gray head surely—with 
his club. Horrible sight to look on. I would give 
anything to tear myself away from the telescope or 
at least to close my eyes, and shut out the sickening 
spectacle. But the butchery is nearly over. The 





118 


Treasttry of Tales. 


gray-haired man continues yet to struggle and re¬ 
sist, but only for a little while. In a very short time 
the contest, as I plainly see, will be over. 

The conquered man, making one more supreme ef¬ 
fort, rises nearly to his feet, receives another crushing 
blow, falls suddenly to the ground, and is still. Mer¬ 
ciful Heavens ! what is this ! Who are these two men t 
Do I know them ? It cannot be that that is my 
dear old friend lying helpless on the ground, and 
that the other is the man whom I took note of, just 
now, in the rectory garden ! It cannot be that this 
deed, of which I have been a witness—inactive, 
powerless to help or save—is a murder ! 

I felt for a moment as if all presence of mind, and 
power of action, had deserted me. What was I to 
do ? That was all that I could say, over and over 
again, as I sat still gazing through the telescope 
with an instinctive feeling that I must not lose one 
single incident of the scene before me. All that 
happened I must see. I recalled my senses by a 
mighty effort, and reasoned as men do in a crisis. 
What was to be done ? The place where this horri¬ 
ble deed was being committed was so far off—about 
three-quarters of a mile as the crow flies, more 
than a mile by any road I knew of—that there could 
be no possibility of my getting there in time to be 
of the slightest use. The end, if it had not come 
already—and I felt certain that it had—must most 
surely have come before I could traverse that dis¬ 
tance. 

There was but one way now in which I could 
be of any service, and that was in securing the 
detection of the murderer. I must remain at my 
post and watch his every movement, besides en¬ 
deavoring to render myself certain, so far as the 
glass would enable me to be so, concerning his ap¬ 
pearance and dress. So there I sat, helpless and 
spell-bound, but watching with devouring eyes. 
There was a sudden stillness where there had been 
before so much of struggling and movement. The 
blows had ceased to fall now. The deed was ac¬ 
complished, and there was no more need for them. 
The man himself, the murderer, was still, and I made 
sure of his identity. There was the red hair, there 
was the red beard, there was the scarlet cap lying on 
the ground, there was the canvas frock with the 
patch in front. There was no doubt. 

Alas ! was there any doubt either about that other 
figure lying on the grass beside him ? The light- 
colored summer coat which he had worn when I 
last saw him, the white hairs. 

It was nearly too much to bear, but a savage 
craving for vengeance came to my aid, and braced 
up my energies. I dispelled by an effort of the 
will a dimness which came before my eyes, and 
straining them more intensely than ever, saw the 
man with the red cap start up, as if suddenly con¬ 
scious that he was losing time, and set himself to 
work to rifle the body of his victim. As far as I 
could see he was engaged in emptying the poor old 


man’s pockets, and once I thought I saw the gleam 
of something golden ; but this might have been 
fancy. At all events he continued for some time to 
turn the body over and over, and then, having I sup¬ 
pose satisfied himself with what he had secured, he 
got up, and dragging the corpse after him, made his 
way to the little wood close by, and entering it 
disappeared from sight. 

And now, indeed, a crisis had arrived when it was 
difficult in the extreme to know how to act. What 
if that disappearance were final ? What if he should 
get out of the wood at the farther extremity and I 
should see him no more ? 

It was a breathless moment. I continued to watch, 
and hardly breathed. At last and when I was be¬ 
coming desperate with uncertainty, I saw something 
move again. The trees were parted, and at the 
same place where the murderer had entered the 
wood, bearing with him the body of my old friend, 
he now reappeared, alone. He stood a moment as 
if undecided, and then came out, looking behind 
him first, and then arranging the disturbed boughs 
as though to make the place look as if no one had 
passed that way. That done, he stood still for a 
moment, looking about him as if in search of some¬ 
thing, and then he moved across—how unconscious 
of the pursuer on his track, the telescope following 
his every step, unseen and unsuspected !—to where 
at the corner of the meadow there was, as I have 
mentioned, a little pond with pollard willows round 
about its margin. 

He stooped and took up some object lying beside 
the pond. What was it ? There was something 
green about it. Was it old Mr. Irwin’s butterfly 
net ? I could not see with certainty, but no doubt 
it was, and no doubt the poor old gentleman had 
wandered away from the foot-path, which was near 
at hand, in pursuit of some entomological specimen. 

The man with the red cap threw this object into 
the water. Then taking off his canvas frock, he be¬ 
gan to wash the front of it, stained no doubt with 
blood. Then he washed his hands and face, and 
putting on the frock, wet as it was in part, stood up 
and once more looked suspiciously about. All this 
took time, but I dared not remove my eye from the 
glass for a single instant. Once I had tried to reach 
the bell-handle, but I could not. Something, how¬ 
ever, would have to be done presently, and done on 
the instant. 

For he was going. He turned his back upon the 
pond ; looked about, as if to see whether there were 
any traces of his crime visible ; then crossed the 
field, got over the gate by the hay-stack, was lost to 
sight for a moment, appeared again, disappeared 
again, and finally, after being out of sight for some 
time, showed at last, walking along the high road, 
until he came to a road-side inn, that very Marquis 
of Granby spoken of above. Into this he entered. 

And now, indeed, I felt that the time had come 
when some decisive step must be taken. If he were 





A Hidden IVitness. 




not secured now, while he was in the public-house 
—if he got out of it without being taken—he might 
get off by ways which were hidden from my range 
of vision, and so escape. I still dared not move my 
eye from the telescope or the telescope from the 
inn door. It was absolutely indispensable that he 
should not be able to leave the house without my 
knowing it. I must not stir, then ; but as some¬ 
thing required to be done instantly, somebody else 
must stir for me. In a moment I decided on my 
course. 

Remaining motionless at my post, I lifted up 
my voice, and gave utterance to such a succes¬ 
sion of shouts that I confidently expected that the 
whole establishment would rush up-stairs to the 
observatory, thinking that I myself was being mur¬ 
dered. It was not so, however, and considering the 
noise I made, it seemed really astonishing how long 
I called in vain. At last it did appear that I was 
heard. The head gardener was in the grounds close 
by ; the sound of my voice reached him at length 
through the open window. Even when he heard, 
however, it was evident that he could not make out 
whence the cries which reached him came. 

“ Who calls ? ” he cried. 

“ Here ! ” I shouted. “ In the tower ! Help ! 
help ! at once ! There is not a moment to lose.” 
And very soon I heard the welcome sound of 
footsteps hurrying up the turret stairs. Almost 
before the door was opened, or the gardener in 
the room, I issued my orders. “Jump upon the 
pony,” I cried, still with my eye fixed on the door 
of the old inn, “ and gallop at full speed down 
to the Marquis of Granby. There has been a 
murder committed, and the murderer is in that 
house. He has on a scarlet cap, has red hair and 
a red beard, and a canvas frock, with a dark patch in 
front.” 

“ What! My helper here ? ” cried the gardener. 

“ The same. Seize him, or, if he has left when 
you get there, raise the hue and cry, and follow him. 
He has murdered poor old Mr. Irwin. Don’t stop 
to answer,” I added, as the man uttered an exclama¬ 
tion of surprise and horror. “ Go—go at once ! I 
dare not leave this post. Go, and if you meet 
any one on your way send him—her—any one—to 
me.” 

The man was a sharp fellow, and disappeared in¬ 
stantly. Very soon I had the satisfaction of hearing 
the sound of a horse’s hoofs galloping out of the 
yard at the back. Meanwhile, half the household, 
alarmed by what the man had told them, had rushed 
up to the observatory, and were now gathered round 
me as I sat at the telescope. They were silent for 
a time, and I could feel, though my eyes were en¬ 
gaged, that they were watching me intently. 

“ What is his name ? ” I asked, after a while. 

“ His name is Mason,” somebody replied : “Will¬ 
iam Mason.” Then there was silence again as I 
went on watching. 


119 

“ For God’s sake, what is it, sir ?” cried the old 
housekeeper, suddenly in answer, I suppose, to an 
involuntary exclamation of mine. 

“ The door is opened,” I answered. 

“ Is he coming out ? ” 

No one appeared for a moment; at last some one 
passed out. It was not he, however—it was an old 
woman carrying a bundle. 

There were several false alarms of this kind, as 
different people who had been taking refreshments 
at the tap came out, one after another in pretty rapid 
succession. At last, after a longer interval than 
usual, the door opened quickly once again. 

“ It is he,” I said, hardly knowing—till I heard 
the confused murmur of an exclamation from the 
group behind me—that I spoke. “He has come 
out. He is looking first one way, and then another, 
and now he is gone, and the gardener will be too 
late ! ” 

I could still see him, and could make out in which 
direction he was going. 

“ Is any one belonging to the stable here ? ” 

“Yes, sir,” replied a voice I knew. 

“ Get a horse saddled at once, Matthew, and bring 
him round. The swiftest you have.” 

In a moment I heard the man’s footsteps clatter¬ 
ing down the stairs. 

“ Can you see him still ? ” asked the old house¬ 
keeper. 

“ At present I can, but I shall not be able to do 
so long. The part of the road he is approaching is 
hidden from my view.” 

Very soon my prediction came true. There was 
a turn in the road. Trees and buildings and rising 
ground intervened and hid the figure. It did not 
show again for a long space ; when it did it came 
out by the railway station. 

I sat and thought the situation over, and the con¬ 
viction forced itself upon me, more and more 
strongly, that this railway station would be the ulti¬ 
mate destination of the murderer, and that the only 
chance now was to keep a steady watch upon its 
approaches. But my eyes, especially the left eye, 
which I had to keep closed, were now so tired that 
I could hardly use them. I found it, however, by 
no means easy to get a substitute. 

There were only present at this time the women- 
servants and a boy. The boy could not be trusted, 
of course, and the women, one and all, proclaimed, 
as they seated themselves by turns before the glass, 
that they could only see “ something dark bobbing 
up and down at the end of it.” At last it was sug¬ 
gested that Martin, the vicar’s factotum, who had 
been out, must be at home by this time, and a ser¬ 
vant being dispatched in search of him, he presently 
appeared and took my place at the glass, through 
which he could see perfectly. 

“ He lives just there, sir, between the part of the 
road where you say he disappeared and the station,” 
said Martin, when he had heard all the foregoing 


« 




120 


Treasury of Tales. 


particulars. “Just behind that row of poplars you 
see down yonder.” 

This opened a new view of the matter. Martin 
suggested that perhaps he had gone home, and that 
the right course might be to send there to capture 
him. The propriety of this, however, I doubted. 

“ Keep your attention fixed upon the station,” I 
said, “ and tell me all that goes on there. He will 
find his way there at last.” 

Martin kept his glass fixed on the little building 
in silence. Everything appeared to be at a stand¬ 
still for a moment. 

“ An old woman carrying a basket is making her 
way slowly to the station,” said Martin ; “ one or 
two other people are beginning to arrive.” 

“ What sort of people? ” 

“ Oh, not our man. One is a lad, looks like a 
gentleman’s groom, come to fetch some parcel- 
The other is a miller with a sack of meal. There 
are signs of some stir about the place, and I can 
make out the porters moving about. What time is 
it, sir ? ” asked the man, suddenly. 

“Twenty minutes past four,” I answered. 

“The down train is due at 4.29,” said Martin. 
“ That accounts for the bustle.” 

“ Where does it go to ? ” I asked. 

“ It’s the Bristol train, sir,” was the answer. 

Just the place, I thought, where the murderer 
would want to go. 

“ There’s a cart driven by an old man with a great 
many parcels, which the porters are removing, and 
taking into the station ; there’s a man with a couple 
of pointers coupled. The train’s coming, sir ; I can 
see the smoke, and they’re working the signals as 
hard as they can go. Here’s a carriage driving up 
with a pair of white horses. It’s the Westbrook car¬ 
riage—I can see the liveries. There’s Squire West¬ 
brook getting out, and there are the two young 
ladies. Here’s the postman with his leather bag. 
Here’s a woman with a little boy ; the train’s in 
now, and they’re just going to shut the doors. Here 
comes somebody running. He’s a volunteer, one of 
our own corps. He’ll be too late. No ; the porter 
sees him, and beckons him to make haste. The 
volunteer runs harder than ever, the porter drags 
him into the station and the door is shut.” 

“ Is there nobody else ? ” I ask, in violent excite¬ 
ment. 

“ Not a soul, sir, and now the train is off.” 

“ And you are sure you’ve not missed any one ? ” 

“ Quite sure, sir.” 

I was profoundly disappointed, and for the mo¬ 
ment puzzled how to act. Watching the station 
was, for the present, useless. There would not be 
another train until eight o’clock at night. The only 
chance under these circumstances seemed to be the 
chance of finding the man at his own house. Thither 
I determined to go, thinking that even if he were 
not there I might obtain some information from the 
neighbors which might prove of use. I got a de¬ 


scription of the house and its situation from Martin, 
and, leaving him with directions still to keep a 
watch on the station, ran down-stairs, and finding 
the horse I had ordered waiting for me at the door, 
went off at full speed. 

The horse carried me so well that in a very short 
time I had reached the little clump of cottages to 
which I had been directed, and one of which was the 
dwelling-place of the murderer. I dismounted, and 
throwing my horse’s bridle on the palings in front 
of the cottage, passed along the little path which 
led to the door, and proceeded to try the latch. 
The door was locked. Looking up at the windows 
—there were but two—I saw that they also were 
firmly secured, and that the blinds were down. The 
small abode had a deserted look, and I felt that it 
was empty ; but I knocked loudly, nevertheless, and 
shook the door. 

The noise of my arrival, and of my knocking, at 
length disturbed some of the neighbors, and one or 
two of them appeared. 

“ Is this William Mason’s house ? ” I asked, ad¬ 
dressing one of them—an old man, who looked 
tolerably intelligent, but wasn’t. 

“Yes, sir. But he’s not there now. He’s gone 
out,” the man replied. 

“ Gone out ? How long ago ? ” 

“Well,” replied the man, after some time spent in 
reflection, “ I should think it was about half an 
hour.” 

“ Which way did he go ? ” 

The old man took more time than ever to con¬ 
sider this question, driving me almost wild with his 
delay. Then, after looking first one way and then 
the other, he pointed in the direction of the station. 
I was already on horseback again, and just about to 
move off, when another of the neighbors interposed. 

“ I do think,” said this one, speaking, if possible, 
more deliberately than the other, “ that he went to 
his drill.” 

“ Drill! ” I cried. “ What drill ? ” 

“Why, volunteer drill, to be sure.” 

“ What! ” I screamed. “ Was he a volunteer ? ” 

“Yes, sir. The parson he requires everybody in 
his employment-” 

I did not wait for more, but galloped off, as fast 
as my horse could go, to the railway station. I saw 
it all now. In the interval during which we had 
lost sight of the man he had been home, and think¬ 
ing that a change of costume might baffle pursuit, 
had assumed the volunteer dress as the best disguise 
at his disposal. 

“ Does any one here remember a man, in a volun¬ 
teer uniform, who went off just now by the down 
train ? ” This was my inquiry, addressed to the 
first person I met at the station—a porter, who re¬ 
ferred me to the clerk, to whom I put the same 
question. This man answered in the affirmative at 
once. His attention had been particularly directed 
to this volunteer, by his having required change for 





Our Governess. 


I 2 I 


a five-pound note, at the last moment, as the train 
was going to start. 

“ For what place did he take his ticket ? ” 

“ Bristol.” 

“ That man is a murderer,” I said, “ and must be 
• arrested. If you telegraph at once to Bath, the 
message will be there long before the train, and he 
can be stopped.” 

And so this terrible experience—the particulars 
of which I have related just as they occurred—came 
to an end. The murderer was arrested at Bath, and 
on his being searched, the hundred pounds—except 
the small sum which he had expended on his rail¬ 
way ticket—were found upon him. The evidence 
against him was. in all points overwhelming. The 
body of poor Mr. Irwin was discovered in the little 
wood. I myself directed the search. When it was 
concluded I wandered away to the willow pond to 
look for the butterfly-net. One end of the stick was 
visible above the water, the other end being sunk by 
the weight of the metal ring which was attached to it. 

There was no link wanting in the mass of proof. 
The evidence, which it was my part to give on the 
trial, was irresistible. Great attempts were made to 
shake it, to prove that I might easily have made a 
mistake of identity ; and that such details as I had 
described could not have been visible through the 
telescope at such a distance. Opticians were con¬ 
sulted ; experiments were made. It was distinctly 
proved that it was really possible for me to have 
seen all that I stated I had seen ; and though there 
was much discussion raised about the case, and 
though some of the newspapers took it up, and 
urged that men’s lives were not to be sacrificed to 
the whims of “an idle gentleman who chose to 
spend his afternoons in looking out of window 
through a spy-glass,” the jury returned a verdict 
against the prisoner, and William Mason was con¬ 
victed and hanged. 

The reader may, perhaps, be sufficiently interested 
in the facts of this case to be glad to hear that the 
poor woman who was the innocent cause of the 
commission of this ghastly crime did get her hun¬ 
dred pounds after all, though not from the hands of 
Mr. John Irwin. 


OUI( GOVERNESS. 


IN TWO CHAPTERS. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ T WONDER what she’ll be like ! ” 

“ I hope she won’t be stricter than Miss Sim¬ 
mons.” 

“ If she can’t speak English, what fun it will be! ” 
These three remarks were the utterances of three 
pairs of children’s lips upon the afternoon of the 
day fixed for the arrival of our new French gov¬ 


erness. The three children were mine. I had kept 
the two girls from boarding-school on principle; 
and Bobby, the boy, was too young as yet; so I had 
engaged a French governess in the place of a cer¬ 
tain Miss Simmons, who, being pretty, had capti¬ 
vated our curate, and had married him. 

“ If the children don’t learn anything else,” I had 
said to my wife, “ they shall learn French ; and, from 
experience, I have found out that French can only 
be picked up at the fountain-head.” So, after much 
advertising and bother, Mademoiselle Renfi Dulong 
appeared to possess the necessary qualifications; 
and she was to come to my residence, Acacia Lodge, 
Hampton, straight from Paris. 

I don’t suppose that my children were much worse 
than those of other people, but they required to be 
held firmly in hand ; and the late Miss Simmons’ 
time had been so taken up with billing and cooing 
that she had suffered them to get a bit more unruly 
than I cared to see them, so I made it a sine qua non 
in my advertisement that candidates should be dis¬ 
ciplinarians. In this respect, as indeed in all others, 
Mademoiselle Dulong’s testimonials were unim¬ 
peachable, and I shared the feelings of the children, 
and anticipated her arrival with no little impatience 
and curiosity. 

Long before three o’clock, when she was due, 
chubby fingers had been disturbing the symmetry 
of our Venetian blinds, and curious eyes had been 
peering through the apertures thus created in the 
hope of getting the earliest possible look at the new 
preceptress ; and precisely to the minute, when a 
cab drove up with a modest heap of foreign luggage 
on the roof, the excitement culminated in a chorus 
of “ Here she is ! ” 

Mademoiselle Dulong alighted from the cab, and 
was ushered into the drawing-ro.om. Of course, I 
had pictured her previously in my mind’s eye, and 
equally, of course, the real was as unlike the ideal as 
could be. Instead of a large woman with a square 
jaw and a determined brow, we were in the presence 
of a slightly-built, fair-haired woman of twenty-five, 
neatly yet coquettishly dressed in black, well gloved 
and well booted, as is usual with her country¬ 
women of all classes. There was none of the diffi¬ 
dence and timidity about her for which one might 
naturally look in a young woman landing for the 
first time on an alien soil. Without being in the 
smallest degree forward or bold, she advanced 
smilingly and shook our proffered hands with a con¬ 
fidence which seemed to insure future friendliness 
between us, addressed a few words to us in excellent 
English, and seemed determined to start at once by 
being at home. 

As I got accustomed to her, I saw that, delicate 
as her face was, it was full of determination. It was 
not a pretty face—there was too much chin, and the 
cheek-bones were too prominent; yet her face and 
figure were of the kind that, with a little mechanical 
aid in the way of good dressing, might pass for dis- 









122 


Treasury of Tales. 


tinguished, and by many people might be deemed 
attractive. 

I was curious to see how she would meet the chil¬ 
dren ; and was delighted when she kissed them and 
spoke a few familiar words to them in French. 
“ For,” she said, “I intend to enter upon my duties 
at once.” Even Bobby, who had not anticipated 
her arrival with any very marked signs of pleasure, 
was smitten, and declared that she was worth a dozen 
Miss Simmonses. By tea-time she had unpacked 
her things, and had settled down at Acacia Lodge 
as if she had been a member of the household for 
as many years as she had actually been hours. 

The favorable impression that both my wife and 
I had formed of her at first was fully confirmed by 
better acquaintance. Not only did she prove her¬ 
self an admirable ruler and teacher, but, my wife 
being somewhat of an invalid, Mademoiselle, as we 
called her, assumed the reins of household manage¬ 
ment. Even the servants learned to respect and 
like her, which fact, when the usual attitude as¬ 
sumed by the British Mary-Jane toward governesses 
—especially foreign governesses—is taken into con¬ 
sideration, alone speaks volumes in her favor. The 
name of Mademoiselle became invested with all the 
influence hitherto associated with the name of Mis¬ 
tress. It was now : “ Mademoiselle says so,” “ Mad¬ 
emoiselle knows all about it,” “Ask Mademoiselle.” 
But it must not be inferred from this that she was 
gradually usurping the position of an artful schemer; 
for there was no undue assumption of authority, 
there was nothing overbearing in her demeanor. 
Everything was done quietly, and unostentatiously, 
and with the full consent of my wife, who was glad 
enough to deliver over a part of her duties into the 
hands of an efficient substitute. As for me, being 
a pottering old antiquary whose mind was wrapped 
up in the deciphering of inscriptions, in the tracing 
of Roman remains, in controversies concerning the 
age of flint and the age of bronze, I was perfectly 
content, inasmuch as I was no longer bothered and 
disturbed by having to meddle with domestic con¬ 
cerns. 

At the same time, there was a mystery about her. 
Her correspondence was extensive, and so far as 
handwriting was any indication, it appeared to be 
entirely from the opposite sex. She never alluded 
to friends or relations. We could find out nothing 
about her antecedents except from the testimonials 
she had forwarded in answer to my advertisement. 
She never seemed dull, but settled down into our 
grooves of life happily and contentedly. She had 
plenty of leisure, if she chose to make use of it; but 
I noticed nothing coquettish in her behavior with 
my neighbors, though some of them remarked upon 
the “pretty little Frenchwoman” staying with me. 
Nor did I suspect that she held personal interviews 
with any member of the opposite sex, until one or 
two circumstances happened which knocked the 
dust off my eyes a bit. 


The first eye-opener was on a fine, bright April 
morning. Isalen, my second girl, came tumbling 
into my study as I was busy upon a paper descriptive 
of a certain Roman Camp, her great brown eyes 
opened to their fullest extent, and her face flushed 
with excitement. 

“ O papa ! ” she began, “ what do you think ? Me 
and Awdrey was out just now on the green, and who 
do you think we should see talking to a gentleman 
under the trees in Maid of Honor Walk, but Made¬ 
moiselle !” 

“ Mademoiselle talking to a man ! ” I repeated. 
“ Nonsense, child ! you must be mistaken.” 

“O no, papa; I’m not,” said the child emphat¬ 
ically, “ for we could see them quite plain, although 
they didn’t see us. And the man was tall, and had 
a big fur cloak on, and had black mustaches ; and 
she gave him a lot of papers, and he seemed very 
pleased.” 

“ Perhaps it was Monsieur Cerise from the Gram¬ 
mar-school,” I suggested; but this was repudiated 
by Isalen, who knew Monsieur Cerise perfectly well 
by sight. 

“Well, never mind,” I said ; “it’s no business of 
ours ; so run away and play, there’s a good child ; I’m 
very busy.” 

At the same time, I was as surprised as was the 
child. I tried to fix my attention upon my subject, 
but Mademoiselle and the stranger planted them¬ 
selves in front of me at every line. Yet I don’t 
know why I should have been so surprised ; for 
Mademoiselle was young and striking-looking, if not 
absolutely a beauty ; and young, striking-looking 
women do not condemn themselves to the life of a 
cloister unless they cannot help it. 

However, she said nothing more to me about it, 
and other events drove it out of my mind tempo¬ 
rarily, until another curious circumstance occurred. 

Old resident as I was at Hampton, and familiar as 
I was with every nook and corner of the old palace 
and its grounds, I never wearied of it, and one of my 
keenest enjoyments was to play the part of cicerone 
to strangers. Often and often I would while away 
the sweet hours of summer mornings amid the trim 
terraces and flower-beds planted by Dutch William, 
or under the shady old trees which, had they the 
gift of speech, could tell so many stories of old-world 
pageant and courtship. 

One morning I took the children into the gardens 
for a holiday, leaving Mademoiselle, as I thought, at 
home arranging domestic matters with my wife. We 
wandered about for a long time in the cool shade of 
the Wilderness, until we found ourselves in the Maze. 

I was a walking guide-book to every other part of 
the gardens, but I had neglected the Maze, as mak¬ 
ing too great a demand upon my otherwise occupied 
faculties, so that we were dodging and running 
against each other for a full twenty minutes ere we 
struck the direct path to the centre. Bobby was 
ahead, and just as we turned round the last piece of 





Our Governess. 


hedge, he stopped short, with his finger on his lips, 
and holding me by the coat-sleeve, pointed to the 
open space in the middle. There, on the seat, I saw 
Mademoiselle in earnest conversation with a man 
who answered exactly to the description given by 
Isalen some weeks previously; and they were so 
deeply absorbed that they did not hear the sounds 
•of our feet on the gravel. It certainly did not give 
me the idea of a love-scene ; for the man was talk¬ 
ing excitedly, although in a low voice, gesticulating 
wildly, and Mademoiselle seemed to be trying to put 
in a word without success. Between them on the 
seat lay a bundle of papers, and from the way in 
which they were frequently tapped and pointed to, 
it was clear that they formed the topic,of conversa¬ 
tion. 

Unwilling to lose the scene, unwilling to intrude 
upon other people’s business, I stood undecided. 
My children were for bursting forward and surpris¬ 
ing Mademoiselle, but I restrained them; and in spite 
of my natural antipathy to anything in the shape of 
espionage and eavesdropping, endeavored to catch 
something of the conversation going on. All I could 
make out were the few following words spoken by 
Mademoiselle: “Very well. You want ten thousand 
francs. You must have it. I must see what I can 
do, as it is urgent; but I can make no promises.” 
That was all I heard ; so, fearful lest my curiosity 
should betray me, I hurried back out of the Maze as 
silently and quickly as possible. 

“ What on earth does it mean ! ” I thought, as we 
turned homeward. “Ten thousand francs; that’s 
four hundred pounds. How is she going to get such 
a sum ? ” 

Mademoiselle appeared at the tea-table calm and 
collected as usual, without a token in her manner 
or appearance that anything out of the ordinary 
had taken place. I had a great mind to speak to 
her about what we had seen in the Maze at Hamp¬ 
ton Court; but upon reconsideration, I was not sure 
that it was any business of mine, so I did not. As 
an antiquary, of course, my chief occupation and 
pleasure was the solution of mysteries, and here was 
one at my very door. As I walked in the garden 
that evening with my pipe, according to custom, I 
pondered over the matter ; and the more I pondered, 
the more befogged I got. For what purpose was 
such a sum as ten thousand francs wanted, and who 
was the gentleman who so vehemently pressed for 
it ? I thought I had a right to know, after all, as Mad¬ 
emoiselle was for the time being a member of my 
household and under my protection. Had she been 
separated from a bad husband, whose plan of re¬ 
venge it was to follow and persecute her for money ? 
I walked up and down the gravel path for more 
than an hour, endeavoring to solve the problem, but 
without success. 

I was on the point of turning for the last time 
toward the house, when I heard a rustling amid the 
thicket of laurel which separated my garden from a 


123 

back road. There had been numerous burglaries 
in the neighborhood lately, so that my first idea nat¬ 
urally was that an attempt was to be made upon my 
premises. I turned sharply round ; and as I did so, 
the sound ceased. But I could see nothing. I am 
not a coward, but I confess to a feeling of uneasi¬ 
ness at this mysterious sound within a few paces of 
me. I was unarmed, too ; so that to rush into the 
thicket would have been rash self-exposure. I de¬ 
termined to go to the house and arm myself, and 
had taken two paces in that direction, when I heard 
a voice ask, in a foreign accent: “ Does Made¬ 
moiselle Dulong live here ? ” 

I turned round and could make out a tall figure 
entirely cloaked, but it was too dark for me to see 
his face. “Yes, she does. What do you want with 
her ? ” I replied; but ere I had finished my sentence 
my mysterious visitor had disappeared. 

I returned to the house more mystified than ever, 
and resolved to address Mademoiselle upon the sub¬ 
ject the first thing next morning. Accordingly after 
breakfast, as she was going to the school-room as 
usual, I told her that I should like to speak to her 
alone in my study. She followed me thither. I be¬ 
gan by relating what I had seen and heard in the 
Hampton Court Maze a little time before, and I 
noticed that as I proceeded, the color on Made¬ 
moiselle’s cheek deepened, and her manner became 
excitable and uneasy. 

When I had finished, and was about to pass on 
to the event of the previous night, she said: 

“ I am very glad, indeed, sir, that you have spoken 
to me about this. I have been longing to tell you 
ever since, but have not dared to ; but since you have 
broached the subject, I can speak openly and with¬ 
out reserve. You heard mention of ten thousand 
francs. That man who was speaking to me has been 
a terror to us for years. He alludes to an old debt 
owing to him by my father, late a colonel in the 
French army ; and he persecuted me so for it that 
I was obliged to come here. I don’t know where I 
can get ten thousand francs or the quarter of it; and 
until I can satisfy him at least by a part payment, 
as he has found out that I live here, I can hope for 
no peace.” 

She spoke with so much earnestness, and was so 
visibly pained by the confession, that I was moved. 

“You see, sir,” she resumed, “it will take me 
many years to save up ten thousand francs.” 

*“ But,” I said, “is there no other member of your 
family capable of working for a living?” 

“ Not one, sir,” she replied ; “ my father is bed¬ 
ridden, and my mother has to be with him night and 
day. One brother was killed at Gravelotte, and the 
other is in Algeria.” 

“And this man requires immediate payment?” I 
said. 

“ Well, sir,” replied the girl, “ of course the 
sooner I can get it off, the sooner my persecution 
will end,” 




124 


Treasury of Tales. 


I walked up and down the room for a few mo¬ 
ments, then went out and consulted my wife, desir¬ 
ing Mademoiselle to remain. When I iteturned, I 
said : “ Suppose I advance you this sum, what guar¬ 
antee can I have that it will be—you must excuse 
my saying it, Mademoiselle, but business is business 
—that it will be applied to the end you mention ? I 
should like, of course, to have a receipt from this 
creditor in person ”- 

“You shall see him,” said the girl with enthusi¬ 
asm, “ to-day—in an hour—when you will. O sir, 
how can I thank you enough for this ? But I will 
repay you—you shall see how I will; ” and she 
threw herself at my feet, with such tears in her eyes, 
and such gratitude on her face, that had I been a 
few years younger, and had my wife entered the 
room at the moment, I could have pardoned her for 
being jealous. 

After dinner, when I was in my study, Mademoi¬ 
selle knocked and entered, bringing with her the 
man I had seen in the Maze at Hampton Court. 

I certainly was not struck with his personal ap¬ 
pearance when .1 came to be face to face with him ; 
for, although he was well and even expensively 
dressed, his figure and features seemed to be better 
suited to a blouse and a clay-pipe than to broad¬ 
cloth. 

“You are the creditor of Mademoiselle,” I said, 
“for the sum of ten thousand francs ?” 

“ I am, Monsieur,” he replied, with a bow 
which struck me as being half-insolent and half- 
obsequious. 

“ And you intend to give her no peace,” I con¬ 
tinued, “ until you have wrung this large sum from 
her ? ” 

“ Pardon, Monsieur,” he said; “ I am a poor 
man ; the debt has been outstanding for ten years ; 
and I have allowed both her and her father all the 
latitude a poor man can be reasonably expected to 
allow. This is the first time I have threatened 
Mademoiselle, and if I myself were not pressed, I 
should not do it now.” 

“ But surely,” I said, “ you can temper mercy with 
your acts. You know that Mademoiselle is a poor, 
hard-working woman, and that it must necessarily be 
a long time before she can hope to pay-so large a 
sum. Why not let her pay you in instalments ? ” 

“ Because, Monsieur,” replied the man, “ I have 
immediate need of the money. I am secretary of a 
bank, and I have borrowed the bank’s money, and 
unless I can replace it before the half-yearly balance 
sheet is made up, I shall be disgraced and ruined.” 

This seemed reasonable enough ; somehow, I felt 
impelled to the transaction ; so, after a little further 
conversation, I wrote him a check on my bankers 
for four hundred pounds, taking his receipt in full. 

One part of the mystery about Mademoiselle, 
however, still remained unsolved—the nocturnal 
visitor in the garden. I asked her about him ; but 
•she knew nothing, saying that he was possibly an 


agent of her creditor, who had come to make sure of 
her place of residence. She seemed, however, a 
little uneasy ever afterward, and was never so will¬ 
ing to go beyond the gates as she had been. 

Summer drew to a close, and we had arranged to 
go for our usual outing on the continent,—Mademoi¬ 
selle and the children upon this occasion to accom¬ 
pany us. She was overjoyed at the prospect, and 
set to work at her preparations with alacrity. 

About a week before our departure, my wife came 
in to me and complained of the continual presence 
of a man outside in the road, who seemed to be 
vastly interested in our house and all that went on 
there. The next day we were going out to dine, and 
were passing through the gates, when my wife said : 
“ There he is, that man leaning over the railings 
smoking a cigar.” 

I saw a tall individual in a long cloak, and in¬ 
stinctively my night visitor of many weeks previous 
came into my mind. I do not know why, for I never 
saw the man’s face, but there was something in the 
tall, heavily draped figure of the lounger before me 
which recalled him. 

The next day he was a little farther off. I gave 
information to the police the day before we started, 
and I heard afterward that he disappeared. This 
new mystery now occupied me. I felt sure that 
Mademoiselle was in some way connected with it, 
and I went away full of it, and wondering what it 
would turn out to be. 

CHAPTER II. 

We arrived in Paris in due course, and were com¬ 
fortably settled at our hotel in the Rue de Rivoli. 
Although I had known Paris for many years, and 
could have shown a stranger over it as thoroughly 
as over Hampton Court, I always liked the gay old 
city, and no excuse was too trivial in my eyes for a 
visit to it. But its gayety was not so great an attrac¬ 
tion to me as was the mine of curious antiquarian 
wealth which lay hid amid its dusky, out-of-the- 
way streets, and the odd nooks and corners known 
only to curio-hunters. So, while I allowed my wife 
and children and Mademoiselle to enjoy themselves 
to their hearts’ content among the shops and gar¬ 
dens and palaces, I spent the most of my time in 
the odd world which breathes in the Quartier Latin, 
and among the strange wildernesses about Clichy 
and the Rue Saint-Denis. 

Mademoiselle invariably accompanied the children 
upon their expeditions ; and, indeed, often took en¬ 
tire charge of them when my wife was indisposed. 
She had quite regained the spirits which seemed 
to have deserted her latterly, and talked with an 
enthusiasm and animation upon matters political 
which in an Englishwoman would have appeared 
remarkable. 

I was returning one afternoon from a raid upon 
the book-stalls of the Quai Voltaire, and was just 
turning into the courtyard of our hotel, when I came 






Our Governess. 


125 


into so'mewhat violent collision with an individual 
who seemed to be coming out of it. Instantly, I 
raised my hat to apologize ; our eyes met, and I 
recognized the mysterious watcher of our premises 
at Hampton. His keen gaze rested on me for a 
minute; I turned with the intention of speaking to 
him ; but before I could do so, he was lost in the 
crowd of pedestrians. Mademoiselle took the chil¬ 
dren to the Cirque that evening, so that I had an 
opportunity for talking to my wife about what I had 
seen. She agreed with me that from the evident 
fact of his being a Frenchman, he was watching 
Mademoiselle, and not us, and he had some potent 
reason for so doing from the fact of his following us 
over from England. 

“I cannot believe that there is anything wrong 
about her,” said my wife, “ although there is a mys¬ 
tery. Depend upon it, it has something to do with 
the debt.” 

“Or perhaps,” I suggested, “there is a romance 
connected with her, and he is a rejected suitor.” 

“ But granting that,” said my wife, “ he must have 
known of this debt; and if he had been a real lover, 
he would have attempted to gain her favor by offer¬ 
ing to pay it off.” 

“Yes,” I said; “but perhaps he couldn’t, and 
from what I know of Mademoiselle, I don’t imagine 
her to be the sort of woman whose love can be 
bought, so to speak. No ; I don’t think it’s any¬ 
thing like that; it is something more unusual.” 

“ And something that will surprise us when we 
know it,” added my wife. 

Another little circumstance deepened the mystery. 
The children had been out one morning for a walk 
with Mademoiselle, and came bursting into the room 
as usual, full of the wonders they had seen. 

' “ But such a funny thing took place,” said Isalen. 
“ I don’t know where we were ; it wasn’t a very nice 
street—somewhere on a hill ever so far away ; but 
we were walking along, Mademoiselle and I, and 
Awdrey and Bobby, when a lot of men and women 
came out of a shop where they sell wine, and when 
they saw Mademoiselle, they ran up to her, and 
laughed and talked and shook her hands, and said 
they were so glad to see her, and made such a noise 
about her that I thought we should never get away.” 

“And did Mademoiselle seem pleased to see 
them ? ” I asked. 

“Well, not exactly,” answered the child ; “for she 
pointed to us, and asked them to be quiet, and tried 
to get away, only they wouldn’t let her.” 

“ And were they respectable sort of people?” I 
asked. 

“Well, papa,” replied the child, “ they were clean 
enough, and all that; but they were common peo¬ 
ple, I think, because they all had those white or 
blue blouses on, and the women had no bonnets on.” 

“ And of course you couldn’t understand what 
they said?” I asked. 

“ No ; but I know they didn’t call her Mademoi¬ 


selle as we do,” replied Isalen; “it was something 
else I can’t remember.” 

This was very extraordinary, and the only way in 
which I could account for it was that Mademoiselle 
had met some of her old friends, and I knew how 
foreigners vent their feelings by huggings and hiss¬ 
ings even after ever so brief an absence. Yet her 
father was a colonel in the army, and her relations 
would not probably be of the blouse class, unless he 
had raised himself from the ranks. 

A day or two afterward, Mademoiselle asked 
leave for the afternoon, to see her father, who lived 
at Passy, she said ; so, of course, I assented, mere¬ 
ly stipulating that she should be home by nine 
o’clock. 

After dinner, I strolled up with my cigar to the 
Boulevard de Clichy, to cheapen a Montaigne, for 
which I had been bidding during some days. I was 
so absorbed in my errand that I did not notice the 
pace at which time was flying, and it was eight 
o’clock when I fancied it could not have been more 
than seven. I turned into a small cafe-restaurant to 
rest. There was nobody in the outer room abutting 
on the boulevard but the usual thin-lipped, gor¬ 
geously arrayed, knitting dame du comptoir and the 
waiter, who was engaged with a newspaper ; but be¬ 
hind a folding glass door which divided the place 
into two parts, there seemed to be a social gathering 
of some sort or another going on, from the sounds of 
laughter and cheering which penetrated to where I 
was sitting. I remained for some minutes reading 
my newly acquired treasure and sipping my glass of 
wine, when I was startled by the sound of a very 
familiar voice speaking clearly and distinctly amid 
a dead silence. At the same moment, the mysteri¬ 
ous individual in the long cloak slowly passed the 
door. His glance at the cafe was of the most care¬ 
less and disinterested nature, but it seemed to take 
in everything. If he is not a police agent, I thought 
to myself, I’m very much mistaken. However, I 
rose and peeped through the blind over the glass 
compartment, and to my unspeakable surprise, I 
beheld Mademoiselle standing and speaking earnestly 
with much gesticulation, her eyes flashing with en¬ 
thusiasm and excitement, her arms agitated wildly, 
her foot stamping occasionally, her lips moving with 
the characteristic rapidity of an eloquent French¬ 
woman. The glass partition prevented me from 
hearing what she said, but it was evidently upon a 
topic which completely absorbed the attention of her 
audience—an assembly of perhaps thirty respectably 
dressed men and women. At intervals she was in¬ 
terrupted by applause and cries of “ Trh bien ! ” 

I went to the dame du coniptoir and asked her for 
what purpose the meeting was being held. 

“ Assuredly, Monsieur,” she answered, “ it is but 
a meeting of good citizens to welcome the Citoyenne 
Grellier back after a long absence.” 

“ And which is the Citoyenne Grellier ? ” I asked. 

“ She who is speaking now,” answered the woman. 




126 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ But,” I began, “ I have the honor to know the 
lady whom you call the Citoyenne ”- 

At that moment the door of the restaurant was 
violently opened from without, and a mass of police¬ 
men precipitated themselves into the room. As 
quick as thought, the counter-lady rushed into the 
inner room ; the lights were put out, and there was 
a wild stampede from the inner room toward the 
door, followed by a tremendous struggle in the mid¬ 
dle. Chairs and sticks were freely used, the anath¬ 
emas and execrations were horrible, missiles flew 
about in all directions, and, as usual, I, the innocent 
visitor, came in for a goodly share of kicks and buf- 
fetings and pushes, and vainly endeavored to make 
my escape from the scene. Then I felt a stinging 
blow at the back of the head. When I recovered I 
found myself in a long, dimly-lighted room, sur¬ 
rounded by men in various attitudes of sleep. I sat 
up, and looked around, as if I had just awakened 
from a dream. What was the meaning of it ? I 
looked at my watch. It was past midnight. Why 
was I not snugly ensconced in bed at Room No. 365, 
Hotel du Louvre ? Then my eye caught the gleam 
of a bayonet in the darkness at the other end of the 
room, and slowly, as the events of the evening 
dawned upon me, I realized that I was some sort of 
a prisoner. But upon what charge I was completely 
ignorant. I must have received an ugly knock on 
the head, for my shoulder and waistcoat were cov¬ 
ered with blood. I went up to the sentry, a stumpy, 
black-haired little enfant de Paris , who, although 
his rifle was many sizes too big for him, brought it 
to the charge as I approached. J asked him why I 
had been brought here, and who were my compan¬ 
ions. 

His answer was concise but not reassuring. “ Pig 
of a Socialist ! You’ll know to-morrow at ten 
o’clock. Go back, and sleep.” 

Here was a pretty position for a respectable mid¬ 
dle-aged British citizen of mild and inoffensive tastes 
to be in ! 

What was to be done ? The report of the raid 
upon the Socialist house would be spread abroad ; 
the account of the struggle would be exaggerated ; I 
should be described either as a monster of iniquity, 
or as seriously wounded, and the effect of either 
would be disastrous upon my wife. 

I shall not soon forget that night. The heat, the 
vile odors, the company, were bad enough ; but the 
thought of the anguish I was causing, and of the pain¬ 
ful uncertainty into which those who loved me must 
be plunged, was worse. 

At an early hour a corporal’s guard filed in ; the 
sleepers were rudely awakened with kicks and appli¬ 
cations of chassepot butt-ends, and we were marched 
off to an open yard, wherein was drawn up a squad 
of women. Among them I soon perceived our 
governess. She wore a defiant, jaunty air, which was 
so different from her usual manner that any one not 
so intimately acquainted with her as I was, might 


have been pardoned for not recognizing in her the 
same person. As soon as she saw me she sprang from 
the rank, and seizing the arm of an official who was 
taking down the names and occupations of the pris¬ 
oners, said in a voice that every one might hear, 
while she pointed to me: “ That gentleman has no 
right to be here ! He is an Englishman, and ”- 

What further she might have said was cut short by 
the official, who thrust her back into her place, at 
the same tiihe telling her to hold her tongue. How¬ 
ever, she nodded and smiled significantly at me, as 
much as to say : “All right—never fear !” 

When the man came round to me, I could not 
refrain from speaking: “Monsieur,” I said, “I am 
here by mistake ”- 

He silenced me with a wave of his hand. “Of 
course you are. So are all this rabble of pigs. If 
they could have avoided it they would not have been 
here.” 

“But,” I continued, “I am an Englishman”- 

“Yes,” he replied ; “and you have subscribed ten 
thousand francs to the funds of these braves ! ” 

I started as if struck. The four hundred pounds 
I had paid Mademoiselle had been nothing more nor 
less than a subscription for the propagation of Social¬ 
ism. My position was indeed a serious one, unless 
some one who knew me should step forward and 
establish my identity. 

“At Noumea,” continued the official, “you can 
explain as much as you like.” 

How I did regret the days when I engaged my new 
governess, lent her four hundred pounds, and came 
to Paris ! But regrets, however bitter, were of no 
avail, and all I could do was to trust to the chapter 
of accidents. 

When the inspection was completed, we were 
linked two-and-two, and marched off to a 
large room closely guarded by troops with fixed 
bayonets, and half full of people, among whom I 
vainly looked for my wife. As we entered, there 
was a loud murmur of execration, which was hushed 
with difficulty. The accusation against us was read, 
and we were evidently to be put upon our trial. 

A tedious length of formality was gone through; 
the various police officers who had taken part in the 
raid gave their evidence, and the prisoners were 
asked separately what they had to say. One and all 
repeated the same formula—that they gloried in 
their principles, and that if they were free again, 
they would redouble their efforts to develop them 
practically. When Rene Dulong, alias Citoyenne 
Grellier, rose, there was an audible sensation. Our 
governess was evidently a person of some notoriety. 
She spoke as follows, in a loud, clear, unwavering 
voice : 

“What my fellow-prisoners have said, I say; 
but I should like to add something. There is a. 
stranger among us who is implicated with us, and 
who will have to share our punishment unless some¬ 
one defends him by speaking the truth. I can testify 









Lady Eleanore s Mantle. 


127 


to having received the greatest kindness from him; 
for I lived in his house in England as governess for 
a year. I obtained the four hundred pounds from 
him under false pretences. He gave it to me out of 
his kindness of heart; he was not at our assembly, 
and I believe he came to the restaurant just as you, 
Monsieur le President, or any one else might have 
come, for refreshment. He has a wife and three 
children now in Paris, at the Hotel du Louvre .” 

“That sounds very well,” said the President; “but 
how do we know that he is not one of your vile 
society ? There are English socialists as well as 
French socialists, and it seems a very extraordinary 
thing that a man should pay a large sum like ten 
thousand francs to a woman about whom he knows 
very little, simply because she comes to him with a 
sorro.wful tale. No ; I must have further proof, and 
very convincing proof, before I can grant his dis¬ 
charge.” 

At these words my heart fell ; for even while I 
did not doubt of ultimate escape from my unhappy 
position, yet it might be a matter of weeks or per¬ 
haps months before this was effected. Just as I 
so thought, there was a slight movement among the 
group of police officials standing near the dock, and 
a tall man in the uniform of an inspector of police 
came forward. Instantly, I recognized my mysterious 
friend who had haunted our gates at Hampton, against 
whom I had run at the entrance to the hotel, and 
whom I had seen passing before the restaurant a few 
minutes before the raid was made on the previous 
evening. 

“Aha, Commissaire Jullien ! ” exclaimed the Pres¬ 
ident. “ Well ? ” 

“ That gentleman is quite innocent, Monsieur le 
President,” he began. “ I received instructions some 
months since that the woman Grellier had gone over 
to England ; and I discovered her address through 
the post. So I followed her, and kept watch ; trav¬ 
elled incognito with the man who had received the 
money from her, heard all about the approaching 
expedition to Paris, kept my eye on all their move¬ 
ments, especially upon those of the woman Grellier, 
and caused them to be apprehended.” 

“That is sufficient,” said the President to me. 
“ You may go, sir ; and I hope the loss of your ten 
thousand francs will be a lesson to you in the future.” 

“ He won’t lose it by us,” said a voice from the 
dock ; and the man whose receipt I held gave into 
the hands of an official the sum untouched ! 

I was surprised when I arrived at the hotel to find 
my wife and children waiting for me with cheerful, 
unclouded faces ; but they explained it by telling me 
that at nine o’clock on the previous evening Com¬ 
missaire Jullien had called at the hotel, and had told 
them where I was, assuring them that my release was 
but a matter of a few hours. 

We missed Mademoiselle terribly at home for 
some time after this; but the next lady I engaged 
for the children’s education was an Englishwoman. 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE. 

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

OT long after Colonel Shute had assumed the 
Government of Massachusetts Bay, now 
nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, a young 
lady of rank and fortune arrived from England to 
claim his protection as her guardian. He was her 
distant relative, but the nearest who had survived 
the gradual extinction of her family ; so that no 
more eligible shelter could be found for the rich and 
high-born Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe than within the 
Province-House of a trans-Atlantic colony. 

If either the Governor or his lady had especially 
consulted their own comfort, they would probably 
have sought to devolve the responsibility on other 
hands ; since, with some noble and splendid traits of 
character, Lady Eleanore was remarkable for a harsh 
unyielding jwride, a haughty consciousness of her 
hereditary and personal advantages, which made her 
almost incapable of control. Judging from many tra¬ 
ditionary anecdotes, this peculiar temper was hardly 
less than a monomania ; or, if the acts which it in¬ 
spired were those of a sane person, it seemed due 
from Providence that pride so sinful should be fol¬ 
lowed by as severe a retribution. That tinge of the 
marvellous which is thrown over so many of these 
half-forgctten legends, has probably imparted an ad¬ 
ditional wildness to the strange story of Lady 
Eleanore Rochcliffe. 

The ship in which she came passenger had arrived 
at Newport, whence Lady Eleanore was conveyed to 
Boston in the Governor’s coach, attended by a small 
escort of gentlemen on horseback. The ponderous 
equipage with its four black horses attracted much 
notice as it rumbled through Cornhill, surrounded 
by the prancing steeds of half a dozen cavaliers, with 
swords dangling to their stirrups and pistols at their 
holsters. Through the large glass windows of the 
coach, as it rolled along, the people could discern 
the figure of Lady Eleanore, strangely combining an 
almost queenly stateliness with the grace and beauty 
of a maiden in her teens. A singular tale had got 
abroad among the ladies of the province, that their 
fair rival was indebted for- much of the irresistible 
charm of her appearance to a certain article of dress 
—an embroidered mantle—which had been wrought 
by the most skilful artist in London, and possessed 
even magical properties of adornment. On the 
present occasion, however, she owed nothing to the 
witchery of dress, being clad in a riding-habit of vel¬ 
vet which would have appeared stiff and ungraceful 
on any other form. 

The coachman reined in his four black steeds, and 
the whole cavalcade came to a pause in front of the 
contorted iron balustrade that fenced the Province- 
House from the public street. It was an awkward 
coincidence, that the bell of the Old South was just 
then tolling for a funeral ; so that, instead of the 
gladsome peal with which it was customary to an- 






128 


Treasury of Tales. 


nounce the arrival of distinguished strangers, Lady 
Eleanore Rochcliffe was ushered by a doleful clang, 
as if calamity had come embodied in her beautiful 
person. 

“A very great disrespect,” exclaimed Captain 
Langford, an English officer, who had recently 
brought despatches to Governor Shute. “ The 
funeral should have been deferred, lest Lady Elea- 
nore’s spirits be affected by such a dismal welcome.” 

“ With your pardon, sir,” replied Doctor Clarke, a 
physician, and a famous champion of the popular 
party, “whatever the heralds may pretend, a dead 
beggar must have precedence of a living queen. King 
Death confers high privileges.” 

These remarks were interchanged while the 
speakers waited a passage through the crowd which 
had gathered ori each side of the gateway, leaving an 
open avenue to the portal of the Province-House. 
A black slave in livery now leaped fr<ftn behind the 
coach, and threw open the door ; while at the same 
moment Governor Shute descended the flight of 
steps from his mansion, to assist Lady Eleanore in 
alighting. But the Governor’s stately approach was 
anticipated in a manner that excited general aston¬ 
ishment. A pale young man, with his black hair all 
in disorder, rushed from the throng, and prostrated 
himself beside the coach, thus offering his person as 
a footstool for Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe to tread 
upon. She held back an instant; yet with an ex¬ 
pression^ if doubting whether the young man were 
worthy to bear the weight of her footstep, rather 
than dissatisfied to receive such awful reverence from 
a fellow mortal*. 

“ Up, sir,” said the Governor sternly, at the same 
time lifting his cane over the intruder. “What 
means the Bedlamite by this freak ? ” 

“ Nay,” answered Lady Eleanore, playfully, but 
with more scorn than pity in her tone, “ your ex¬ 
cellency shall not strike him. When men seek only 
to be trampled upon, it were a pity to deny them a 
favor so easily granted,—and so well deserved ! ” 

Then, though as lightly as a sunbeam on a cloud, 
she placed her foot upon the cowering form, and 
extended her hand to meet that of the Governor. 
There was a brief interval, during which Lady Elea¬ 
nore retained this attitude ; and never, surely, was 
there an apter emblem of aristocracy and hereditary 
pride trampling on human sympathies and the kin¬ 
dred of nature, than these two figures presented at 
that moment. Yet the spectators were so smitten 
with her beauty, and so essential did pride seem to 
the existence of such a creature, that they gave a 
simultaneous acclamation of applause. 

“ Who is this insolent young fellow ? ” inquired 
Captain Langford, who still remained beside Doctor 
Clarke. “ If he be in his senses his impertinence 
demands the bastinado. If mad, Lady Eleanore 
should be secured from further inconvenience, by 
his confinement.” 

“His name is Jervase Helwyse,” answered the 


Doctor—“ a youth of no birth or fortune or other 
advantages, save the mind and soul that nature gave 
him ; and being secretary to our colonial agent in 
London, it was his misfortune to meet this Lady 
Eleanore Rochcliffe. He loved her—and her scorn 
has driven him mad.” 

“ He was mad so to aspire,” observed the English 
officer. 

“ It may be so,” said Doctor Clarke, frowning as 
he spoke. “ But I tell you, sir, I could well-nigh 
doubt the justice of the heaven above us, if no signal 
humiliation overtake this lady, who now treads so 
haughtily into yonder mansion. She seeks to place 
herself above the sympathies of our common nature, 
which envelops all human souls. See, if that nat¬ 
ure do not assert its claim over her in some mode 
that shall bring her level with the lowest ! ” • 

“ Never ! ” cried Captain Langford, indignantly— 
“ neither in life nor when they lay her with her an¬ 
cestors.” 

Not many days afterwards the Governor gave a 
ball in honor of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. The 
principal gentry of the colony received invitations 
which were distributed to their residences, far and 
near, by messengers on horseback, bearing missives 
sealed with all the formality of official despatches. 
In obedience to the summons, there was a general 
gathering of rank, wealth, and beauty ; and the wide 
door of the Province-House had seldom given ad¬ 
mittance to more numerous and honorable guests 
than on the evening of Lady Eleanore’s ball. With¬ 
out much extravagance of eulogy, the spectacle might 
even be termed splendid. What a pity that one of 
the stately mirrors has not preserved a picture of the 
scene, which, by the very traits that were so transi¬ 
tory, might have taught us much that would be worth 
knowing and remembering ! 

Would, at least, that either painter or mirror could 
convey to us some faint idea of a garment, already 
noticed in this legend—the Lady Eleanore’s em¬ 
broidered mantle, which the gossips whispered was 
invested with magic properties, so as to lend a new 
and untried grace to her figure each time that she 
put it on ! Idle fancy as it is, this mysterious mantle 
has thrown an awe around my image of her, partly 
from its fabled virtues, and partly because it was the 
handiwork of a dying woman, and, perchance, owed 
the fantastic grace of its conception to the delirium 
of approaching death. 

After the ceremonial greetings had been paid, Lady 
Eleanore Rochcliffe stood apart from the mob of 
guests, insulating herself within a small and distin¬ 
guished circle, to whom she accorded a more cordial 
favor than to the general throng. The waxen torches 
threw their radiance vividly over the scene, bringing 
out its brilliant points in strong relief ; but she 
gazed carelessly, and with now and then an expres¬ 
sion of weariness or scorn, tempered with such fem¬ 
inine grace that her auditors scarcely perceived the 
moral deformity of which it was the utterance. 







Lady Eleanore s Mantle. 


729 


Whether or no the recollections of those who saw 
her that evening were influenced by the strange 
events with which she was subsequently connected, 
so it was that her figure ever after recurred to them 
as marked by something wild and unnatural ; al¬ 
though, at the time, the general whisper was of her 
exceeding beauty, and of the indescribable charm 
which her mantle threw around her. Some close 
observers, indeed, detected a feverish flush and al¬ 
ternate paleness of countenance, with a correspond¬ 
ing flow and revulsion of spirits, and once or twice a 
painful and helpless betrayal of lassitude, as if she 
were on the point of sinking to the ground. Then, 
with a nervous shudder, she seemed to arouse 
her energies, and threw some bright and playful, 
yet half-wicked, sarcasm into the conversation. 
Gradually, Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe’s circle grew 
smaller, till only four gentlemen remained in it. 
These were Captain Langford, the English officer 
before mentioned ; a Virginian planter who had come 
to Massachusetts on some political errand ; a young 
Episcopal clergyman, the grandson of a British Earl; 
and lastly, the private secretary of Governor Shute, 
whose obsequiousness had won a sort of tolerance 
from Lady Eleanore. 

At different periods of the evening the liveried 
servants of the Province-House passed among the 
guests, bearing huge trays of refreshments, and 
French and Spanish wines. Lady Eleanore Roch- 
cliffe, who refused to wet her beautiful lips even with 
a bubble of champagne, had sunk back into a large 
damask chair, apparently overwearied either with the 
excitement of the scene or its tedium; and while, 
for an instant, she was unconscious of voices, laugh¬ 
ter, and music, a young man stole forward, and 
knelt down at her feet. He bore a salver in his hand, 
on which was a chased silver goblet, filled to the 
brim with wine, which he offered as reverentially as 
to a crowned queen, or rather with the awful devo¬ 
tion of a priest doing sacrifice to his idol. Con¬ 
scious that some one touched her robe, Lady Elea¬ 
nore started, and unclosed her eyes upon the pale, 
wild features and dishevelled hair of Jervase 
Helwyse. 

“Why do you haunt me thus?” said she, in a lan¬ 
guid tone, but with a kindlier feeling than she ordi¬ 
narily permitted herself to express. “ They tell me 
that I have done you harm.” 

“ Heaven knows if that be so,” replied the young 
man, solemnly. “ But, Lady Eleanore, in requital of 
that harm, if such there be, and for your own earth¬ 
ly and heavenly welfare, I pray you to take one sip 
of this holy wine, and then to pass the goblet round 
among the guests. And this shall be a symbol that 
you have not sought to withdraw yourself from the 
chain of human sympathies—which, whoso would 
shake off, must keep company with fallen angels.” 

“ Where has this mad fellow stolen that sacramen¬ 
tal vessel ? ” exclaimed the Episcopal clergyman. 

This question drew the notice of the guests to the 


silver cup, which was recognized as appertaining to 
the communion plate of the Old South Church ; and, 
for aught that could be known, it was brimming 
over with the consecrated wine. 

“ Perhaps it is poisoned,” half whispered the Gov¬ 
ernor’s secretary. 

“Pour it down the villain’s own throat!” cried 
the Virginian, fiercely. 

“ Turn him out of the house ! ” cried Captain 
Langford, seizing Jervase Helwyse so roughly by the 
shoulder that the sacramental cup was overturned, 
and its contents sprinkled upon Lady Eleanore’s 
mantle. “ Whether knave, fool, or Bedlamite, it is 
intolerable that the fellow should go at large.” 

“ Pray, gentlemen, do my poor admirer no harm,” 
said Lady Eleanore, with a faint and weary smile. 
“ Take him out of my sight if such be your pleasure ; 
for I can find in my heart to do nothing but laugh at 
him—whereq^, in all decency and conscience, it 
would become me to weep for the mischief I have 
wrought! ” 

But while the by-standers were attempting to lead 
away the unfortunate young man, he broke from 
them, and with a wild, impassioned earnestness, of¬ 
fered a new and equally strange petition to Lady 
Eleanore. It was no other than that she should 
throw off the mantle, which, while he pressed the 
silver cup of wine upon her, she had drawn more 
closely around her form, so as almost to shroud her¬ 
self within it. 

“ Cast it from you ! ” exclaimed Jervase Helwyse, 
clasping his hands in an agony of entreaty. “ It 
may not yet be too late ! Give the accursed gar¬ 
ment to the flames ! ” 

But Lady Eleanore, with a laugh of scorn, drew 
the rich folds 'of the embroidered mantle over her 
head, in such 9. fashion as to give a completely new 
aspect to her beautiful face, which—half-hidden, 
half-revealed—seemed to belong to some being of 
mysterious character and purposes. 

“ Farewell, Jervase Helwyse ! ” said she. “ Keep 
my image in your remembrance, as you behold it 

tf • 

now. 

“ Alas, lady ! ” he replied, in a tone no longer 
wild, but sad as a funeral bell. “ We must meet 
shortly, when your face may wear another aspect, 
and that, shall be the image that must abide within me.” 

He made no more resistance to the violent efforts 
of the gentlemen and servants, who almost dragged 
him out of the apartment, and dismissed him rough¬ 
ly from the iron gate of the Province-House. Cap¬ 
tain Langford, who had been very active in this 
affair, was returning to the presence of Lady Elea¬ 
nore Rochcliffe, when he encountered the physician, 
Doctor Clarke, with whom he had held some casual 
talk on the day of her arrival. The Doctor stood 
apart, separated from Lady Eleanore by the width 
of the room, but eyeing her with such keen sagacity, 
that Captain Langford involuntarily gave him credit 
for the discovery of some deep secret. 




1 3° 


Treasury of Tales . 


“ You appear to be smitten, after all, with the 
charms of this fair aristocrat,” said he, hoping thus 
to draw forth the physician’s hidden knowledge. 

“ God forbid ! ” answered Doctor Clarke, with a 
grave smile ; “ and if you be wise you will put up 
the same prayer for yourself. Woe to those who shall 
be smitten by this beautiful Lady Eleanore ! But 
yonder stands the Governor—and I have a word or 
two for his private ear. Good night! ” 

He accordingly advanced to Governor Shute, and 
addressed him in so low a tone that none of the 
bystanders could catch a word of what he said ; 
although the sudden change of his Excellency’s 
hitherto cheerful visage betokened that the commu¬ 
nication could be of no agreeable import. A very 
few moments afterwards it was announced to the 
guests that an unforeseen circumstance rendered it 
necessary to put a premature close to the festival. 

The ball at the Province-House supplied a topic 
of conversation for the colonial metropolis for some 
days after its occurrence, and might still longer have 
been the general theme, only that a subject of all en¬ 
grossing interest thrust it, for a time, from the pub¬ 
lic recollection. This was the appearance of a dread¬ 
ful epidemic, which, in that age, and long before and 
afterwards, was wont to slay its hundreds and 
thousands, on both sides of the Atlantic. On the 
occasion of which we speak it was distinguished by 
a peculiar virulence, insomuch that it has left its 
traces—its pit-marks, to use an appropriate figure— 
on the history of the country, the affairs of which 
were thrown into confusion by its ravages. 

At first, unlike its ordinary course, the disease 
seemed to confine itself to the higher circles of so¬ 
ciety, selecting its victims from among the proud, 
the well-born and the wealthy, entering unabashed 
into stately chambers, and lying down with the slum- 
berers in silken beds. Some of the most distin¬ 
guished guests of the Province-House—even those 
whom the haughty Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe had 
deemed not unworthy of her favor—were stricken 
by this fatal scourge. It was noticed, with an un¬ 
generous bitterness of feeling, that the four gentle¬ 
men—the Virginian, the British officer, the young 
clergyman, and the Governor’s secretary—who had 
been her most devoted attendants on the evening of 
the ball, were the foremost on whom the plague- 
stroke fell. But the disease, pursuing its onward 
progress, soon ceased to be exclusively a prerogative 
of aristocracy. Its red brand was no longer con¬ 
ferred like a noble’s star, or an order of knighthood. 
It threaded its way through the narrow and crooked 
streets, and entered the low, mean, darksome dwel¬ 
lings, and laid its hand of death upon the artisans 
and laboring classes of the town. It compelled rich 
and poor to feel themselves brethren then; and, 
stalking to and fro across the Three Hills, with a 
fierceness which made it almost a new pestilence, 
there was that mighty conqueror—that scourge and 
horror of our forefathers—the small-pox ! 


There is no other fear so horrible and unhuman¬ 
izing as that which makes man dread to breathe 
Heaven’s vital air, lest it be poison, or to grasp the 
hand of a brother or friend, lest the gripe of the 
pestilence should clutch him. Such w r as the dismay 
that now followed in the track of the disease, or ran 
before it throughout the town. Graves were hastily 
dug, and the pestilential relics, as hastily covered, 
because the dead were enemies of the- living, 
and strove to draw them headlong, as it w r ere, into 
their own dismal pit. The public councils were 
suspended, as if mortal wisdom might relinquish 
its devices, now that an unearthly usurper had found 
his way into the ruler’s mansion. Had an enemy’s 
fleet been hovering on the coast, or his armies tramp¬ 
ling on our soil, the people would probably have 
committed their defence to that same direful con¬ 
queror, who had wrought their own calamity, and 
would permit no interference with his sway. This 
conqueror had a symbol of his triumphs. It was a 
blood-red flag, that fluttered in the tainted air, over 
the door of every dwelling into which small-pox 
had entered. 

Such a banner was long since waving over the 
portal of the Province-House ; for thence, as was 
proved by tracking its foot-steps back, had all this 
dreadful mischief issued. It had been traced back 
to a lady’s luxurious chamber—to the proudest of 
the proud—to her that was so delicate, and hardly 
owned herself of earthly mould—to the haughty 
one who took her stand above human sympathies 
—to Lady Eleanore ! There remained no room for 
doubt that the contagion had lurked in that gorgeous 
mantle which threw so strange a grace around her 
at the festival. Its fantastic splendor had been con¬ 
ceived in the delirious brain of a woman on her 
death-bed, and was the last toil of her stiffening 
fingers, which had interwoven fate and misery with 
its golden threads. 

This dark tale, whispered at first, was now bruited 
far and wide. The people raved against the Lady 
Eleanore, and cried out that her pride and scorn 
had evoked a fiend, and that, between them both, 
this monstrous evil had been born. At times, their 
rage and despair took the semblance of grinning 
mirth ; and whenever the red flag of the pestilence 
was hoisted over another and yet another door, they 
clapped their hands and shouted through the streets, 
in bitter mockery, “ Behold a new triumph for the 
Lady Eleanore ! ” 

One day in the midst of these dismal times, a 
wild figure approached the portal of the Province- 
House, and folding his arms, stood contemplating 
the scarlet banner which a passing breeze shook fit¬ 
fully as if to fling abroad the contagion that it 
typified. At length, climbing one of the pillars by 
means of the iron balustrade, he took down the flag, 
and entered the mansion, w T aving it above his head. 
At the foot of the staircase he met the Governor, 
booted and spurred, with his cloak drawn around 





Lady Eleanores Mantle. 


him, evidently on the point of setting forth upon a 
journey. 

“Wretched lunatic, what do you seek here ?” ex¬ 
claimed Shute, extending his cane to guard himself 
from contact. “ There is nothing here but death. 
Back—or you will meet him ! ” 

u Death will not touch me, the banner-bearer of 
the pestilence ! ” cried Jervase Helwyse, shaking the 
red flag aloft. “ Death and the Pestilence, who 
wear the aspect of the Lady Eleanore, will walk 
through the streets to-night, and I must march be¬ 
fore them with this banner ! ” 

“ Why do I waste words on the fallen ? ” muttered 
the Governor, drawing his cloak across his mouth. 
“ What matters his miserable life, when none of us 
are sure of twelve hours’ breath ? On, fool, to your 
own destruction ! ” 

He made way for Jervase Helwyse, who imme¬ 
diately ascended the staircase, but, on the first land¬ 
ing-place, was arrested by the firm grasp of a hand 
upon his shoulder. Looking fiercely up, with a 
madman’s impulse to struggle with and rend 
asunder his opponent, he found himself powerless 
beneath a calm, stern eye, which possessed the 
mysterious property of quelling frenzy at its height. 
The person whom he had now encountered was the 
physician, Doctor Clarke, the duties of whose sad 
profession had led him to the Province-House, 
where he was an infrequent guest in more prosper¬ 
ous times. 

“Young man, what is your purpose ? ” demanded 
he. 

“I seek the Lady Eleanore,” answered Jervase 
Helwyse, submissively. 

“ All have fled from her,” said the physician. 
“ Why do you seek her now ? I tell you, youth, her 
nurse fell death-stricken on the threshold of that 
fatal chamber. Know ye not, that never came such 
a curse to our shores as this lovely Lady Eleanore ? 
that her breath has filled the air with poison ?—that 
she has shaken pestilence and death upon the land, 
frotn the folds of her accursed mantle ? ” 

“ Let me look upon her ! ” rejoined the mad youth, 
more wildly. “ Let me behold her, in her awful 
beauty, clad in the regal garments of the pestilence ! 
She and Death sit on a throne together. Let me 
kneel down before them ! ” 

“ Poor youth ! ” said Doctor Clarke ; and, moved 
by a deep sense of human weakness, a smile of 
caustic humor curled his lip even then. “ Wilt thou 
still worship the destroyer, and surround her image 
with fantasies the more magnificent, the more evil 
she has wrought ? Thus man doth ever to his tyrants ! 
Approach, then ! Madness, as I have noted, has that 
good efficacy that it will guard you from contagion 
—and perchance its own cure may be found in 
yonder chamber.” 

Ascending another flight of stairs, he threw open 
a door, and signed to Jervase Helwyse that he should 
enter. The poor lunatic, it seems probable, had 


cherished a delusion that his haughty mistress sat in 
state, unharmed herself by the pestilential influence, 
which, as by enchantment, she scattered round about 
her. He dreamed, no doubt, that her beauty was 
not dimmed, but brightened into superhuman splen¬ 
dor. With such anticipations, he stole reverentially 
to the door at which the physician stood, but paused 
upon the threshold, gazing fearfully into the gloom 
of the darkened chamber. 

“ Where is the Lady Eleanore ? ” whispered he. 

“ Call her,” replied the physician. 

“ Lady Eleanore !—Princess !—Queen of Death ! ” 
cried Jervase Helwyse, advancing three steps into 
the chamber. “ She is not here ! There, on yonder 
table, I behold the sparkle of a diamond which once 
she wore upon her bosom. There ”—and he shud¬ 
dered—“ there hangs her mantle, on which a dead 
woman embroidered a spell of dreadful potency. 
But where is Lady Eleanore ? ” 

Something stirred within the silken curtains of a 
canopied bed ; and a low moan was uttered, which, 
listening intently, Jervase Helwyse began to distin¬ 
guish as a woman’s voice, complaining dolefully of 
thirst. He fancied, even, that he recognized its 
tones. 

“ My throat—my throat is scorched,” murmured 
the voice. “ A drop of water ! ” 

“ What thing art thou ? ” said the brain-stricken 
youth, drawing near the bed and tearing asunder its 
curtains. “ Whose voice hast thou stolen for thy 
murmurs and miserable petitions, as if Lady Elea¬ 
nore could be conscious of mortal infirmity ? Fie ! 
Heap of diseased mortality, why lurkest thou in my 
lady’s chamber ? ” 

“Oh, Jervase Helwyse,” said the voice—and as it 
spoke, the figure contorted itself, struggling to hide 
its blasted face—“ look not now on the woman you 
once loved ! The curse of heaven hath stricken me 
because I would not call man my brother, nor woman 
sister. I wrapped myself in Pride as in a mantle, 
and scorned the sympathies of nature ; and there¬ 
fore has nature made this wretched body the medium 
of a dreadful sympathy. You are avenged—they 
are all avenged— for I am Eleanore Rochcliffe ! ” 

The malice of his mental disease, the bitterness 
lurking at the bottom of his heart, mad as he was, 
for a blighted and ruined life and love that had 
been paid with cruel scorn, awoke within the breast 
of Jervase Helwyse. He shook his finger at the 
wretched girl, and the chamber echoed, the curtains 
of the bed were shaken, with his outburst of insane 
merriment. 

“Another triumph for the Lady Eleanore!” he 
cried. “ All have been her victims ! Who so worthy 
to be the final victim as herself ! ” 

Impelled by some new fantasy of his crazed intel¬ 
lect, he snatched the fatal mantle, and rushed from 
the chamber and the house. That night a procession 
passed, by torch light, through the streets, bearing in 
the midst the figure of a woman enveloped with a 






132 


Treasury of Tales. 


richly embroidered mantle ; while in advance stalked 
Jervase Helwyse, waving the red flag of the pesti¬ 
lence. Arriving opposite the Province-House, the 
mob burned the effigy, and a strong wind came and 
swept away the ashes. It was said that from that 
very hour the pestilence abated, as if its sway had 
some mysterious connection from the first plague 
stroke to the last with Lady Eleanore’s man¬ 
tle. 

A remarkable uncertainty broods over that un¬ 
happy lady’s fate. There is a belief, however, that 
in a certain chamber of this mansion a female form 
may sometimes be duskily discerned shrinking into 
the darkest corner, and muffling her face within an 
embroidered mantle. 

Supposing the legend true, can this be other than 
the once proud Lady Eleanore ? 


“ SNOOPER.” 

BY FERD. C. VALENTINE. 

I T was a most extraordinary engagement—in fact, 
incomprehensible. Just imagine, Belle Remesa 
(her name was Isabel, but Izzy has not a pretty 
sound), the charming hazel-eyed, golden - haired 
fairy, was engaged to be married to Doctor Regi¬ 
nald Bander. 

But this fact alone was neither incomprehensible 
nor extraordinary, for he was as wealthy as she ; he 
as handsome and learned a man as she was a pretty 
and refined woman ; no, the rare feature in the case 
was, that the relatives of both high contracting par¬ 
ties were not only satisfied, but eminently pleased 
with the match. 

Imagine, fair reader—and unfair one, too—what 
would you think if your mother-in-law were openly, 
in your presence and out of it, to express her 
unqualified approval of the brilliant match her child 
had made ? What if your sisters-in-law should agree 
with their mother ? 

Well, that was the astonishing feature in Belle’s 
and the Doctor’s engagement. 

They loved each other devotedly, of course ; but 
because there was no opposition to the match they 
lost a great deal of the miserable joys, or joyous mis¬ 
eries, of courtship. They felt as if they had been 
married for years, because their good-bye kisses 
were not stolen, but given and received, as a matter 
of course, in presence of all. 

The wedding was to take place Christmas Eve, 
and grand preparations were being made, for it was 
to be the affair of the season. 

One evening in October, the Doctor, after pulling 
his bride’s younger sister’s ears to his heart’s con¬ 
tent, suggested a late oyster supper, and for some 

Copyright, jSSj. 


reason which he would find difficult to explain, car 
ried home an oyster-shell from the repast. 

On the following morning he found it in his 
pocket, and while resting from his professional 
work, amused himself by thoroughly scrubbing it. 
“But few of us know how beautiful an oyster shell 
is ” said he. 

“ As beautiful as Belle ? ” asked his friend and 
former classmate Doctor Codine, who while lying 
on Bander’s operating chair read the latest medical 
journal. 

“No,” said Doctor Bander, while he continued to 
admire the shell. 

“Nor as eloquent?” again said his friend, in a 
teasing tone. 

“ Which ? ” asked Doctor Bander, ambiguously. 

Codine continued his reading as Bander mechani¬ 
cally polished the shell. Suddenly an idea present¬ 
ed itself to him which seemed amusing, for he smiled 
as he glued a ribbon to the back of the shell, and 
upon its face he painted the word “ Snooper.” He 
ornamented its edges with a narrow rim of gold 
and then hung it on the wall of his office, among 
the paintings and articles of bric-a-brac, most of 
which he had collected on his travels. 

When he had finished his little ornament, his friend 
arose, looked at it and said : 

“ Regy, what is a snooper ? ” 

Dr. Bander without changing a feature, or mani¬ 
festing the least annoyance in his tone, answered : 

“ An apparatus designed to make blamed fools 
ask questions.” 

For some reason both laughed, yet neither would 
have been able to explain their amusement, except, 
perhaps, by the antithesis it presented to the usual 
serious character of their employment. 

The “ snooper ” was soon forgotten in the discus¬ 
sion of a new operation which a surgical celebrity 
was just then introducing, when Miss Belle entered 
with a message from her mother, asking whether 
Regy would have time to dine with her that even¬ 
ing. 

The Doctor kissed his bride, whereupon his friend, 
with farcical gravity, felt his pulse, and in a breath 
said : 

“ Repetiturpro re nata, five dollars is my fee,” and 
affecting a pompous stride, took his hat and over¬ 
coat and went home. 

While Doctor Bander proceeded to write, Miss 
Belle “ set things aright,” which, as a bride, was a 
pleasure to both, and which, as a wife, she might 
consider quite a task and he an insufferable bore. 
Such is the way with a majority of professional men— 
they seem to enjoy disorder in the workshop of their 
brains, and their wives take particular pleasure in 
depriving them of that enjoyment. 

The elegant little dust-broom which Belle had 
given her future husband was whisking off the par¬ 
ticles which had settled upon his books and orna¬ 
ments as she talked to him. 







“ SnooperI 


133 


Suddenly she stopped, touched the oyster-shell 
upon the wall, and read the word “ Snooper.” 

“ Darling,” she asked, “ what is a ‘ snooper ’ ? ” 

“A ‘snooper,’ dear,” he answered, “is an appa¬ 
ratus designed to make fools ask questions.” 

She did not laugh, but quietly laying down the 
duster, before he could understand her actions, she 
had left his office, and a moment later he heard the 
street door open. 

“ Belle, dear,” he exclaimed, but his voice was 
full of misgiving. The door closed, and Doctor 
Bander understood that something hi d disturbed 
the pleasant engagement. His efforts to continue 
writing proved futile. Belle’s silent exit spoke vol¬ 
umes to him. He could not convince himself that 
the matter would blow over as soon as he might 
wish. 

The entrance of patients, for a while gave his 
thoughts other direction, but his office hours were 
hardly over when he determined to call on his bride 
and either laugh away the affair, or if he should fail 
in this—much as he disliked the idea, he would 
apologize. 

He was adjusting his gloves when his eyes fell 
upon the “ snooper,” and—women would say—man¬ 
like, he tore it from the wall, and opening a window 
threw it out, and was sorry that it did not break 
on the pavement below. 

Slowly he entered his cab, and was about to or¬ 
der the coachman to drive to Mr. Remesa’s house, 
when a messenger handed him a package. He 
opened it, and found all of his presents to his bride, 
even to her engagement ring. 

He did not observe the messenger pick up some¬ 
thing from the street, and smile as he carried off the 
“ snooper ” with him ; but returned to his rooms and 
gathering the pretty little ornaments his bride had 
given him, made a package of them and sent them 
to her without a word. 

The two apparently most gay people at all of 
the balls and parties during the entire winter were 
Miss Remesa and Doctor Bander, yet they avoided 
each other as skilfully as they did the questions of 
their relatives and friends. Soon all ceased to speak 
of the engagement, and by spring it was only remem¬ 
bered that at one time they had been promised to 
each other. 

Again Christma.s approached and Doctor Bander 
had not eaten an oyster in the interval. 

He worked harder than ever at professional mat¬ 
ters, and was appointed surgeon to the City Hospital. 

A fair was to be given for the benefit of the in¬ 
stitution, and of course he must attend. 

Bander went and was victimized at grab-bags, 
raffles, votes for the prettiest lady, the most popu¬ 
lar physician, at the “ museum of living curiosi¬ 
ties,” which contained a mouse in a cage, a canary 
which drew water, and similar marvels. The fine- 
art gallery consisted of “Bony part crossing the 
rind ”—a skeleton of a chicken mounted on orange- 


peelings, and “ Egyptian Darkness ”—a sort of a 
sentry box, which kept the beholder peering in and 
seeing nothing. 

As his purse grew light, thoughts of going home 
presented themselves to him, when he noticed a large 
number of people in one corner of the hall, who 
seemed to struggle toward the centre and leave it 
with a small package, which each one opened when 
alone and laughed at the contents. 

He approached the crowd, and, without being able 
to elicit the cause of the commotion, was pressed to 
a pagoda, within which stood Belle, who, with per¬ 
haps ever so slight a tremor in her voice, said : 

“ Good evening, Doctor Bander ! How many will 
you take ? Only twenty-five cents each.” 

He handed her a dollar, and she quickly returned 
him four little jeweler’s boxes, upon which was 
printed “ To be opened when alone.” The surging 
crowd pushed him off, and as soon as he was free 
he opened one of the boxes, and drew forth a circu¬ 
lar, which read as follows : 


The Only Original Snooper. 


Patented, Copyrighted, and Caveated by the 
Inventor. 

%)keciioni: Jiang the inooper hj Hi Lib ton 
in a conipkuoui place in your- office or Pallor, 
and all mho iee it mill aik: “ J Ahal ii a 
inooper f ” PI hen you muit animer : “ <1 
inooper ii an appalatui to make food aik 
queitioni.” <1hii inevitably ploducei the beit 
of feeling among all concetned. 

Jpote : elf the inooper ihouid bleak, you 
mill have loii the ium inveited. 

IS. J?o diicount to the tlade. 

I.IS. Balt again. 

Beneath this circular upon some fine cotton rested 
an oyster-shell, polished, cleaned and painted as the 
one he had hung in his office on the last day that 
Belle had been there. The hot blood rushed to 
his face, and his first impulse was to throw the 
boxes to the floor and leave the hall ; yet a moment’s 
consideration convinced him that he could take ad¬ 
vantage of this opportunity to speak to Belle. 

He attached the shell to his button-hole, like a 
bouquet or a decoration, and returned to the pagoda. 









T 34 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Miss Remesa, is it allowable to wear a snooper 
in this manner ? ” 

She betrayed not the slightest emotion as she took 
a tiny golden shell from her bosom, upon which the 
letters R and B were entwined, and, deftly fastening 
it to his scarf, said : “No, Regy.” 

Some say that he grasped her hand and pressed 
it to his lips before he would release it, but that can¬ 
not be proven. 

An hour later they entered the sitting-room of 
the Remesa mansion. Belle’s parents started as if 
frightened when they saw them. After some mo¬ 
ments’ conversation, Mr. Remesa said: “ Now, 
Reginald, will you kindly tell us the cause of your 
incomprehensible separation from Belle ? ” 

The Doctor answered, much in the manner of a 
schoolboy confessing a peccadillo: “A snooper.” 
Mrs. Remesa turned to Belle and said : “ Perhaps 
you will explain what divorced you for a whole year 
previous to your marriage ? ” 

Belle blushed, looked at the doctor, at her 
parents, and as she cast a glance at the floor seemed 
to find the answer there, for she quickly said : “ A 
snooper,” and seemed glad that she had given 
expression to her pent-up thoughts. 

“ A snooper !—why, what under heaven is a 
snooper ? ” both asked. Before they could answer, 
in rushed Belle’s younger brother, and boy-like 
roared : “ Just think ! ma and pa, Belle’s made a for¬ 
tune for the hospital, selling oyster-shells and call¬ 
ing them — ” he saw the doctor. “Why, hello— 
Reg—what in the world brought you back ? ” 

The doctor smiled now as he said: “ A 

snooper.” 

The young brother-in-law grasped his hand and 
yelled, “ Hurrah for the snooper ! ” 

Mr. Remesa arose, and, with all the dignity 
of a well-reputed wealthy merchant, said : 

“ Have you all gone mad ? Charles, will you have 
the kindness to inform me immediately what a 
snooper is ?” 

Imagine the consternation Charles’s answer pro¬ 
duced : 

“ According to directions 1 a snooper is an appa¬ 
ratus designed to make fools ask questions.’” 


The old gentleman glared at his son, then at the 
rest of his family. Silently he left the room. He 
went to the club, and at the very entrance met 
another of “the old boys.” j 

“Howdy, Remesa,—look it this shell. You’re a 
connoisseur in bivalves—what do you think of this ?” 

The old gentleman saw the fatal word “ Snooper ” 
painted upon an oyster shell, and was about to say 
something severe to his interrogator, when Doctor 
Codine approached with a polite salutation. 

“ Doctor, I am glad to see you,” said Mr. Remesa, 
“ and I should like to talk to you for a few mo¬ 
ments.” Visions of a consultation from the rich Mr. 
Remesa crossed the doctor’s mind as they went to 
the smoking-room. These visions were, however, 
rapidly dispelled, and the old gentleman and the 
young doctor, after an hour’s conversation, parted, 
both apparently in high glee. 

It was near midnight when Doctor Bander re¬ 
turned to his office, and there found Codine, who 
greeted him with : 

“ Bander, do you know what you are ? ” 

“ A very ordinary mortal in your eyes, I pre¬ 
sume.” 

“No, you are a snooper,” and for some reason 
they, embraced, not like Spaniards, but really 
hugged each other. Codine found his breath first, 
and said : 

“ Bander, when is it to be ?” 

“Christmas. And you will be my‘best man.’ 
Belle told me to ask you.” 

And Christmas it was. It seems that somehow 
the cause of the separation had become public, for 
the majority of the presents were elegant imitations 
in gold and silver of the snooper. 

Reader, make a snooper and show it to your 
sister-in-law. When she asks the question, answer 
according to directions, and then it would be well 
to remember that you have an urgent appointment 
some miles off. 

But after all is there such a word as “ snooper ” ? 

Convince yourself by looking on page one thou¬ 
sand two hundred and fifty-one of Webster’s Un¬ 
abridged Dictionary, and if you don’t'find it I am 
sorry for you, and for Webster also. 

























Nettie Dunkayne. 


135 


NETTIE DUNKAYNE. 

BY MARY CECIL HAY. 

A LITTLE old-fashioned chamber, and a little 
old-fashioned occupant; a prim, tiny room, 
full of quaint treasures and fanciful, un¬ 
fashionable devices ; and a prim, tiny head at the 
window, full of quaint treasures, too, and fanciful, 
unfashionable ideas. A head which the May moon¬ 
light touched rather sadly when Nettie raised the 
blind and looked up—up beyond the unmoved white 
blinds opposite ; up beyond the tiles, white and wet, 
on which the moonlight glistened; up beyond the 
pale, pure moon itself, searching the line of sky 
which hung above the narrow street. Perhaps the 
wistful eyes could read no answer there to the one 
great question which troubled them, for, when Nettie 
drew the blind again, lingeringly, there was a great 
seriousness on her small face. 

She moved her dressing-table back into its place 
before the window, lighted her candle again, and, 
standing at her high, narrow chest of drawers, 
opened a little desk that stood there. Each thing 
had to be taken out separately, that it might be 
put in neatly afterward ; first the beaded pen-wiper 
(all the ink-stains on which were confined to the 
black cloth, the scarlet being dazzling and un¬ 
spotted) ; then the little case that had “ Postage- 
stamps” worked elaborately in the centre, and con¬ 
tained one stamp ; then the flat bag of white silk 
with “Answered” embroidered in black on one 
side, where lay four letters, neither crumpled, nor 
yellow, nor worn, yet within six years as old as the 
girl who handled them so tenderly; then another 
bag, of black silk, this labelled “ Unanswered,” in 
white letters ; and Nettie drew from it the one let¬ 
ter it contained. 

It was only a single sheet of note paper, barely 
filled, but she lingered a long time while reading 
it; perhaps because she was not accustomed to 
skim over delicate, lady-like dpistles ; perhaps be¬ 
cause the tender, affectionate terms were new and 
delicious to her, who never found them now but 
in those four letters her mother had written to her 
fifteen years before ; perhaps because she was trying 
to read in the straight black lines, as she had tried 
to read in the glimpse of moonlit heaven, an answer 
to the doubt which puzzled her. 

After she had finished, Nettie turned back and, 
almost unconsciously, read the last leaf aloud to 
herself: 

“ As I tell you, dear, I should have urged all this be¬ 
fore ; but I waited until you should be of age, and legally 
able to decide for yourself. Now you will come to us 
at once ; we are waiting and longing to welcome you, 
Nettie, my child. Your cousin, Graham, who has not 
very much to do here at home, and is glad of an excuse 
for a journey to town, will bring you. Do not write me 
any scruples, for I cannot read them. Do you think your 
mother would have countenanced the life you lead ? I 
do not hesitate to say this, for Mr. Dunkayne has for¬ 


feited all claim on your gratitude or love. I do not care 
even to remember that he is your father, Nettie, dear; I 
merely know that by his conduct you are living a wretch¬ 
ed life ; that nearly all he earns he spends upon his own 
dissolute pleasures, and that any day his employers may 
weary of his carelessness, and you may be homeless and 
penniless. I know that on the rare occasions when he is 
at home he is hardly a fit companion for you. My dear, 
is this the life you can bear to think your mother looks 
upon ? I know her wish would be that you should come 
to me. My heart bleeds for you, my poor, little lonely , 
child, and I can f^el how she would rejoice to see you 
here at Burnside with us. Who so proper to be your 
mother now, Nettie, as your mother’s only sister? Come 
and be a daughter to me, and a sister to Graham, the 
only cousin you have in the world ; and in so doing you 
probably do the only good in your power to that man 
whom I am ashamed to call your father. Remember 
that any scruples you may urge I shall look upon as in¬ 
sults to your mother’s memory. I am ever, dear little 
Nettie, 

“ Your affectionate aunt, 

“Ellen Lyttleton.” 

The silence in the room after Nettie had read 
these words aloud to herself, seemed long ; then the 
candle was snuffed with a quick, resolute little hand, 
and Nettie, still standing against the high drawers, 
began to write the fifth answer she had already com¬ 
posed to this letter. This one should be posted ; 
this should be the real one : but how hard it was to 
know exactly what to say ! 

She wrote slowly and carefully to say that she 
could not go ; for her first duty was to her father. 
Who was to live with him and care for him if his own 
daughter left him ? Whose duty or pleasure (put in 
with a little gulp) ought it to be, if not her own ? 
She signed her name with many words of love and 
gratitude, read the letter over and over again, folded, 
sealed, and addressed it ; put on the one stamp out 
of the perforated case, then lay down in bed and 
tried to think of total vacuum. Trying to think of 
nothing, of course, was the very way to think of 
everything, and the puzzled little head upon the pil¬ 
low was as far from sleep as the thoughts were from 
vacuity, when the entrance bell shook with a per¬ 
emptory, impatient pull. Nettie sprang out of bed, 
and slipped on her dress with nervous, hurried 
fingers ; then ran noiselessly down-stairs and opened 
the door, just as another peal startled the silence. 

“ Have you kept me long enough, do you think ?” 
was the sneering greeting that awaited her, as her 
father passed in, steadying his steps with difficulty. 

Such a slouching, pitiful figure, despite its height 
and good proportions—such a mean, unmanly face, 
despite its regular features and soft gray hair—that 
it did well to hasten out of the pure moonlight into 
the gloom of the unlighted house ! 

“You told me never again to sit up for you, 
father,” said Nettie, as she bolted and locked the 
door. “You took your latch-key.” 

“ I did not,” he retorted, fumbling in his pocket. 

“ You said you would,” she answered, very low. 





Treasury of Tales. 


136 

“ Don’t argue with me.” All the more angrily he 
said this, because he found he had the key. “ Where’s 
my supper ? ” 

“ It is one o’clock,” said the girl, coldly. “ Surely 
you have supped somewhere.” 

“ That’s no business of yours. Get me some 
hot water.” 

“ Not to-night, father,” she said, coming nearer to 
him. “ It is too late for me to light another fire.” 

For an instant a softened look stole over his face 
at her touch. As it faded, the bright resolution in 
her heart, which he little guessed of, faded with it. 
He gave her an impatient push. 

“ Get the girl up to light it then, and you go to 
bed. I never can see what use you are in the house. 
You seem to me to forget who’s master here.” 

“Would you rather I remembered you as master 
instead of father?” asked Nettie, slowly. 

“ I would have you remember I am both,” he an¬ 
swered, trying to strike a match ; and, as he failed, 
muttering words which made the girl shiver as the 
chill night air could never do. “ Well, what are you 
staring at ? ” 

“I was trying,” said Nettie, without turning her 
eyes away, “ to do as you say—to remember that you 
are both. I will light the fire now.” 

The great church clock was striking two when 
Nettie stole back into her little bedroom—dark now, 
for the shamed moon had glided away to look on 
other sights—and the two heavy strokes vibrated 
through her like two heavy beats of her own heart. 
Relighting her candle, she opened her neat little 
desk once more and began to write ; neither slowly 
nor carefully this time, and putting in no word that 
was unnecessary. She only wrote— 

“ I will come. I have thought and thought , and 
perhaps it is best. Your grateful 

“ Nettie Dunkayne.” 

She did not read the few words after writing them ; 
she folded the sheet hastily, and fastened the enve¬ 
lope with a great deal of unnecessary pressure. Then 
she found she had used her only stamp for the long 
letter she had written three hours before. She must 
take it off in the steam of the kettle next morning, 
but she though she would not tear the other letter up 
—at any rate not until then. 

Once more the small face lay upon its pillow with 
wide eyes, and the dawn, creeping in at last, with its 
cold, calm smile, found them searching, searching 
still. 

Nine o’clock ! The bell went languidly through 
the nine strokes ; and, though the sunshine made 
only feeble efforts to look in at the windows below, 
it danced brightly round the old gray tower. Nettie 
caught a faint glimpse of it as she sat waiting break¬ 
fast for her father; her hair and her dress neat and 
prim as ever, and her work in one hand. At the 
sound of her father’s step she started up, reading his 
face intently as she greeted him. Poor child! 


There was little to read there, save utter moodiness 
and discontent. 

“Is this all you have for breakfast?” he said, sit¬ 
ting down before the little dish of eggs and bacon, 
which Nettie never touched. 

“Yes, father, that is all to-day,” she said, handing 
him his tea, and never wondering why he had no 
relish for his food. After that he did not speak, 
even to answer Nettie, until he had finished. Then 
he pushed back his chair and rose. 

“Late again,” said he, “and another snarling in 
store for me. You can go to bed when you like to¬ 
night, child. I shall not be home again until to¬ 
morrow. I suppose you won’t cry over that.” 

“You are always away a great deal, father,” said 
Nettie, with an odd little catch in her voice. “1 
never go away at all.” 

“Whose fault is that?” he laughed, carelessly. 
“If anybody likes to take you, you may go.” 

“ Should you not care ? ” she asked, with a plead¬ 
ing wistfulness in her innocent eyes. 

“ Not a bit,” he answered, listlessly, feeling so sure 
his words would not be put to the test. “ What 
would it matter to me? Now, then, is my hat 
brushed ? ” 

When she had brought it to him she laid one 
nervous little hand upon his arm. 

“Open the door,” he began, impatiently. 

“ But say good-bye, father. I—you are going 
away, you know.” 

“ What tragics ! How many kisses do you want ? ” 

“One.” 

“ Take it, then.” 

“ Father,” said Nettie, looking into his eyes with 
an odd, old look on her small face, “ I believe if 
we were parting forever you would not kiss me of 
your own free will. Would you—would you?” 

“Take your arms away, baby. When we are 
‘ parting forever,’ you will see ; no need to rehearse it. 
Open the door. You always try to make me as late 
as you can.” 

Standing back, almost shrinkingly, in the little pas¬ 
sage, Nettie watched the tall figure turn out of sight, 
but not with the backward glance which little Nettie 
would have so gladly caught at in that moment of 
doubt and indecision. 

* * * The cloud-shadows rolled daintily along 

the smooth green lawn at Burnside, and as they 
hurried on they ran up Nettie’s white dress and 
touched for a moment the little thoughtful face. 
They passed quickly and softly, as shadows should 
pass, from a young and guileless face ; yet some one 
stealing toward her fancied they lingered unusually 
long in the big, innocent eyes. A young man this 
some one was, with a gay, handsome face, from 
which his straw hat was pushed back ; and as Net¬ 
tie sat on the grass, thinking how sweetly yet sadly 
the chime from the distant white steeple broke the 
Sunday hush upon the valley, he looked down upon 




Nettie Dunkayne. 


i37 


her with a very tender light in his laughing gray 
eyes. 

“ How beautiful, Graham,” she said, her eyes 
brightening suddenly, as he held out a delicious 
half-blown tea rose. “ Is it for me ? ” 

“ Not,” he answered, slowly, beginning to put it 
in his coat, “ unless you ask me prettily.” 

“ Then let us come in to tea.” 

But Graham stood where he was. 

“ Look up in my eyes and say, ‘ Dear Graham, 
give me the flower, please ’ ; you know exactly how 
to plead when you like.” 

“ I have forgotten,” she answered, with a gentle¬ 
ness that was almost sad. “ I have a great deal 
more than I want in every way. For what should I 
plead ? ” 

“ Is it so new to you to have everything you want, 
dear ? ” asked Graham, tenderly. 

“You know it is,” replied Nettie, with a little 
catch in her voice. “ Let us go now.” 

“ Stay, Nettie,” he said, slipping lower still beside 
her on the grass ; “ I will leave off now asking you 
of your past life, as I have been so fond of doing— 
fond, though, only because it obliged you to talk of 
yourself, dear. Of course it was right of my mother 
to insist upon your dropping all connection with, 
and, if possible, all remembrance of, your father ; 
but I can perfectly well understand your own hesi¬ 
tation at naming him, and why you shrink from 
showing him to us in the character of a—I mean, in 
an unpleasant light—as you must do when you tell 
us of your old life. Therefore, from this evening, 
Nettie dear, I will never speak of him again if I can 
help it, and will only try the harder to make your 
home bright and happy enough to satisfy you, and 
make up to you for all the shadows that lie behind. 
But I want one promise from you, Nettie ; that you 
will never again talk of leaving us, as you have, 
once or twice lately, grieved me by doing. Promise 
me.” 

She was looking far off, beyond the earnest, hand¬ 
some face, and her parted lips were quivering pain¬ 
fully. 

“You are happy with me—with us, Nettie?” he 
whispered, anxiously. 

“ Too happy. Oh ! you don’t know what it is to 
be loved and petted and valued, after-” 

“ I can fancy it, dear,” he answered, when she 
stopped, “ as you can never fancy how delicious the 
loving and petting and valuing are to us, to me 
especially, Nettie.” 

She did not blush at his heartfelt words, ready as 
her blushes were at other times. 

“Graham,” she said, bringing her eyes slowly 
back to his face, “ day after day I have wanted to 
tell you something, and have always been too cow¬ 
ardly, because this happy life makes me shrink from 
hardship and coldness. But I think I can say it 
now. You remember what the children sang when 
we went into church to-day ? That gave me the 


courage I wanted. Graham, if aunty will let me, 
and if you don’t mind, I would be hap—better to go 
back again—home.” 

“ Are you hot out here ? Do you really wish to 
go home ? ” asked Graham, attempting to rise care¬ 
lessly, but pulling his hat a little over his face. 

“ I mean home—to my father.” 

“ What unnatural whims little girls do sometimes 
take,” he said, stroking her hair softly. “ Come, 
you said it was tea-time.” 

“Graham, I really, really mean it,” she cried, in 
hurried, trembling tones. “ O, listen, please.” 

“I will not believe you mean it, Nettie,” he said, 
huskily. “ Mr. Dunkayne has made no effort to re¬ 
call you. You know how little like a father he has 
ever been to you. How can you set him before us, 
who love you so dearly ? It is crijiel to us, if it is 
not cruel to yourself.” 

“ Oh, hush ! ” she cried, covering her face sud¬ 
denly. “ I thought you would help me to see what 
was right.” * 

“ If you let me help you, dear, it is plain to see,” 
said Graham. “It is right for you to stay here , to 
be a dear little helpful daughter to your mother’s 
sister, and be—oh, it would take me a long time to 
say what to some one else, whose claim I hope to 
make stronger than a father’s—stronger a hundred¬ 
fold than that of such a father as yiours.” 

“ I seem to know only three people in the world,” 
said Nettie, with piteous sadness, “and you make 
me cast off one of them—or two.” 

“ Not I, dear,” returned Graham, eagerly. “ He 
it was who did it first. Let us talk no more of him. 
Here is your flower ; it will brighten up that wistful 
little face.” 

“ Those words we sang to-day haunt me, Graham,” 
she said, walking slowly beside him, and looking on 
before her with eyes he could not fathom ; “ I feel 
as if I had been told to ‘ go to my father.’ ” 

“ That prodigal’s father was a loving and gener¬ 
ous one, dear,” answered Graham, gently, “ else he 
would not have gone back to him. Here is mother. 
How she would laugh at this new notion, if she 
knew it, Nettie.” 

The restful Sunday twilight lingered, with droop¬ 
ing wings, above the quiet valley, but the shadow of 
those soothing wings fell heavily and sadly into the 
pleasant room, through the open windows of which 
the summer evening fragrance crept in wooingly ; 
heavily and sadly, too, it fell upon the three who 
talked together there. 

Mrs. Lyttleton looked hurt and disappointed as 
her gentle arguments failed to convince Nettie that 
her notion of duty was a childish and mistaken one ; 
that it was even sinful in her to hanker after that 
miserable life from which she had been rescued. 
Graham—speaking fretfully as he leaned against the 
window opposite her—rebuked her for having seemed 
happy with them when she had really been discon¬ 
tented. He told her it was selfish and ungrateful to 






Treasury of Tales. 


138 


leave her mother’s friends ; even wicked to go back 
of her own accord to a sin-shadowed life ; and told 
her it would have been kinder never to have come 
to them at alL Then suddenly breaking off in his 
reproaches, he pleaded their love for her, their lone¬ 
liness in her absence, their disappointment in her. 
But while the girl’s soft, child-like face paled and 
quivered, her voice kept firm and resolute ; and he 
turned away from her and paced the room with hot 
and angry words, which pierced the little breaking 
heart in which this love of his had wakened a new 
life, and brought sharp tears of agony into the eyes 
that were looking out amid the deepening shadows 
with their old searching gaze. 

He pictured to her her two homes in all their vivid 
contrast: pictured her going back to the old stag¬ 
nant, comfortless life after these months of perfect 
sympathy and companionship. But the answer was 
all one, though the little fingers were knit tightly in 
each other, and the young lips puckered with pain. 
Following his words, she could not help her thoughts 
picturing the change that had been wrought in her— 
an un-cared-for little girl, with worn face and shabby 
dress—since she had been welcomed into this ease¬ 
ful, abundant home. She remembered how impos¬ 
sible she had found it then to add at all to her 
father’s happiness; yet how she seemed to have it 
in her power here to add to her aunt’s and to 
Graham's. She asked her own heart, was it not 
really wicked, as he had said, to go back to a sin- 
shadowed life ? Then her head drooped against the 
window, and her eyes grew bewildered in that search 
of theirs among the shadows. 

“ You will have forgotten these silly feelings in the 
morning, Nettie, dear,” said Mrs. Lyttleton, rising and 
kissing her, in sudden pity : “ if not, I shall have re¬ 
course to a little wholesome authority, and forbid 
you to speak of it again. As for giving you permis¬ 
sion to go back to the life I took you from, that I 
shall never do. Now go to your bed, dear. I am 
quite sure you will have forgotten this to-morrow.” 

But on the morrow, when Graham came in from 
his morning ride round the farm, and sought his lit¬ 
tle love, he could nowhere find her. Nettie and her 
little shabby clothes were gone, and in the sunny 
chamber nothing was found but the pretty dresses 
they had chosen for her, and a tender, little penitent 
letter, that had a quaint, resolute braver}' in all its 
pathos, and ended with a few words blotted by tears, 
“ I will arise and go to my father ! ” 

“ I loved her as my own child, Graham,” said his 
mother, with swimming eyes ; “ but she has cast off 
the love we gave her, and the home we offered her. 
It was a cruel thing to do.” 

“ Yes,” said Graham, covering his eyes with his 
shaking hand, “ though a brave and tender heart has 
done it, it was a cruel thing to do.” 

* * * •< Dismissed like an errand-boy! After 

twenty years of service, dismissed like a common 


errand-boy ! Of what use to me were their regrets 
and advice ? Iam too old to begin life anew. If I 
could, I don’t suppose I should care to do so ; it 
shall run itself down now in the readiest way I can 
find. There’s no one but myself to suffer for what 
I do.” 

Mr. Dunkayne raised his hat a moment from his 
hot and haggard face, as he walked listlessly toward 
home. . 

“ I may as well go there as anywhere. I suppose 
it will be gone in another day or two. Well, let it 
go. It will make little difference to me whether I have 
a home or not. There’s nothing to attract me there.” 

“ If there were, would it keep you at home ? Had 
it ever done so ? ” whispered Conscience. 

Conscience was not a soothing whisperer lately to 
Mr. Dunkayne. and he wearily put his key into the 
lock of his own door, quite unconsciously picturing 
the little figure that had used to open it to him so 
readily ; bitterly conscious how changed the house 
had been since the little fingers had ceased to be 
busy there. 

He entered the room with his head stooping 
forward, as it generally was now, .and even before 
his eyes were raised, something in the atmosphere 
of the room breathed of a change. His pulses 
quickened as he looked up. The window was 
open, and the summer evening breeze had in it a 
faint memory of gardens far away, and of scented 
hedgerows out of reach of the city smoke. No won¬ 
der ; for on the bright, neat tea-table stood a bunch 
of honeysuckle, and near his own chair a glass of 
fresh sweet roses. Above them—above all, sweet 
and sunny—stood his little girl herself, in her own 
familiar brown dress, her little apron shining with 
age and wear, but having a wonderfully home-like 
look, with the keys sticking out of one small pocket 

He stood for a moment looking at her, as if he 
feared to move and break the dream ; and the little 
face in its child-like purity, and in its brave, unselfish 
tenderness, seemed to come toward him across the 
stained current of his backward life, to show him an 
undreamed-of brightness that lay beyond. And he 
felt an odd, childish longing to stretch out his arms 
to her, and let her guide him out of hearing of its 
turbid rush. Perhaps unconsciously he did so, for 
after that moment his arms were round her, and her 
head lay against his beating heart. 

“Father,” she whispered, “will you take me back, 
though I have sinned?” He drew her closer, but 
no words came through his tightened lips. “ Are 
you glad, father?”—there were such sobbing tears 
in the loving voice. “ Kiss me if you are. There 
is no need to tell me so in words. We shall always 
understand each other now.” 

Little Nettie had never, since her mother died, 
felt upon her lips a kiss like that, and it brought the 
tears that had struggled in her voice straight up to 
her eyes. 

“Father,” she said, looking up at him with glad 







To the Death. 


x 39 


eyes glistening through them, “ it is far, far better 
for me to come home.” 

And the father, remembering the sort of life the 
child had led in this home of his, bowed his head on 
hers, and let the childish tears flow as they would 
from his own eyes; knowing, perhaps, that they 
Avould add nothing to that tainted current from 
which his little daughter’s love was leading him. 


TO THE DEATH, 

BY EDMUND YATES. 

I. 

I N the summer of 1861 the heat throughout 
Europe was intense ; perhaps in no place more 
intense than at Baden Baden. The little Eng¬ 
lish colony, temporarily located there, suffered tre¬ 
mendously. 

Mr. Justice Minos, who, with Mr. and Mrs. 
Serjeant Blewbagge, Mr. Tocsin, Q.C., Mr. Replevin, 
the rising junior, and a few other kindred legal 
spirits, used to get up such pleasant whist parties at 
the Badischer Hof, declared he had never felt any¬ 
thing like it, even at the Central Criminal Court. 

Little Iklass, the red-bearded artist just elected 
member of the “New Water Color,” declared it was 
too hot to sketch, and used to sit in his room in his 
shirt sleeves, drinking cognac and iced seltzer and 
smoking helplessly. „ 

Dr. Fleem, the great London physician, shoo^his 
head warningly when he saw any of his friends start¬ 
ing out for picnics in the Black Forest, and bade 
them beware of sun-stroke ; while old Lady Doldrum 
sat calmly without her wig, in her own shady apart¬ 
ments, to the terror of those who caught a glimpse 
of her through the open door, and declared she was 
nearly dead with the heat. 

Now, though it must be conceded that none of 
these people had probably ever experienced such an 
amount of heat as to make them speak positively as to 
the point of comparison, yet if you have ever been in 
Seville or Madrid during the month of July, you will 
allow that the denizens of either of those places may 
be regarded as judges of caloric, and here at Baden 
were the Senora Sebastiana Gonfalon and her 
brother Diego, who both declared that throughout 
the length and breadth of Spain they had never 
found it so hot as in that little gambling inferno on 
the margin of the Black Forest. 

Such a woman, Sebastiana Gonfalon! About 
four-and-twenty, and of the real blue blood—the old 
Spanish type. Very slight pencilled eyebrows, a 
short and slightly retroussd nose, large protruding 
lips, a little rounded chin, and blue-black hair 
banded tight round her head, and fastened into a 
large bow behind. About the ordinary woman’s 
height, strong limbed, with small hands and feet, 
wonderfully lithe and supple in her movements, and 
with a peculiar swimming walk which set all the 


women in Baden, from the respectable stock-broker- 
esses from Balham Hill to “those odd French 
people ” from the Rue Breda, practising in their bed¬ 
rooms without the faintest approach to the original. 
A face very calm and statuesque in repose, very 
terrible when lit up with anger, horribly dangerous 
when melting with love. They hadn’t seen much of 
any expression save her ordinary repose at Baden ; 
but little Jack Harris from the Inland Irrigation 
Office, said he could perfectly fancy what it would 
be, and he wouldn’t for thousands have any—any 
love affair—there ! 

Little Jack Harris need not have troubled him¬ 
self. He was introduced to Sebastiana, and at the 
time of the introduction she had muttered behind her 
fan to her brother something about his being a droll 
looking little creature, but from that hour she either 
was, or affected to be, profoundly unconscious of 
his existence. 

It had been hotter than ever during the day, but 
the day was happily past and over, and the moon 
was streaming on to the broad gravelled Platz in 
front of the Conversations-haus, and the band, 
stationed in their little oil-lamp illumined kiosk, 
were rattling away at Strauss’s waltzes and La- 
bitzky’s galops, and the gamblers were thronging the 
roulette and trente-et-quarante tables ; and of the 
non-gamblers, all such as had ladies with them 
were promenading and listening to the music, while 
the others were seated round the little wooden tables 
drinking and smoking. 

At one of these tables four men were sitting, who, 
in this tale at least, merit particular notice. The 
little paper lantern holding the cigar-lighting 
candle flares on the broad, healthily bronzed face 
(where, through the thick curling light beard, the 
face can be seen) of Arthur Acton, formerly of the 
Light Brigade, now swell, landed proprietor, Eng¬ 
lish gentleman. After the Crimean campaign Arthur 
cut soldiering and sold out. He is a type of his 
class, as you perceive in his broad chest, well-knit 
figure, well shaped white hand, with the massive 
signet-ring on the little finger, and the broad gold 
band on the finger next to that; in his open throat, his 
long white wristbands, his evening dress so careless, 
yet so well fitting, his perfect boots, the easy, care¬ 
less unstudied grace of his attitude ; a big man, with 
the heart of a lion and the simplicity of a child, who 
had looked death in the face a score of times, who 
had ridden into the Balaclava charge as calmly as 
into Rotten Row, and who would as soon have 
thought of defaming his dead mother as of uttering 
a boast or a lie. Not a scholar, his reading having 
been mostly confined to Bell's Life and the Baring 
Calendar; not a purist—he had lived too much in 
camps and barrack-rooms for that—but a keen, 
clear-headed man of the world, as you may see in 
his broad open brow, over which the short light hair 
curls so crisply, in his bright blue eyes, his frank 
face, his great cheery honest laugh. 











140 


Treasury of Tales. 


Next to him, Jack Harris, government clerk, be¬ 
fore named—a wiry, dapper little man, got up with 
scrupulous neatness. Jack’s hair-dresser tells him 
that “ his parting is thinning,” which in plain Eng¬ 
lish means that Jack is getting bald, but he makes 
up for that with an enormous pair of wiry whiskers, 
which stick out like hair-brushes on either side of 
his little face. A great scandal-monger is Jack, 
with something to say about everybody, an inane 
little chatterbox, whom nobody could think of mak¬ 
ing his enemy, or of cultivating for his friend. 

On the other side of the table Eugene Blake, a 
clever, hot-headed, quick-tempered Irishman, army 
surgeon in a regiment of Austrian Uhlans, on leave 
now and staying with Arthur, whose people had 
always been studiously kind to him. 

Next to him, an*d concluding the party, Sir Pierce 
Coverdale, the best whist player at the Travellers’ 
Club, an old diplomatist, who had studied life at 
half the courts in Europe, and one of the knowingest 
hands in the world. 

Listen to their conversation. 

“ It’s a regular case of fetch, by Jove ! Never saw 
a clearer ! No good denying it, Arthur, my boy, 
you’ve brought down the Donna at a long shot, 
and you’re booked!” This from Eugene Blake, 
with a merry twinkle in his eyes and a great slap on 
the table to enforce his words. 

“ Tremendous go !” said little Jack Harris ; “ tre— 
mendous go ! Splendid creature, black eyes, raven 

hair, and all that sort of thing ; and as for figure-” 

And in default of finding a proper expletive, little 
Jack kissed the tips of his fingers, and waved them 
in the air. 

“ Doosid pleasant thing! ” said old Sir Pierce 
Coverdale, smoothing his gray whiskers ; “ doosid 
pleasant thing for a young man, though it has its 
disadvantages ! Doosid difficult to shake off : You 
get tired of it; she don’t ! Then you’re bored, and 
she’s savage ; then you take up with somebody else, 
and she takes up with a knife or a stiletto or some 
horrible thing, and sticks it into you ! Take care, 
Acton, these Southern women are the doose and 
nothing else ! ” 

“ Thank you, Sir Pierce,” replied Arthur Acton ; 
“ I know you mean it, though there’s really no occa¬ 
sion for your good advice. And you, you fellows, 
go on and chaff away as much as you like to-night, 
to-morrow, and the next day. Only drop it after 
that, please. Miss Palliser arrives here, with her 
brother, on Friday, and there’s no need to keep it 
quiet any longer—she and I are engaged, and are to 
be married in November. So go in for any extravagant 
nonsense you like about me and Mademoiselle Gon¬ 
falon up to that time, and then—drop it for good ! 
Knowing the utter absurdity of it, I don’t mind the 
chaff; but of course if protracted it would become 
serious. There’s no need to say any more, is there, 
boys ? You all understand ? ” 

They all chorused congratulations, and speedily 


changed the subject, not before old Sir Pierce Cover- 
dale had muttered that he considered this a “ doosid 
bad feature in the case.” 

On that night was held one of the grand bi-weekly 
full-dress balls (ha/s parts) in contradistinction to 
those free and easy assemblies where all the best 
known of the guests dropped in in such toilets as 
suited them. But on the night of the balspares even¬ 
ing costume was exacted, and all the proceedings 
were more formal. As the evening waned, our party 
broke up, and with the exception of the old baronet 
(who went to pit himself against a favorite antagonist, 
a French baron of marvellous age and remarkable 
card-playing powers), all strolled into the ball-rooms. 
Everybody was there—cynosure of everybody Ma¬ 
demoiselle Gonfalon, looking magnificent in her 
amber satin dress, covered with the richest black 
lace, and with pink roses gleaming in her hair. 

As Arthur Acton entered the room, it seemed as 
though by some mesmeric influence she was aware 
of his approach. She looked up at once toward the 
door, and their eyes met. Hers were earnest, search¬ 
ing, imperious ; in his was an expression half of an¬ 
noyance, half of mistrust. Nevertheless, he obeyed 
the quick motion of the fan, imperceptible to all but 
him, by which she beckoned him toward her, and 
two minutes afterward they were whirling together 
to the valse then just commenced. 

Eugene Blake and little Jack Harris grinned at 
each other, and the former remarked, in the brogue 
which always burst out of him whenever he was at 
all excited, “It’s to be hoped Miss Palliser’s not jeal¬ 
ous, or there’ll be ‘ wigs upon the green ’ before 
we’ve done with this.” 

Two hours afterward (they keep early hours at 
Baden) the moon, from her height in heaven, shone 
on Mademoiselle Gonfalon, standing on the outer 
steps of the ball-room, with her mantilla coquettishly 
flung round her shoulders, and drawn over her head. 

“ Ah, what pleasure ! ” she exclaimed, pettishly ; 
“the hotel is close by, the night is quite hot, and 
there is no need for the wraps Diego is searching 
for. I declare I will wait for him no longer if you 
will be my escort, M. Acton. You will? Then give 
me your arm ! ” She took his arm, and waved a 
laughing good night to those standing by, then 
tripped gayly down the steps, and until they had 
proceeded some little distance into the shadow of 
the allte. Then stopping suddenly, she confronted 
her companion, and with eyes looking full into his, 
said, “ What’s this ? ” 

“ What’s what, Mademoiselle Gonfalon ? ” 

“Ah, bah, ‘Mademoiselle Gonfalon’! You know 
my name, I suppose ? ” Then suddenly changing her 
tone, “ Arthur, dearest Arthur, what is it to-night ? 
You are cold as your own dreadful countrymen 
generally ; you are distant. You valsed because I 
asked you, not because you wished to : you have 
scarcely said a dozen words the whole night—what 
is it ? ” 






f 


To the Death . 


“ It’s nothing, Mademoiselle—well, then Sebas- 
tiana—it is simply this. We have been thrown to¬ 
gether, more or less, since we have been here, and 
we’ve been very good friends, and I trust we always 
shall be ; but-” 

“ Well—but-” 

“ It’s an awkward thing for me to say,” said 
Acton, feeling hot all over, and stammering like a 
school-girl. “ But, you see, it—I mean—er—it 
mus’n’t go any further.” 

Sebastiana looked at him for an instant, and then 
said, in a low flat key, “ Mus’n’t go any further?” 

“ No ! Well, the truth is—its horribly uncomforta¬ 
ble for a man to have to say such a thing under such 
circumstances ; but, the truth is—I’m going to be 
married, you see, and my fiancee is coming here in a 
day or two, and it won’t do for us to be—confound 
it all, I’m making a mess of it, I know I am ! ” And 
the man who had ridden coolly into the Balaclava 
charge,- now stuttered and wiped his brow, and 
looked and felt horribly afraid. 

“ Ah ! you are going to be married ! ” said Sebas¬ 
tiana, standing upright as a dart, and still looking at 
him, but with a very different expression in her eyes. 
“ So that's the secret! To a young English lady ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Whom you love ? ” 

“ Whom I adore ! ” 

“ And she is coming here ? ” 

“ She is ; the day after to-morrow, I hope.” 

“I hope so too. I shall be pleased to see her. 
Now let us walk on, please.” And without waiting 
for his reply, she strode on until she reached the 
door of her hotel, when she bowed her head, with¬ 
out offering her hand, and, without uttering a word, 
passed through out of sight. 

n. 

For two whole days and nights no one, save her 
Spanish waiting-woman, saw Sebastiana Gonfalon. 
Had any eyes penetrated into the room where she 
was, they would have lighted on a figure prostrate 
on a bed, with tear-blurred face and hair floating 
wildly over the pillow, and clenched hands, now 
upraised passionately, now falling with maddened 
vehemence. Had there been ears to listen, they 
would have heard wild lamentations, self-accusations, 
curses on the man who had so enthralled her, threats 
of vengeance on her by whom she had been sup¬ 
planted in his affections. But there was no one to 
hear, save Madrilena, the waiting-woman, who 
worshipped her mistress, and did all she could to 
soothe and compose her. Not even Don Diego 
himself was allowed admission to his sister’s cham¬ 
ber. 

On the morning of the third day, however, there 
was an arrival at the hotel. Not unexpected, evi¬ 
dently, for the suite of rooms had been some days 
in preparation, and the landlord was in attendance 
on the steps as the natty English travelling-carriage 


141 

drew up, and by his side was Arthur Acton, who 
had been lounging about in a state of expectancy 
from a very early hour, and the evidence that some¬ 
thing was going to happen had drawn together a 
crowd of blue-bloused, wooden-saboted peasants 
and children, reinforced, . as the carriage came up, 
by others who had been attracted by the cracking of 
the postilions’ whips, and most of the hotel win¬ 
dows were filled with occupants. 

No one could be clearly seen at the windows of the 
salon occupied by Mademoiselle Gonfalon, though 
from a certain blurred and misty outline traceable 
at that one nearest the hall door, it might have been 
inferred that it was not untenanted. 

When the horses drew up at the door, a big cou¬ 
rier, with a gold-laced band to his cap, and a huge 
beard on his chin, dismounted, opened the carriage 
door, and handed out, first, an old lady with gray 
hair and a bent frame, who descended with diffi¬ 
culty, resting on a stick, and then a tall, elegant 
young girl, with bright blue eyes, a clear complexion, 
and chestnut bands falling on either side her face. 

These ladies—the younger especially—were re¬ 
ceived with great empressanent by Arthur Acton, 
and conducted by him into the hotel. Five minutes 
afterward, Don Diego Gonfalon, sipping his second 
glass of absinthe, and smoking his fourth after¬ 
breakfast cigar on the promenade, was summoned 
by his French servant, who told him that Mademoi¬ 
selle, his sister, wished to speak with him at once. 

He found her wrapped in a white muslin dressing- 
gown, and seated in a low easy-chair by the window. 
Her luxuriant black hair was hastily gathered up 
into a great knot at the back of her head, and there 
were dark rings round her luminous black eyes. 
Her face was deadly pale, and her .lips were cojorless 
and rigid. Diego marked all this at one glance ; 
then dropping into a chair next to her, he took one 
of her hands in his, and, gazing tenderly into her 
face, said : 

“ You are better, my sister ? ” 

“Yes, my brother, much better within the last 
hour. To be quite well within a very few days, if 
all goes rightly, and you are true to me. She has 
arrived.” 

“ Ah ! ha ! ” and Diego drew a long breath be¬ 
tween his teeth. “You have seen her?” 

“ I saw her arrive ! saw her received by him ! saw 
him conduct her into the house ! I saw his fingers 
tighten round hers, and her hand glide into his ! ” 

“And you still require-” 

“ All that I urged, and you promised. All that 
. should be demanded of one who has slighted a Gon¬ 
falon and your sister. His ruin first, then his 
death ! ” 

“ Nothing less ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

Don Diego shrugged his shoulders, kissed his 
sister’s hand, and returned to his absinthe and his 
cigar. 







142 


Treasury of Tales. 


There is a specially exclusive set at Baden, known 
as the Ladies’ Club, because no gentleman is ad¬ 
missible to its reunions, save on the ballot of the 
lady members. It is held in one of the private 
rooms of the Conversations-haus, and is frequented 
during the evening by the ladies and their attendant 
cavaliers. At a late hour, when the ladies have re¬ 
tired, those men who have the entre'e remain, and 
there many quiet games at cards are carried on, for 
which the ordinary public rooms would be too noisy 
and too exposed. 

It was after midnight when Arthur Acton stepped 
into the Ladies’ Club, then emptied of its proper 
occupants, and given up to denizens of the male sex, 
some of whom were already assembled around the 
card-tables. 

Arthur was in splendid spirits : he had been the 
whole 4 ay with Miss Palliser, showing her the lions 
of the place, and she had been voted a tremendous 
success by every one. Blase French marquises and 
pudgy German barons had roused themselves from 
their dominoes to stare after the fresh and brilliant 
beauty of the English girl. When she entered the 
gambling rooms the croupiers were puzzled to find 
play for a moment suspended, as the haggard crowd- 
ers of the tables left off pricking cards or covering 
numbers as the glorious vision passed hurriedly by. 
And she had been very sweet and affectionate to 
him, too, and altogether he was in the seventh 
heaven of happiness, and showed it in his brilliant 
eyes and flushing cheeks. 

Walking up to a knot of his friends, who were 
standing at the head of the room, Acton commenced 
chatting with them, when he felt his arm lightly 
touched, and, turning round, saw Diego Gonfalon. 

“Your pardon, M. Acton, if I disturb you,” said 
Diego. “ I come to ask that revenge which you 
promised me after our ecarte two nights since.” 

Nothing could have been more mal d propos. 
Arthur was in no humor for a cool calculating game 
at cards ; he was overbrimming with animal spirits, 
longing for some outlet for his happiness. He re¬ 
plied, awkwardly enough. 

“Eh? Ecarte? To-night, do you think? I’m 
scarcely in the humor to-night, and-” 

“ Oh, if monsieur does not choose, of course it is 
not for me to-” 

“You can’t do that, Arthur!” said in English 
old Sir Pierce Coverdale, who was standing by ; '“ if 
you won the man’s money last time, you’re bound 
to play when he asks you, however inconvenient it 
may be, and-” 

“Well, be it so,” said Arthur, with a sigh. Then, 
turning with a sprightly air to the Spaniard, he 
pointed to a vacant card-table, and said politely, 
“ At your service, sir.” 

They were well known among the frequenters of 
the club, these two, as first-rate players. As they 
took the cards, a little crowd gathered silently 
round, and as soon as play commenced the by¬ 


standers began to bet. Soon there were a few 
murmurs in the ring. Acton was so thoroughly 
transported with happiness, so full of the pleasant 
memories of the day with his beloved, that he ap¬ 
peared unable to fix his attention on his cards, while 
his opponent was stringing every nerve to the en¬ 
counter. They formed a grand contrast these two 
men ; the one big, fair, jolly, light-hearted, and indif¬ 
ferent ; the other thin, swarthy, grave, and intently 
watching his own hand and that of his opponent. 

At three in the morning Diego Gonfalon returned 
to his hotel. He passed up the stairs with a light 
footstep ; but as he neared his sister’s room the 
door opened gently, and Sebastiana’s graceful head 
appeared, her finger on her lip. Obedient to her 
signal, he followed her into her chamber. 

“Well?” 

“ Bad ! worse than bad ! He played like a fool, 
without thinking of his cards, and he has stripped 
me again ! He must have won three-hundred Isabel- 
linas ; his confounded luck never deserts him for an 
instant!” 

“ That is unfortunate, Diego ; but it was but a 
part of our scheme. The rest is to covie! Now to 
bed, brother ; we will consult in the morning.” 

in. 

The next day the weather was cooler, a light 
breeze came playing over the Schwarzwald, and the 
promenade was thronged. The rumor of the beauty 
and grace of the newly arrived Englishwoman had 
spread, and, in addition to its ordinary frequenters, 
many of those who only honored the promenade 
on special occasions, had come out to judge for 
themselves, and were constrained to admit that for 
once report had not been exaggerated. 

Arthur Acton, thoroughly observant of every look 
and glance, gloried in Miss Palliser’s success, and 
watched each succeeding triumph with renewed 
delight. Once only his brow clouded, and that was 
as he passed a group of men, amongst whom were 
Diego Gonfalon, a certain Count Tszech, a Hungarian 
of unenviable reputation, and a Captain Hall, a 
notorious English blackleg. These men raised their 
hats, certainly, but with a kind of defiant air, and 
Miss Palliser had scarcely passed before Acton saw 
Diego whisper something to his friends, who at once 
burst into a loud guffaw. Acton flamed to the roots 
of his hair, but said nothing. Chancing, however, 
to turn round a moment afterward, he saw Diego 
Gonfalon mimicking Miss Palliser’s walk, and the 
manner in which she held her dress, to the intense 
delight of his friends. 

As the Palliser party, on their return, approached 
the spot where the objectionable group were stand¬ 
ing, Arthur noticed a movement among them, and 
he had no sooner passed than Diego and his friends 
left their position, and followed on in the promenade 
immediately behind the English party. Two min¬ 
utes afterward Miss Palliser stopped suddenly; 









To the Death . 


J 4 3 


some one had trodden on her dress. Acton turned 
hurriedly round, and fancied he saw a smile on 
Diego’s face. The obtrusive foot had, however, 
been removed and the promenade continued. Al¬ 
most immediately afterward the same thing occurred 
again. Miss Palliser’s dress was speedily released, 
and she and the other members of her party pro¬ 
ceeded. Acton stood still. 

You have a singular knack of awkwardness, 
monsieur,” said he to Diego Gonfalon. “ This is the 
second time that your stupidity has caused you to 
tread on the lady’s dress.” 

“ It is the lady’s own fault, monsieur,” replied 
Diego, with an insolent air ; “ she does not know 
how to hold her dress, but walks like a camel, like 
all Englishwomen.” 

Ah ! Don Diego Gonfalon, if you only knew how 
nearly you were getting that peculiarly British blow, 
known as “one for yourself !” 

There was a baleful fury in Arthur Acton’s eyes, 
and a fidgety motion about the shoulder-muscles of 
his right arm, which looked very ugly just at that 
moment. However, he controlled his passion suffi¬ 
ciently to say : “ I have ladies with me now, sir. As 
soon as I am free-” 

“You will find me ready and willing, monsieur, 
whenever you like.” 

And Don Diego raised his hat, and turned on his 
heel. 

That night Don Diego went neither to the gam¬ 
bling-table nor to the Ladies’ Club, but sought his 
hotel at an early hour, and went straight to his 
sister’s room. The door had scarcely closed behind 
him, when she was by his side, her eyes flashing, her 
hands trembling, her whole frame in a state of 
intense excitement. 

“ Well ? ” she asked, “ is it done ?” 

“Yes,” said Diego, sullenly, “it is done ; arranged 
for to-morrow morning at sunrise.” 

“ How did it happen ? tell me. I am dying to 
know.” 

But Diego was cross, and indisposed to answer. 

“Ah, don’t worry me about details! Is it not 
enough for you to know that he is challenged, and 
accepts ? ” 

Sebastiana’s eyes flashed fire, but she controlled 
herself, “ Tell me one thing, then, only one. Was 
she implicated ? ” 

“Yes ; the insult was given to her.” 

“Good ! good, Diego ! You have indeed carried 
out all I wished. Who acts for you ?” 

“ Cabanel.” 

“And for him?” 

“ An old English milord—Sir Coverdale.” 

“ Sir Coverdale is his second ? He lives here in 
the hotel, does he not ?” 

“ He does, in the opposite rooms.” 

“ Has he come in yet ? ” 

“No. I left him at the Kursaal, playing trente- 
et-quarante. He will be there another hour yet. 


He is an old soldier, and such an affair as this does 
not in the least effect his usual routine.” 

“ Good ! Now get to bed ; you will want rest. 
I will call you at daybreak. Madrilena !” And kiss¬ 
ing her brother on the cheek, Sebastiana closed the 
door on him, and entered into deep converse with 
her waiting-woman. 

IV. 

At five the next morning, Ludwig Kraus, an old 
wood-cutter, who was beginning to ply his daily 
occupation in the outskirts of the Black Forest, saw 
two carriages draw up at the turf path which he 
himself had cleared, leading from the unfrequented 
high-road into the depths of the underwood. From 
these carriages descended several gentlemen, two of 
whom bore under their arms long flat cases, at sight 
of which the old woodcutter smiled to himself. It 
was by no means his first experience of such visit¬ 
ors, and he never saw them arrive without a cer¬ 
tainty of pecuniary advantage to himself. Sure 
enough his expectations were not disappointed. 
One of the gentlemen saw him, turned round, and 
after apparently consulting with the others, beckoned 
to him. Ludwig advanced. 

“ Tired of labor, father?” said the gentleman. 

“ Not yet, sir,” said the old man. “ I only com¬ 
menced at dawn, an hour since.” 

“You must need rest. We are going to breakfast 
here, and shall require water. How far is it to the 
nearest spring ?” 

“ A good mile,” replied the old man. 

“Go and fetch a pitcher,” said the gentleman, 
slipping a Friedrich-d’or into his hand. “ Don’t 
hurry. You can go leisurely.” 

The old man pocketed the coin, laid his axe 
across his shoulder, and went off whistling. 

The two parties had come in separate carriages 
and remained in separate groups, while the drivers 
wheeled their horses round and moved them some 
distance down the road. Although the gentlemen 
spoke among themselves, yet each kept apart from 
the other. Then watches were produced, and some 
whispering ensued. At last the gentleman who 
had spoken to the woodcutter advanced from his 
friends, and nearing the opposite party, took off his 
hat and saluted. No better man than he for such a 
meeting! Honore de Cabanel, lieutenant in the 
African Chasseurs, a man who had been St. Arnaud’s 
right hand through all the Kabyle war. 

“ Time flies, M. Acton,” said he ; “ we wait your 
pleasure.” 

“ M. de Cabanel,” replied Arthur, “ I am sorry 
that I am the cause of the delay, however unwill¬ 
ingly. But Sir Pierce Coverdale, who was to be my 
second, has not yet made his appearance.” 

“ No one better acquainted with the code of the 
duello than Sir Coverdale, or more capable of con¬ 
ducting it in the most perfect manner ! ” said Cab- 








144 


Treasury of Tales . 


anel, with a bow. “ Something must have retarded 
him ; he must be ill,” 

“ I certainly cannot understand his absence,” mut¬ 
tered Arthur, looking into the far distance. 

“ Will not Monsieur Acton’s other friend act for 
him ?” asked Cabanel, motioning toward a gentle¬ 
man standing near. 

“ My other friend is a surgeon of the Austrian army, 
Monsieur Eugene Blake ; I thought it necessary to 
have a surgeon on the ground, and gentlemen in 
that capacity, cannot, I believe, act as seconds.” 

“ Certainly not,” said Monsieur Cabanel. “ Would 
Monsieur Acton accept the service of one of my 
party. Senor Lopez Guerrabella, a Spanish gentle¬ 
man from Cadiz, an officer in the Queen’s Guard, 
accompanies us to the ground, and would I am sure 
act for Monsieur Acton.” As he spoke he indicated 
a slim young man wearing a Spanish cloak and a 
heavy slouch hat, who was standing by in conversa¬ 
tion with Diego. There were no signs of Coverdale’s 
advent. Acton bowed, and after a word with Blake 
notified his acceptance of Cabanel’s offer. Then he 
and Cabanel proceeded to step the ground. On 
their return Cabanel said, 

“ It is agreed, I believe, messieurs, thatt he combat 
shall be a la barrilre —that is to say—my friend and 
I have measured twenty-four paces, at either end of 
which we will place our men. At twelve yards, the 
half distance, I have dropped a handkerchief as a 
mark. Senor Guerrabella and I will toss for first fire. 
Whichever principal—through his second—wins, has 
the right either to fire from his place, or, walking up 
to the mark, to call on his adversary to advance, even 
up to the mark itself if he chooses, and then—act as 
he wishes ! Gentlemen, this is understood ?” 

Both principals bowed. 

“Now, Senor Guerrabella, the toss? Ha! you 
have won ! M. Acton, the fire is with you ! ” 

As he spoke, Arthur Acton turned sideways to¬ 
ward his opponent, covering him fairly and fully 
with his pistol. Then, suddenly flinging up his arm, 
he fired into the air. A short growl issued from 
Blake’s lips—a growl in which a near bystander 
might have distinguished the words, “ He ought to 
have winged him ! ” 

“ It is your shot, sir ! ” said Arthur, wheeling 
round and confronting his adversary. 

“ I intend to take it!” said Diego, calmly, as he 
walked toward the handkerchief. “And I call on 
you, M. Acton, in pursuance of the terms, to advance 
to this mark !” 

“ In the name of heaven, stop this ! ” shrieked Eu¬ 
gene Blake, as in obedience to the summons, Ar¬ 
thur slowly advanced. “ This is sheer murder ! 
Sir, I call on you,” turning to Guerrabella, u I call 
on you to forbid this ! ” 

“ It is impossible to break the rule laid down ! ” 
said Guerrabella, speaking for the first time in a 
strange muffled voice ; “ unless, indeed, M. l’Anglais 
is afraid.” 


This one sentence was enough. Blake was silent, 
but remained horror-stricken and intent on the scene, 
while Arthur Acton, with pallid face, stepped straight 
up to the handkerchief, on the other side of which 
Diego was waiting. A dead, still, horrible calm 
reigned around. It was broken by Diego, who said. 
“M. Acton, you deceived a Gonfalon ! Your blood 
be on your own head.” 

The next instant the sound of a pistol rang 
through the forest, and Arthur Acton, staggering for 
an instant, dropped heavily forward on his face. Blake 
sprang forward, but ere he reached his friend’s side 
Guerrabella was kneeling beside the prostrate Acton. 
Bending over him, the muffled figure lifted the slouch 
hat, and pushed back the concealing cloak. One 
word escaped the dying man, “ Sebastiana ! ” 

“Ay!” muttered Mademoiselle Gonfalon, for it 
was she ; “ I told you the character of my revenge. 
To the Death ! ” 

The next instant Arthur Acton expired. 


THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING. 

I. 

A FEW miles from Boston in Massachusetts 
there is a deep inlet, winding several miles 
into the interior of the country from Charles 
Bay, and terminating in a thickly wooded swamp or 
morass. 

On one side of this inlet is a beautiful dark grove ; 
on the opposite side the land rises abruptly from 
the water’s edge into a high ridge, on which grow a 
few scattered oaks of great age and immense size. 

Under one of these gigantic trees, according to 
old stories, there was a great amount of treasure 
buried by Kidd the pirate. 

The inlet allowed a facility to bring the money in 
a boat secretly and at night to the very foot of the 
hill; the elevation of the place permitted a good 
lookout to be kept that no one was at hand ; while 
the remarkable trees formed good landmarks by 
which the place might easily be found again. 

The old stories add, moreover, that the devil prer 
sided at the hiding of the money, and took it under 
his guardianship ; but this, it is well known, he 
always does with buried treasure, particularly when 
it has been ill-gotten. Be that as it may, Kidd never 
returned to recover his wealth ; being shortly after 
seized at Boston, sent out to England, and there 
hanged for a pirate. 

About the year 1727, just at the time that earth¬ 
quakes were prevalent in New England, and shook 
many tall sinners down upon their knees, there lived 
near this place a meagre, miserly fellow, of the name 
of Tom Walker. He had a wife as miserly as him¬ 
self : they were so miserly that they even conspired 
to cheat each other. Whatever the woman could 







The Devil and Tom Walker, 


r 45 


lay hands on, she hid away ; a hen could not cackle 
but she was on the alert to secure the new-laid egg. 
Her husband was continually prying about to detect 
her secret hoards, and many and fierce were the 
conflicts that took place about what ought to have 
been common property. 

They lived in a forlorn-looking house that stood 
alone, and had an air of starvation. A few strag¬ 
gling savin-trees, emblems of sterility, grew near it ; 
no smoke ever curled from its chimney ; no trav¬ 
eller stopped at its door. A miserable horse, whose 
ribs were as articulate as the bars of a gridiron, 
stalked about a field, where a thin carpet of moss, 
scarcely covering the ragged beds of pudding-stone, 
tantalized and balked his hunger ; and sometimes 
he would lean his head over the fence, look piteously 
at the passer-by, and seem to petition deliverance 
from this land of famine. 

The house and its inmates had altogether a bad 
name. Tom’s wife was a tall termagant, fierce of 
temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm. Her 
voice was often heard in wordy warfare with her 
husband ; and his face sometimes showed signs that 
their conflicts were not confined to words. No one 
ventured, however, to interfere between them. The 
lonely wayfarer shrunk within himself at the horrid 
clamor and clapper-clawing ; eyed the den of dis¬ 
cord askance ; and hurried on his way, rejoicing, if 
a bachelor, in his celibacy. 

One day that Tom Walker had been to a distant 
part of the neighborhood, he took what he consid¬ 
ered a short cut homeward, through the swamp. 
Like most short cuts, it was an ill-chosen route. 
The swamp was thickly grown with great gloomy 
pines arid hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high, 
which made it dark at noonday, and a retreat for all 
the owls of the neighboihood. It was full of pits and 
quagmires, partly covered with weeds and mosses, 
where the green surface often betrayed the traveller 
into a gulf of black, smothering mud ; there were 
also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes of the tad¬ 
pole, the bull-frog, and the water-snake ; where the 
trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half-drowned, half- 
rotting, looking like alligators sleeping in the mire. 

Tom had long been picking his way cautiously 
through this treacherous forest ; stepping from tuft 
to tuft of rushes and roots, which afforded precari¬ 
ous footholds among deep sloughs ; or pacing care¬ 
fully, like a cat, along the prostrate trunks of trees ; 
startled now and then by the sudden screaming of 
the bittern, or the quacking of a wild duck rising on 
the wing from some solitary pool. At length he 
arrived at a firm piece of ground, which ran out like 
a peninsula into the deep bosom of the swamp. 

It had been one of the strongholds of the Indians 
during their wars with the first colonists. Here they 
had thrown up a kind of fort, which they had looked 
upon as almost impregnable, and had used as a place 
of refuge for their squaws and children. Nothing 
remained of the old Indian fort but a few embank¬ 


ments, gradually sinking to the level , of the sur¬ 
rounding earth, and already overgrown in part by 
oaks and other forest trees, the foliage of which 
formed a contrast to the dark pines and hemlocks 
of the swamp. 

It was late in the dusk of evening when Tom 
Walker reached the old fort, and he paused there 
awhile to rest himself. Any one but he would have 
felt unwilling to linger in this lonely, melancholy 
place, for the common people had a bad opinion of 
it, from the stories handed down from the time of 
the Indian wars ; when it was asserted that the sav¬ 
ages held incantations here, and made sacrifices to 
the evil spirit. 

Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troub¬ 
led with any fears of the kind. He reposed him¬ 
self for some time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, 
listening to the boding cry of the tree-toad, and 
delving with his walking-staff into a mound of black 
mould at his feet. 

Unconsciously turning up the soil, his staff struck 
against something hard. He raked it out of the 
vegetable mould, and lo ! a cloven skull, with an 
Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him. 
The rust on the weapon showed the time that had 
elapsed since this death-blow had been given. It 
was a dreary memento of the fierce struggle that had 
taken place in this last foothold of the Indian war¬ 
riors. 

“Humph!” s?rid Tom Walker, as he gave it a 
kick to shake the dirt from it. 

“ Let that skull alone ! ” said a gruff voice. 

Tom lifted up his eyes, and beheld a great black 
man seated directly opposite him, on the stump of a 
tree. He was exceedingly surprised, having neither 
heard nor seen any one approach ; and he was still 
more perplexed on observing, as well as the gather¬ 
ing gloom would permit, that the stranger was 
neither negro nor Indian. It is true he was dressed 
in a rude half Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash 
swathed round his body ; but his face was neither 
black nor copper-color, but swarthy and dingy, and 
begrimed with soot, as if he had been accustomed 
to toil among fires and forges. He had a shock of 
coarse black hair, that stood out from his head in 
all directions, and bore an axe on his shoulder. 

He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of 
great red eyes. 

“ What are you doing on my grounds ? ” said the 
black man, with a hoarse growling voice. 

“Your grounds?” said Tom, with a sneer, “no 
more your grounds than mine ; they belong to Dea¬ 
con Peabody.” 

“ Deacon Peabody be d-d,” said the stranger, 

“ as I flatter myself he will be, if he does not look 
more to his own sins and less to those of his neigh¬ 
bors. Look yonder, and see how Deacon Peabody 
is faring.” 

Tom looked in the direction that the stranger 
pointed, and beheld one of the great trees, fair and 






146 


Treasury of Tales. 


flourishing without, but rotten at the core, and saw 
that it had been nearly hewn through, so that the 
first high wind was likely to blow it down. On the 
bark of the tree was scored the name of Deacon 
Peabody, an eminent man, who had waxed wealthy 
by driving shrewd bargains with the Indians. 

He now looked around, and found most of the 
tall trees marked with the name of some great man 
of the colony, and all more or less scored by the 
axe. The qne on which he had been seated, and 
which had evidently just been hewn down, bore the 
name of Crowninshield ; and he recollected a mighty 
rich man of that name, who made a vulgar display 
of wealth, which it was whispered he had acquired 
by buccaneering. 

“ He’s just ready for burning ! ” said the black 
man, with a growl of triumph. “ You see I am likely 
to have a good stock of firewood for winter.” 

“ But what right have you,” said Tom, “to cut 
down Deacon Peabody’s timber ? ” 

“ The right of a prior claim,” said the other. 
“ This woodland belonged to me long before one 
of your white-faced race put foot upon the soil.” 

“ And pray, who are you, if I may be so bold ? ” 
said Tom. 

“ Oh, I go by various names. I am the wild hunts¬ 
man in some countries ; the black miner in ethers. 
In this neighborhood I am known by the name of 
the black woodsman. I am he to whom the red 
men consecrated this spot, and in honor of whom 
they now and then roasted a white man, by way of 
sweet-smelling sacrifice. Since the red men have 
been exterminated by you white savages, I amuse 
myself by presiding at the persecutions of Quakers 
and Anabaptists ; I am the great patron and prompt¬ 
er of slave-dealers, and the grand-master of the 
Salem witches.” 

“ The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake 
not,” said Tom, sturdily, “you are he commonly 
called Old Scratch.” 

“ The same, at your service ! ” replied the black, 
man, with a half-civil nod. 

11. 

Such was the opening of this interview, according 
to the old story ; though it has almost too familiar 
an air to be credited. One would think that to 
meet with such a singular personage, in this wild, 
lonely place, would have shaken any man’s nerves ; 
but Tom was a hard-minded fellow, not easily 
daunted, and he had lived so long with a termagant 
wife, that he did not even fear th$ Devil. 

It is said that after this commencement they had 
a long and earnest conversation together, as Tom 
returned homeward. The black man told him of 
great sums of money buried by Kidd the pirate, 
under the oak-trees on the high ridge, not far from 
the morass. All these were under his command, 
and protected by his power, so that none could find 
them but such as propitiated his favor. These he 


offered to place within Tom Walker’s reach, having 
conceived an especial kindness for him ; but they 
were to be had only on certain conditions. 

What these conditions were may be easily sur¬ 
mised, though Tom never disclosed them publicly. 
They must have been very hard, for he required 
time to think of them, and he was not a man to stick 
at trifles when money was in view. 

When they had reached the edge of the swamp, 
the stranger paused. 

“ What proof have I that all you have been tell¬ 
ing me is true ? ” said Tom. 

“ There’s my signature,” said the black man, 
pressing his finger on Tom’s forehead. So saying, 
he turned off among the thickets of the swamp, and 
seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, down, into 
the earth, until nothing but his head and shoulders 
could be seen, and so on, until he totally disap¬ 
peared. 

When Tom reached home, he found the black 
print of a finger burnt, as it were, into his forehead, 
which nothing could obliterate. 

The first news his wife had to tell him was the 
sudden death of Absalom Crowninshield, the rich 
buccaneer. It was announced in the papers with 
the usual flourish, that “ A great man had fallen in 
Israel.” 

Tom recollected the tree which his black friend 
had just hewn down, and which was ready for burn¬ 
ing. “ Let the freebooter roast,” said Tom, “ who 
cares ! ” He now felt convinced that all he had 
heard and seen was no illusion. 

He was not prone to let his wife into his confi¬ 
dence ; but as this was an uneasy secret, he willingly 
shared it with her. All her avarice was awakened 
at the mention of hidden gold, and she urged her 
husband to comply with the black man’s terms, and 
secure what would make them wealthy for life. How¬ 
ever Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself to 
the Devil, he was determined not to do so to oblige 
his wife ; so he flatly refused, out of the mere spirit 
of contradiction. Many and bitter were the quar¬ 
rels they had on the subject; but the more she 
talked, the more resolute was Tom not to be damned 
to please her. 

At length she determined to drive the bargain on 
her own account, and if she succeeded, to keep all 
the gain to herself. Being of the same fearless tem¬ 
per as her husband, she set off for the old Indian 
fort toward the close of a summer’s day. She was 
many hours absent. When she came back, she was 
reserved and sullen in her replies. She spoke some¬ 
thing of a black man, whom she had met about twi¬ 
light hewing at the root of a tall tree. He v. r as 
sulky, however, and would not come to terms : she 
was to go again with a propitiatory offering, but what 
it was she forbore to say. 

The next evening she set off again for the swamp, 
with her apron heavily laden. Tom waited and 
waited for her, but in vain ; midnight came, but she 






The Devil and Tom IValker. 


14 7 


did not make her appearance : morning, noon, night 
returned, but still she did not come. Tom now 
grew uneasy for her safety, especially as he found 
she had carried off in her apron the silver tea-pot 
and spoons, and every portable article of value. 
Another night elapsed, another morning came ; but 
no wife. In a word, she was never heard of more. 

What was her real fate nobody knows, in conse¬ 
quence of so many pretending to know. It is one 
of those facts which have become confounded by a 
variety of historians. Some asserted that she lost 
her way among the tangled mazes of the swamp, and 
sank into some pit or slough ; others, more unchar¬ 
itable, hinted that she had eloped with the household 
booty, and made off to some other province ; while 
others surmised that the tempter had decoyed her 
into a dismal quagmire, on the top of which her hat 
was found lying. In confirmation of this, it was said 
a great black man, with an axe on his shoulder, was 
seen late that very evening coming out of the swamp, 
carrying a bundle tied in a check apron, with an air 
of surly triumph. 

The most current and probable story, however, 
observes that Tom Walker grew so anxious about 
the fate of his wife and his property that he set out 
at length to seek them both at the Indian fort. 
During a long summer’s afternoon he searched about 
the gloomy place, but no wife was to be seen. He 
called her name repeatedly, but she was nowhere to 
be heard. The bittern alone responded to his voice, 
as it flew screaming by ; or the bull-frog croaked 
dolefully from a neighboring pool. 

At length, it is said, just in the*brown hour of 
twilight, <vhen the owls began to hoot, and the bats 
to flit about, his attention was attracted by the clamor 
of carrion crows hovering about a cypress-tree. He 
looked up, and beheld a bundle tied in a check 
apron, and hanging in the branches of the tree, with 
a great vulture perched hard by, as if keeping watch 
upon it. He leaped with joy ; for he recognized his 
wife’s apron, and supposed it to contain the house¬ 
hold valuables. 

“ Let us get hold of the property,” said he, con¬ 
solingly to himself, “ and we will endeavor to do 
without the woman.” 

As he scrambled up the tree, the vulture spread 
its wide wings, and sailed off screaming into the 
deep shadows of the forest. Tom seized the checked 
apron, but, woeful sight ! found nothing but a heart 
and liver tied up in it! 

Such, according to this most authentic old story, 
was all that was to be found of Tom’s wife. She 
had probably attempted to deal with the black man 
as she had been accustomed to deal with her hus¬ 
band ; but though a female scold is generally con¬ 
sidered a match for the devil, yet in this instance 
she appears to have had the worst of it. She must 
have died game, however ; for it is said Tom no¬ 
ticed many prints of cloven feet deeply stamped 
about the tree, and found handfuls of hair, that 


looked as if they had been plucked from the coarse 
black shock of the woodman. Tom knew his wife’s 
prowess by experience. He shrugged his shoulders, 
as he looked at the signs of a fierce clapper-clawing. 
“ Egad,” said he to himself, “ Old Scratch must have 
had a tough time of it ! ” 

Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property, 
with the loss of his wife, for he was a man of forti¬ 
tude. He even felt something like gratitude toward 
the black woodman, who, he considered, had done 
him a kindness. He sought, therefore, to cultivate 
a further acquaintance with him, but for some time 
without success ; the old black-legs played shy, for 
whatever people may think, he is not always to be 
had for calling for : he knows how to play his cards 
when pretty sure of his game. 

At length, it is said, when delay had whetted 
Tom’s eagerness to the quick, and prepared him to 
agree to anything rather than not gain the promised 
treasure, he met the black man one evening in his 
usual woodman’s dress, with his axe on his shoulder, 
sauntering along the swamp, and humming a tune. 
He affected to receive Tom’s advances with great 
indifference, made brief replies, and went on hum¬ 
ming his tune. 

By degrees, however, Tom brought him to busi¬ 
ness, and they began to haggle about the terms on 
which the former was to have the pirate’s treasure. 
There was one condition which need not be men¬ 
tioned, being generally understood in all cases where 
the devil grants favors ; but there were others about 
which, though of less importance, he was inflexibly 
obstinate. He insisted that the money found through 
his means should be employed in his service. He 
proposed, therefore, that Tom should employ it in 
the black traffic ; that is to say, that he should fit 
out a slave-ship. This, however, Tom resolutely 
refused : he was bad enough in all conscience ; but 
the devil himself could not tempt him to turn slave- 
trader. 

Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did 
not insist upon it, but proposed, instead, that he 
should turn usurer ; the devil being extremely anx¬ 
ious for the increase of usurers, looking upon them 
as his peculiar people. 

To this no objections were made, for it was just 
to Tom’s taste. 

“You shall open a broker’s shop in Boston next 
month,” said the black man. 

“ I’ll do it to-morrow, if you wish,” said Tom 
Walker. 

“ You shall lend money at two per cent, a month.” 

“ Egad, I’ll charge four ! ” replied Tom Walker. 

“ You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, 
drive the merchants to bankruptcy ”- 

“ I’ll drive them to the d-1,” cried Tom Walker. 

“ You are the usurer for my money ! ” said black¬ 
legs with delight. “ When will you want the rhino ?’* 

“ This very night.” 

“ Done ! ” said the devil. 







148 


Treasury of Tales. 


“Done!” said Tom Walker. — So they shook 
hands and struck a bargain. 

A few days’ time saw Tom Walker seated behind 
his desk in a counting-house in Boston. 

in. 

Tom’s reputation for a ready-moneyed man, who 
would lend money out for a good consideration, 
soon spread abroad. Everybody remembers the 
time of Governor Belcher, when money was partic¬ 
ularly scarce. It was a time of paper credit. The 
country had been deluged with government bills, 
the famous Land Bank had been established ; there 
had been a rage for speculating ; the people had 
run mad with schemes for new settlements ; for 
building cities in the wilderness ; land-jobbers went 
about with maps of grants, and townships, and El- 
dorados, lying nobody knew where, but which every¬ 
body was ready to purchase. In a word, the great 
speculating fever which breaks out every now and 
then in the country, had raged to an alarming de¬ 
gree, and everybody was dreaming of making sudden 
fortunes from nothing. As usual the fever had sub¬ 
sided ; the dream had gone off, and the imaginary 
fortunes with it; the patients were left in doleful 
plight, and the whole country resounded with the 
consequent cry of “hard times.” 

At this propitious time of public distress did Tom 
Walker set up as usurer in Boston. His door was 
soon thronged by customers. The needy and ad¬ 
venturous ; the gambling speculator ; the dreaming 
land-jobber ; the thriftless tradesman ; the merchant 
with cracked credit; in short, every one driven to 
raise money by desperate means and desperate sac¬ 
rifices, hurried to Tom Walker. 

Thus Tom was the universal friend of the needy, 
and acted like a “ friend in need ” ; that is to say, 
he always exacted good pay and good security. In 
proportion to the distress of the applicant was the 
hardness of his terms. He accumulated bonds and 
mortgages ; gradually squeezed his customers closer 
and closer : and sent them at length, dry as a sponge, 
from his door. 

In this way he made money hand over hand ; be¬ 
came a rich and mighty man, and exalted his cocked 
hat upon ’Change. He built himself, as usual, a 
vast house, out of ostentation ; but left the greater 
part of it unfinished and unfurnished, out of parsi¬ 
mony. He even set up a carriage in the fulness of 
his vainglory, though he nearly starved the horses 
which drew it; and as the ungreased wheels groaned 
and screeched on the axle-trees, you would have 
thought you heard the souls of the poor debtors he 
was squeezing. 

As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. 
Having secured the good things of this world, he 
began to feel anxious about those of the next. He 
thought with regret on the bargain he had made 
with his black friend, and set his wits to work to 
cheat him out of the conditions. He became, there¬ 


fore, all of a sudden, a violent church-goer. He 
prayed loudly and strenuously, as if heaven were to 
be taken by force of lungs. Indeed, one might 
always tell when he had sinned most during the 
week, by the clamor of his Sunday devotion. The 
quiet Christians who had been modestly and stead¬ 
fastly travelling Zionward, were struck with self- 
reproach at seeing themselves so suddenly out¬ 
stripped in their career by this new-made convert. 
Tom was as rigid in religious as in money matters ; 
he was a stern supervisor and censurer of his neigh¬ 
bors, and seemed to thjnk every sin entered up to 
their account became a credit on his own side of the 
page. He even talked of the expediency of reviv¬ 
ing the persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists. 
In a word, Tom’s zeal became as notorious as his 
riches. 

Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to 
forms, Tom had a lurking dread that the devil, after 
all, would have his due. That he might not be taken 
unawares, therefore, it is said he always carried a 
small Bible in his coat-pocket. He had also a great 
folio Bible on his counting-house desk, and would 
frequently be found reading it when people called 
on business ; on such occasions he would lay his 
green spectacles in the book, to mark the place, 
while he turned round to drive some usurious bar¬ 
gain. 

Some say that Tom grew a little crack-brained in 
his old days, and that, fancying his end approach¬ 
ing, he had his horse new shod, saddled and bridled, 
and buried with his feet uppermost; because he 
supposed that at the last day the world would be 
turned upside-down : in which case he should find 
his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was 
determined at the worst to give his old friend a run 
for it. This, however, is probably a mere old wives’ 
fable. If he really did take such a precaution, it 
was totally superfluous ; at least so says the authen¬ 
tic old legend ; which closes his story in the follow¬ 
ing manner. 

One hot summer afternoon in the dog-days, just 
as a terrible black thunder-gust was coming up, Tom 
sat in his counting-house, in his white linen cap and 
India silk morning-gown. He was on the point of 
foreclosing a mortgage, by which he would complete 
the ruin of an unlucky land-speculator for whom he 
had professed the greatest friendship. The poor 
land-jobber begged him to grant a few months’ in¬ 
dulgence. Tom had grown testy and irritated, and 
refused another day. 

“ My family will be ruined, and brought upon the 
parish,” said the land-jobber. 

“ Charity begins at home,” replied Tom ; “ I must 
take care of myself in these hard times.” 

“You have made so much money out of me,” said 
the speculator. 

Tom lost his patience and his piety. “ The devil 
take me,” said he, “ if I have made a farthing ! ” 

Just then there were three loud knocks at the 




La Rabbiata. 


149 


street-door. He stepped out to see who was there. 
A black man was holding a black horse, which 
neighed and stamped with impatience. 

“Tom, you’re come for,” said the black fellow, 
gruffly. Tom shrank back, but too late. He had left 
his little Bible at the bottom of his coat-pocket, and 
his big Bible on the desk buried under the mort¬ 
gage he was about to foreclose : never was sinner 
taken more unawares. 

The black man whisked him like a child into the 
saddle, gave the horse the lash, and away he gal¬ 
loped, with Tom on his back, in the midst of the 
thunder-storm. The clerks stuck their pens behind 
their ears, and stared after him from the windows. 
Away went Tom Walker, dashing down the streets ; 
his white cap bobbing up and down ; his morning- 
gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking 
fire out of the pavement at every bound. 

When the clerks turned to look for the black man, 
he had disappeared. 

Tom Walkej never returned to foreclose the mort¬ 
gage. A countryman, who lived on the border of 
the swamp, reported that in the height of the 
thunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of 
hoofs and a howling along the road, and running to 
the window caught sight of a figure, such as I have 
described, on a horse that galloped like mad across 
the fields, over the hills, and down into the black 
hemlock swamp toward the old Indian fort ; and 
that, shortly after, a thunder-bolt falling in that 
direction seemed to set the whole forest in a 
blaze. 

The good people of Boston shook their heads and 
shrugged their shoulders, but had been so much 
accustomed to witches and goblins, and tricks of the 
devil, in all kinds of shapes, from the first settlement 
of the colony, that they were not so much horror- 
struck as might have been expected. Trustees were 
appointed to take charge of Tom’s effects. There 
was nothing, however, to administer upon. On 
searching his coffers, all his bonds and mortgages 
were found reduced to cinders. In place of gold 
and silver, his iron chest was filled with chips 
and shavings ; two skeletons lay in his stable in¬ 
stead of his half starved horses, and the very next 
day his great house took fire and was burnt to the 
ground. 

Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill- 
gotten wealth. Let all griping money-brokers lay 
this story to heart. The truth of it is not to be 
doubted. The very hole under the oak-trees, whence 
he dug Kidd’s money, is to be seen to this day ; and 
the neighboring swamp and old Indian fort are 
often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on horse¬ 
back, in morning-gown and white cap, which is 
doubtless the troubled spirit of the usurer. In fact, 
the story has resolved itself into a proverb, and is 
the origin of that popular saying, so prevalent 
throughout New England, of “ The Devil and Tom 
Walker.” 


LA RABBIATA.* 

BY PAUL HEYSE. 

PART I. 

T HE sun had not yet risen. Over Vesuvius lay 
a thick gray sheet of mist, which stretched 
away toward Naples, and obscured the little 
towns along the coast. The sea was calm. The 
harbor was built in a narrow bay under the high and 
rocky Sorrentine coast, and here the fishermen and 
their wives were already moving about and pulling 
to shore the boats and nets which had been lying 
out all night. Others prepared the barks, trimmed 
the sails, and got out the oars and masts from the 
vaults, which were built deep into the rock, and in 
which the tackle was kept at night. Not an idler was 
to be seen—even those who were too old to go out 
in the boats helped to pull in the nets ; and here 
and there on one of the flat roofs stood an old wo¬ 
man, turning her spindle, or busy looking after her 
grandchildren. 

“ Do you see, Rachela, there is our padre curato ?” 
said an old woman to a little creature ten years old 
standing near her, and busy with her spindle. “ He 
is just getting into the boat; Antonino is to row him 
over to Capri. Maria Santissima ! how sleepy the 
reverend gentleman looks ! ” 

And so saying she waved her hand to a pleasant- 
looking little priest who has just settled himself in 
the boat, after having first carefully spread his black 
cloak over the wooden bench. Others on the shore 
paused in their work to watch the padre go off as he 
nodded and bowed from side to side. 

“ Shall we have fine weather, my son ?” asked 
the little priest, glancing doubtfully away toward 
Naples. 

“ The sun has not yet shone out,” answered the 
lad ; “ he’ll soon drive away that bit of fog.” 

“ Then pull away, so we may get there before the 
heat.” 

Antonino was just taking the long oar to push out 
into the open sea, when he suddenly stopped, and 
looked up toward the steep path which led down 
from the little town of Sorrento to the harbor be¬ 
neath. Above, a slight girlish figure was visible, 
hurrying down over the stones, and waving a hand¬ 
kerchief. She carried a little bundle under her arm 
and her appearance was poor enough. Nevertheless 
she had a lofty way of carrying her head, and the 
plaits of hair which were coiled over her forehead 
seemed to crown her like a diadem. 

“What are we waiting for ?” asked the padre. 

“ Somebody is coming who wants to go to Capri 
too. By your leave, padre, we shan’t go the slower, 
for it’s only a young girl of scarcely eighteen 
years.” 

At this moment the girl appeared from behind the 
wall which hid the winding-path. 

* La Rabbiata {Italian), the stubborn or obstinate girl. 







150 Treasury 

“ Laurella,” said the padre ; “what has she got to 
do at Capri ?” 

Antonino shrugged his shoulders; the girl hurried 
forward, her eyes cast down. 

“ Good morning, la Rabbiata,” cried some of the 
young men who were standing round. They would 
have said more if the presence of the padre had not 
held them in restraint, for the cool way in which the 
girl received their salutation seemed to make them 
more insolent. 

“Good morning, Laurella,” said the padre ; “how 
art thou ? Art thou going to Capri ?” 

“ With your leave, padre. Ask Antonino ; he is 
the master of the boat. Every one is master of his 
own property; and God ruler over us all. There is 
a half carline,” said Laurella, without looking at the 
young boatman, “ if I can go for that.” 

“You can use it better than I,” muttered the lad, 
pushing away some baskets of oranges, so as to make 
room for her. 

“I will not go for nothing,” answered the girl, 
bending her black eyebrows. 

“ Come now, child,” said the padre, “ he is a good 
lad, and does not wish to enrich himself from thy 
poverty. There now, get in”—and he gave her his 
hand—“ and sit down by me. Why, he has spread 
out his jacket for thee to sit on—he did not do as 
much for me. But young people are always so ; for 
the smallest bit of womanhood, people care more than 
for ten holy fathers. Now, no excuses, Tonino ; it 
is as our God has made it.” Meanwhile, Laurella had 
got in, and sat down, after having first care¬ 
fully pushed away the jacket. Tonino let it lie, but 
muttered something between his teeth ; then he 
pulled hard against the current, and the little boat 
flew out into the gulf. 

“What hast thou in thy bundle?” asked the padre, 
as they sped away over the sea, which was just lit up 
by the first rays of the sun. 

“ Silk, cotton, and bread, padre. The silk is for 
a woman at Capri who makes ribbons, and the cot¬ 
ton for some one else.” 

“ Hast thou spun it thyself ?” 

“Yes, padre.” 

“ If I remember rightly, thou canst also make 
ribbons ?” 

“Yes, sir ; but my mother is worse again, so that 
I cannot leave home, and we cannot pay for a loom 
for ourselves.” 

“ Worse, is she ? Dear me ! When I was with you 
at Easter she was sitting up.” 

“ Spring is always the worst time for her ; since 
the great storms and the earthquakes she has had 
so much pain that she has been obliged to lie 
down.” 

“ Do not leave off praying, my child, and asking the 
Holy Virgin to make intercession for thee. When 
thou earnest down to the shore, they called thee ‘ la 
Rabbiata.’ Why so? It is not a nice name for a 
Christian, who ought to be meek and humble ” 


of Tales. 

The dark face of the girl glowed all over, and her 
eyes sparkled. 

“ They mock me, because I don’t dance and sing 
and chatter like the others ; they ought to let me 
alone ; I don’t meddle with them.” 

“ Thou mightest, however, be pleasant to every 
one ; others whose life is easier may dance and sing, 
but even one who is sad can have a pleasant word 
for all.” 

She cast down her eyes, and drew her eyebrows 
closer over them. They went on a little while in 
silence. 

“ Has nothing more been heard of that artist, Lau¬ 
rella, that Neapolitan who wished to have thee for a 
wife ?” asked the padre. 

She shook her head. 

“ He came to take thy portrait—why didst thou 
not let him ?” 

“ What did he want with it ? There are others 
more beautiful than I—and then—who knows what 
he would have done with it ; he might have be¬ 
witched me with it, mother said, and hurt my soul, 
or even killed me.” 

“ Think not such sinful things,” said the padre, 
seriously. “Art thou not always in God’s hand, 
without whose will not a hair of thy head can perish ? 
and dost thou suppose that a man with a portrait in 
his possession is stronger than the great God ? 
Besides, thou couldst see that he only meant kindly 
toward thee ; would he have wished to marry thee 
otherwise ?” 

She was silent. 

“ And why didst thou refuse him ? They said he 
was a good man, and would have supported thee and 
thy mother better than thou canst do with thy little 
bit of spinning and silk-winding.” 

“ We are poor people,” said she, passionately, 
“ and my mother has been ill a long while ; we 
should only have been a burden to him. I could 
never pass for a signora, and when his friends came 
to see him, he would have been ashamed of me.” 

“ How thou talkest ! I tell thee, child, that he was 
a good gentleman ; besides he was going to settle at 
Sorrento ; there will not soon again be such another 
sent straight from heaven to help thee.” 

“ I don’t want a husband ; never ! ” said she, quite 
determinedly, and as if to herself. 

“ Hast thou taken an oath, or wilt thou turn nun ? ” 

She shook her head. 

“ They are right who call thee obstinate, though 
such a name is not kind ; dost thou not consider that 
thou art not alone in the world, and by this stub¬ 
bornness thou makest the life and the sufferings of 
thy poor mother only more bitter : what sufficient 
reason is there to refuse every honest hand which 
would support thee and thy mother ; answer me, 
Laurella ? ” 

“ There is a reason,” said she, gently and hesitat¬ 
ingly, “but I cannot tell it.” 

“ Not tell it—not even to me—not to thy father- 







La Rabbiata. 


confessor ? At another time thou wouldst have no 
difficulty in telling me ; is it not so ? ” 

She nodded. 

‘“Then relieve thy heart, child. If thou art in the 
right, I will be the first to allow it ; but thou art 
young, and knowest nothing of the world, and some 
day thou mightest repent that for a childish fancy 
thou shouldst have thrown away thy happiness.” 

She cast a rapid, timid glance at the lad who sat 
at the end of the boat, rowing busily, with his 
woollen cap pulled down over his brow. He was 
looking sidelong at the water, and seemed to be lost 
in his own thoughts. The padre observed her glance, 
and bent his ear nearer. “You did not know my 
father ? ” whispered she, and her eyes became fierce. 

“Thy father? Why, I think he died when thou 
wast scarcely ten. What has thy father, who may 
be in Paradise, to do with thy obstinacy?” 

“ You did not know him, padre ; you do not know 
that he is entirely to blame for my mother’s illness.” 

“How so?” 

“Because he ill-used her, and beat her and kicked 
her. I still remember the nights when he came 
home in a rage. She never said a word, and did 
everything that he wished ; but he, he beat her till 
my heart was ready to break. I used to pull the 
bed-clothes over my head, and pretend to sleep, but 
in reality I cried the whole night. And when he saw 
her lying on the floor, then suddenly he would 
change, and drag her up, and kiss her till she 
screamed out that he would stifle her. Mother for¬ 
bade me ever to say a word about it, but it wore her 
out, so that now all these long years since he died 
she has never got well, and if she should die soon, 
which God forbid, I know well who killed her.” 

The little.priest shook his head, and seemed un¬ 
willingly to acknowledge his penitent in the right. 
At last he said, “ Forgive him, as thy mother has ; 
fix not thy thoughts on such sad pictures, Laurella ; 
better times will come, and make thee forget it all.” 

“ Never shall I forget that,” said she, shuddering, 
“ and therefore I shall remain single in order to be 
subject to no one who will first ill-treat me, and then 
fondle me ; if any one should beat me or kiss me now, 
I should know how to defend myself, but my mother 
could not defend herself from either blows or kisses 
because she loved him ; and I will not be made ill 
or wretched by any one because I love him.” 

“ Thou art a child, and talkest like one that knows 
nothing of what goes on in the world. Are all men 
like thy poor father, that they give way to every tem¬ 
per and passion, and ill-treat their wives ? Hast 
thou not seen plenty of good people in the neighbor¬ 
hood, and wives who live in peace and unity with 
their husbands ? ” 

“ Nobody knew how my father treated my mother, 
for she would a thousand times rather have died 
than have complained of it to any one, and all be* 
cause she loved him. If love seals one’s lips when 
one ought to cry for help, and makes one defenceless 


151 

against wrong such as one would not endure from 
one’s worst enemies, then will I never give my heart 
to a man.” 

“I tell thee thou art a child, and knowest not 
what thou sayest ; when the time is come, the ques¬ 
tion whether thou lovest or not will often arise in 
thy heart, and then all these resolutions will be for¬ 
gotten.” 

Again a pause, after which the padre began again : 

“ And that artist, didst thou make up thy mind 
that he would use thee ill ? ” 

“ He used to look as I have seen my father look 
when he asked pardon of my mother, and wanted to 
take her in his arms to make peace with her again. 
I know that look; it made me shudder to see it.” 

After this she kept a persevering silence. The 
padre was silent also. The young boatman had grown 
uneasy toward the end of the confession, and this 
checked him. After rowing for two hours, they ar¬ 
rived in the little harbor of Capri. Antonino carried 
the padre out of the boat over the little rippling 
waves, and carefully set him down. Laurella, how¬ 
ever, would not wait till he waded back for her ; 
she gathered her little skirt together, and with her 
wooden shoes in her right hand, and the bundle in 
her left, she nimbly splashed through the water. 

“ I dare say I shall be at Capri a long time to¬ 
day,” said the padre, “ and thou needst not wait for 
me ; perhaps I shall not return till to-morrow ; and, 
Laurella, when thou readiest home, remember me 
to thy mother ; I shall come and see you this week. 
Thou wilt go home before night ?” 

“ If I have an opportunity,” said the girl, and pre¬ 
tended to be busy with her dress. 

“ I must go back, too,” said Antonino, trying to 
speak in an indifferent tone. “ I shall wait for you 
till the Ave Maria ; if you don’t come then, I will go 
my own way.” 

“ Thou must go, Laurella,” broke in the little 
padre ; “ thou canst not leave thy mother alone at 
night. Art thou going far ?” 

“To Anacapri—to a vineyard.” 

“ And I must go toward Capri; God protect thee, 
child, and thou too, my son.” 

Laurella kissed her hand, and a farewell escaped 
her, which the padre and Antonino might both 
appropriate. Antonino, however, did not claim any 
of it ; he pulled off his cap to the padre, without 
even looking at Laurella. When both, however, had 
turned their backs upon him, he let his eyes wander 
after the holy father for an instant as he wearily 
plodded through the deep shingle, and then fixed 
them upon the girl, who had turned to the right to 
go up the hill, holding her hand over her eyes to 
shield them from the burning sun. 

Before the path disappeared, sjie paused a mo¬ 
ment as if for breath, and looked back. The shore 
lay at her feet, with the sea lovely in its intense 
blue ; above her towered the lofty cliffs—it was in¬ 
deed a view worth looking at. It so happened that 






* 5 2 


Treasury of Tales. 


in glancing toward Tonino’s boat she met his eyes ; 
she made a gesture of impatience, and continued 
her way with a sullen expression on her face. 

It was not long past noon, and already Antonino 
had been sitting for two hours on a bench before 
the tavern. He must have had something on his 
mind, for he was constantly getting up and walking 
into the sun, and looking hard at the paths which 
led right and left to the two little island towns. 

He then said to the hostess that he was afraid of 
the weather : it might remain fine, but he well knew 
that color of the sea and of the water ; it had looked 
just like that before the great storm when he had 
had so much trouble to get the English family safe 
to shore. 

“ How have you fared at Sorrento,” said the 
hostess ; “ better than we did here in Capri ? ” 

“ I could not have afforded macaroni if I had 
had only the boat to depend upon ; now and then 
taking a letter to Naples, or taking out a signor to 
fish, that was all ; but you know that my uncle has 
great orange-gardens, and is a rich man ; ‘Tonino,’ 
said he, ‘ so long as I live you shall not want, and 
when I die, you’ll find yourself provided for ; ’ so 
with God’s help, I have got through the winter.” 

“Has he children, your uncle?” 

“No, he was never married, and was long away 
from home ; during that time he made a great deal 
of money, and now he’s going to set up a great fish¬ 
ery, and will put me at the head of it.” 

“ Then you are a made man, Antonino.” 

The young sailor shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Every one must bear his own burden,” said he, 
and then he jumped up and looked again right and 
left after the weather, though he must have known 
that there is but one weather side. 

“ Let me bring you another bottle ; your uncle can 
pay for it,” said the hostess. 

“ Only one more glass,” said he, “ for you have a 
fiery kind of wine here—my head is quite hot al¬ 
ready..” 

“ It does not go into the blood,” said the woman ; 
“ you can drink as much as you like ; there, my 
husband is just coming, you must stay and talk with 
him a little.” 

And the stately padrone of the tavern appeared, 
coming down from the mountain, his net upon his 
shoulder, and his red cap on his bushy head. 
His wife had just brought a second bottle of Capri 
wine, when footsteps were heard crunching on 
the hard sand to the left, and Laurella made her 
appearance on the road from Anacapri. She gave a 
slight nod, and then stood still. Antonino jumped 
up. 

“ I must go,” said he ; “ it is a girl from Sorrento, 
who came across early to-day with the priest, and 
wants to get back to her sick mother before night.” 

Well, well, there is plenty of time before night,” 
said the fisherman ; “ she will have time to drink a 
glass of wine. Here, wife, bring another glass.” 


“Thank you, I won’t drink,” said Laurella, with¬ 
out moving. 

“ Pour out, wife,” said the man ; “ pour out, she 
must drink.” 

“Leave her alone,” said the lad; “she has a 
strong will ; what she does not wish, not even a saint 
could persuade her to do and with that he took a 
hurried leave, ran down to the boat, loosened the 
rope, and stood waiting for the girl. 

PART IX. 

Laurella nodded once more to the hostess of the 
tavern, and then sauntered slowly toward the boat. 

She first looked round, as if she expected other 
passengers to appear. On the shore, however, there 
was not a human being ; the fishermen were either 
asleep or out at sea with their lines and nets. At 
the doors sat a few women and children asleep or 
spinning, and the strangers who had come over in 
the morning were waiting for the cool of the day to 
return. 

Laurella did not look back very long, for before 
she knew what he was doing, Antonino had taken 
her in his arms, and carried her like a child to the 
boat. Then he sprang in after her, and with a few 
strokes of the oars they were on the open sea. She 
had seated herself at the fore-part of the boat, with 
her back half turned toward him, so that he could 
only see her profile. Her features were graver than 
usual, there was an obstinate expression round the 
delicate nostril, over the low brow the hair fell 
thickly, and the full lips were tightly closed. 

After they had gone on a little while in silence 
the sun began to scorch her, so she took the cloth in 
which the bread was wrapped and threw it over her 
head. Then she began to make her dinner of the 
bread, for she had tasted nothing at Capri. Anto¬ 
nino took out one of the orange baskets, and hand¬ 
ing two oranges to her, said : 

“ There is something to eat with your bread, 
Laurella. Don’t think that I kept them for you ; 
they rolled out of the basket into the boat, and I found 
them when I put the empty baskets back again.” 

“ You eat them,” said Laurella ; “ the bread is 
enough for me.” 

“ They are refreshing in the heat,” said he, “ and 
you have been a long way.” 

“ They gave me a glass of water up on the moun¬ 
tain,” said she ; “ that has refreshed me already.” 

“ As you like,” said he, and let them drop back 
into the basket. 

Renewed silence. The sea was smooth as a 
mirror, and hardly rippled round the boat; the white 
sea-birds that built in the caves on the shore pursued 
their prey without their usual cry. 

“You might take the two oranges to your mother,” 
began Antonino again. 

“We have some at home,” said she, “and when 
they are gone, I shall buy fresh ones.” 

“ Oh. take them to her for me.” 





La Rabbiata. 


i 53 


“ She does not know you,” said she. 

“You might tell her who I am,” persisted he. 

“ / don’t know you either,” said she. 

It was not the first time that she had so ignored 
him ; a year before, when the painter had just come 
to Sorrento, it happened on a Saturday that Antonino 
was playing “ Boccia,” with other young fellows 
of the place in the square near the principal street. 
There the artist first met Laurella, who passed along 
without seeing him, with a pitcher of water on her 
head. 

The Neapolitan, struck with her appearance, stood 
and gazed after her, though he was standing in the 
very middle of the space chosen for the game. A ball 
which hit him roughly on the ankle soon reminded 
him that this was not the place for such meditations. 
He looked round as if he expected an apology ; but 
the young boatman who had thrown the ball stood 
silent and defiant in the midst of his friends, so that 
the stranger found it advisable to avoid an alterca¬ 
tion, and walk away. Yet the incident had been 
talked about more than once when the artist openly 
courted Laurella. 

“ I don’t know him,” she said, hesitatingly, when 
the painter asked her whether she refused him for 
that rude lad. 

They sat in the boat, like the bitterest enemies, and 
yet the hearts of both were beating wildly. The good- 
tempered face of Antonino was violently flushed ; 
he struck into the water so that the spray splashed 
over him, and his lips trembled as if with angry 
words. She pretended not to notice him, but putting 
on her most careless look, leant over the edge of 
the boat, and let the water run rippling through her 
fingers. Only her eyebrows still quivered, and it 
was in vain that she held her wet hands against her 
burning cheeks to cool them. Now they were in the 
middle of the sea. Far and near not a sail was to be 
seen ; the island had disappeared, and the coast lay 
far away bathed in sunshine. Not even a sea-gull 
broke the solitude. 

Antonino looked round ; a thought seemed to rise 
within him. The flush suddenly died from his cheek, 
and he let the oars fall. Involuntarily, Laurella 
turned to look at him, startled, but fearless. 

“ I must put an end to this,” broke forth Afitonino ; 
“ it has lasted too long already, and I only wonder 
that it has not made an end of me. You don’t know 
me, you say ? Have you not observed long enough 
how I have passed you as if senseless, because all 
the while my heart was bursting to speak to you ? 
and you—you gave me only scornful looks, and 
turned your back upon me ? ” 

“ What had I fo say to you ? ” said she, shortly. “ I 
saw quite well what you were after ; I was not just 
going to give myself to the first person who cared 
for me ; for as a husband, I don’t like you ; neither 
you nor anybody else.” 

“Nor anybody? You won’t always say that, 
because you have sent off the painter. Bah ! you 


were only a child then ; some day you will feel 
dull, and then, proud as you are, you will take the 
first you can get. No one knows his future.” 

“ Possibly I may change my mind some day; 
what does it matter to you ? ” 

“ What matters it to me ?” he broke forth, 
springing from the bench so that the boat all but 
upset—“ what matters it to me ? and you can 
ask such a question when you see the state I am in ? 
I only know that I’d rather die than allow myself to 
be so treated ! ” 

“ Have I ever engaged myself to you ?” said she. 
“ Can I help it if your head is turned ? What power 
have you over me ? ” 

“ Ah ! true enough,” said he ; “ it’s certainly not 
written down, nor has any lawyer put it into Latin, 
and sealed it ; but this I know, that I have as much 
right to you as to go to heaven if I am an honest 
fellow. Do you fancy that I will stand by and see 
you go to church with another man, while all the 
girls pass by and shrug their shoulders ? Am I to 
be insulted like that?” 

“Do as you like,” said she; “I shan’t be afraid, 
however much you threaten. Besides, I shall do 
what I like ! ” 

“ You will not say so long,” said he, trembling 
from head to foot. “ I am man enough not to let 
my whole life be blighted by such a piece of inso¬ 
lence. Do you know that you are here in my power^ 
and must do what I like ? ” 

It was now her turn to tremble, but she turned her 
flashing eyes upon him. 

“ Kill me, if you dare,” said she, slowly. 

“ One must not do anything by halves,” and his 
voice grew softer : “ there is room enough for us 
both in the sea ; I can’t help you, child,” and he 
spoke in a dreamy, almost tender tone. “But we 
must go down, both of us, and at the same time, and 
now ! ” he shouted, suddenly seizing her with 
both arms. But in an instant he drew back, his 
right hand covered with blood, for she had bitten 
deep into it. 

“ Must I do what you like ? ” screamed she, as she 
pushed him from her. “ Let us see if I am in your 
power.” And with that she sprang over the edge of 
the boat into the water, and for an instant disap¬ 
peared. She rose again, however, directly. Her 
little skirt was clinging tightly to her, her hair was 
unloosed by the waves, and streamed about her 
neck : she made no sound, but swam with all her 
might toward the shore. 

Antonino stood in the boat leaning forward, his 
gaze fixed upon her, as if a miracle was being 
wrought before his eyes. At last he roused himself, 
seized the oars, and with all the strength he could 
muster, pulled after her, the blood dripping from his 
hand into the bottom of the boat. In an instant 
he was by her side, quickly as she swam. 

“ By the Holy Virgin,” he shouted, “ come into 
the boat. I was mad, God knows : what was the 








1 54 


Treasury 

matter with me ? It was like a flash of lightning ; I 
did not know what I said or did. Forgive me, Lau- 
rella; hazard not your life: come back into the boat !” 

She swam on as if she heard nothing. 

“You cannot swim to land,” said he, “it is two 
miles away. Think of your mother : if anything 
were to happen to you, she would die of grief.” 

She measured the distance from the shore with 
her eye, then without a word she swam to the boat, 
and grasped the side. He stood up to help her, 
and as he did so his jacket, which was lying on the 
bench, slipped into the sea as the boat keeled over 
to one side by the weight of the girl. 

Dexterously she lifted herself into the boat, and 
took her former seat. 

When he saw her safe he took up his oars again. 

Meanwhile Laurella wrung out her skirt and 
squeezed the water from her hair. As she did this 
she saw the blood in the bottom of the boat. She 
cast a quick glance at his hand, with which he plied 
the oar as if there was nothing the matter with 
it. 

“ There ! ” said she, and handed him her handker¬ 
chief. He shook his head, and rowed on. 

At last she went up to him, and bound the hand¬ 
kerchief tightly round the deep wound. Then she 
took the oar from him, though he tried to hinder 
her, and seated herself opposite him, not looking at 
him, but steadily at the oar, stained with his blood, 
and with which she rowed on swiftly and steadily. 

They were both pale and silent. As they drew 
nearer to land they met several fishermen, who were 
going to lay their nets for the night. They called 
out to Antonino, and teased Laurella, but neither 
looked up nor answered a word. The sun was still 
pretty high over Procida when they reached the 
port. Laurella shook her skirt, which was now dry, 
and sprang ashore. The old spinning-woman who 
had seen them start in the morning, again stood on 
the roof. 

“What’s the matter with your hand, Tonino?” 
she called down. “ Blessed Jesus ! the boat is cov¬ 
ered with blood.” 

“ It’s nothing, commare,” answered he. “ I tore 
myself on a nail ; to-morrow it will be all right. 
The confounded blood is always so ready to run 
that it looks more dangerous than it is.” 

“ I will come and put on herbs for you,” said the 
old woman ; “stop, I am coming now.” 

“ Don’t trouble yourself ; it’s done, and to-morrow 
it will be all right and forgotten ; my skin is sound, 
and heals quickly.” 

“ Addio,” said Laurella, and turned toward the 
path which led up the mountain. 

“ Good night,” called the lad after her, without 
looking at her. 

Then he carried the things out of the boat, and 
climbed up the little stone stairs to his house. 

* * * There was nobody in the two rooms in 


of Tales. 

which Antonino now paced backward and forward. 
Through the wooden shutters of the little windows 
came a fresli breeze, which he had not felt on the 
sea, and the coolness and the solitude did him good. 
He stood for a long time before the picture of the 
Madonna, and looked devoutly at the little silver 
paper glory which was stuck over it; but to pray 
did not occur to him. For what should he ask, 
when he had no longer anything to hope for ? The 
day seemed to him to stand still ; he longed for the 
night, for he was weary and exhausted with loss of 
blood. 

As Antonino’s hand began to pain him violently 
he seated himself on a stool, and undid the bandage. 
The blood now burst forth again, and he found that 
his hand was much swelled round the wound. He 
washed it carefullv, and cooled it for a long time. 
When he looked at it again, he distinctly saw the mark 
of Laurella's teeth. 

“ She was right,” said he ; “I was a brute, and 
deserved nothing better. I will send her back her 
handkerchief to-morrow by Giuseppe, for she shall 
not see me again.” Then he carefully washed the 
handkerchief, and spread it out to dry, after he had 
again bound up his hand as well as he could. Then 
he threw himself on the bed and closed his eyes. 
The moon shining into the room, together with the 
pain in his hand, awoke him out of a half-slumber. 
He was just getting up to bathe it again, when he 
heard a rustling at the door. 

“ Who’s there ? ” he cried. He opened the door, 
and Laurella stood before him. 

Without a word she entered. She threw off the 
handkerchief from her head, and placed a little 
basket on the table. Then she drew a long breath. 

“ You came to fetch your handkerchief,” said he ; 
“you might have spared yourself the trouble, for 
I meant to ask Giuseppe to take it to you in the 
morning.” 

“ It’s not the handkerchief,” she answered quickly : 

“ I have been on the mountain to get herbs for you, 
to stop the bleeding. There,” said she, taking the 
lid off the basket. 

“You give yourself too much trouble,” said he ; 

“ it’s already much better, and if it were worse, it 
would only be what I deserve. But you should not 
be here at this time ; if some one were to meet you, 
you know how they gossip, though they don’t know 
what they talk about.” 

“I don’t care about anybody,” said she, passion¬ 
ately ; “ I must see your hand, and put the herbs on 
it : you cannot manage it yourself.” 

“ I tell you it is unnecessary,” said he. 

“ At least let me see for myself ; ” and without 
another word she seized the hand, and untied it. 

“ fesu Maria /” cried she, with a shudder. 

“ It has swelled a little,” said he, “ but the swell¬ 
ing will soon go down.” 

She shook her head. “ In that state you won’t be 
able to go in the boat for a week.” 






Major Wagstaff's IVig . 


1 55 


“ The day after to-morrow, I think,” said he 
•quietly ; “ besides, what does it matter ? ” 

Meanwhile she had fetched a basin, and again 
washed the wound, he standing and permitting it like 
a child. Then she put her herbs on it, which at once 
relieved the burning, and bound up the hand with 
strips of linen from her basket. 

When it was done, he said, “ Thank you. And 
now listen : if you would do me another favor, for¬ 
give me for the madness which got the better of me, 
and forget all that I ever said or did. I don’t know 
how it was, you never gave me any occasion for it— 
that I am sure of—and you shall never again hear 
anything from me to wound you.” 

“ It is I who must ask your pardon,” she broke 
in ; “I ought to have put everything differently, 
and more pleasantly to you, instead of irritating 
you by my stubborness ; and then, besides— the 
wound ! ” 

“ It was self-defence,” he exclaimed. “ It was high 
time that I should be brought to my senses. Now 
go away to bed, and there—there is your handker¬ 
chief, which you can take with you.” 

He handed it to her, but she remained standing, 
as if struggling with herself. At last she said, “ I 
made you lose your jacket too, and all the money 
for the oranges. It all came to me afterward. I 
cannot give you another, because I have no money, 
and if I had it would belong to my mother. But 
here is the silver cross which the painter gave me the 
last time he came. Since then I have not looked at 
it, and I don’t like keeping it any longer in the box. 
It is worth a few piastres, my mother said, and if you 
sold it, your lo'ss would be partly recompensed, and 
the rest I will try to earn by spinning at night.” 

“ I won’t take anything,” said he, brusquely, push¬ 
ing away the bright little cross which she had taken 
out of her pocket. 

“ You tnust take it,” said she ; “ it may be a long 
time before you can earn anything with that hand. 
There it lies, and I will never set eyes on it again.” 

“Then throw it into the sea,” said he. 

“ It is not a present that I make to you, it is no 
more than your right.” 

“ Right ? I have no right to anything of yours,” 
said he. “ If you should ever meet me again,'’do me 
the favor not to look at me, so as not to remind me 
of what I owe you. And now good night—let this 
be all.” He put the cloth and the cross into the 
basket, and shut down the lid. 

When he looked up and saw her face he was terri¬ 
fied : great tears were streaming down her cheeks, 
without her making an effort to stop them. 

“ Maria Santissima ! ” cried he, “ are you ill ? why, 
you are trembling all over.” 

“ It’s nothing,” said she ; “ I am going home,” and 
she staggered to the door. 

Here she could no longer control her tears, and 
leaning her head against the side of the door, she 
burst into loud and passionate sobs, but before he 


could reach her to detain her she had suddenly turned 
and thrown herself on his neck. 

“ I cannot bear it,” she sobbed, clinging to him. 
“ I cannot listen when you say kind words to me, 
and let me go away from you, with all the blame on 
my conscience. Beat me, kick me, curse me—or if 
you still love me after all, there, take me and keep 
me, and do what you like with me—only do not send 
me away from you.” 

He held her for a moment sobbing in his arms. 

“ If I still love you ! ” he cried, at last. “ Holy 
Mother of God ! do you believe that all the blood in 
my heart has been drawn out by that little wound ? 
Do you not feel it beating as if it must burst my 
breast to get to you ? If you only say so to tempt me, 
or because you pity me, go, and I will forget it all.” 

“ No,” said she firmly, looking up from his shoul¬ 
der, and fixing her streaming eyes passionately on 
his face, “ I love you, and—nay, why should I hide 
it from you—I have long feared and struggled 
against that love. Now I will be different, for 
I cannot bear to look at you when I meet you. 
Now I will kiss you,” said she, “so that if you were 
ever again to feel doubtful, you might say to your¬ 
self, she has kissed me, and Laurella would not kiss 
any but him she has chosen for her husband.” 

She kissed him three times, and then tore herself 
away, saying, “Good night, dearest ! go to rest and 
cure your hand, and don’t come with me, for I am 
not afraid—not of anybody but you.” 

With that she glided through the door and disap¬ 
peared in the dark shadow of the wall. Long after 
he remained at the window gazing out over the dark 
sea, above which the stars seemed to float! 

* * * The next time the little padre curato 

emerged from the confessional, where Laurella had 
been kneeling a long while, he laughed gently to 
himself. 

“Who would have thought,” said he to himself, “that 
God would so soon take pity on that wayward girl ? 
and I blamed myself that I had not attacked that 
demon of obstinacy more strongly ! But our eyes 
are shortsighted for the ways of heaven. Well, the 
Lord be praised, and grant that I may live to be 
rowed over the sea by Laurella’s boy ! ” 


MAJOR WAGSTAFF’S WIG. 

S OME twenty years ago there dwelt, in the 
straggling little High Street of the quaint old 
cathedral town of Thorpestone, an old bache¬ 
lor, by name William Newton, Here, under the 
shadow of the gray cathedral cloisters, he lived in a 
comfortable old house, with its stained glass oriel 
window looking out into the street in front, and be¬ 
hind it a quaint, old-fashioned garden, whose well- 
trimmed lawn sloped gently down to the banks of 
the river Thorpe. 







156 


Treasury of Tales. 


In this pleasant home the worthy gentleman con¬ 
tentedly spent his days, watching his apricots ripen 
in the summer sun, reading his books in his snug and 
well-stocked library, and entertaining his more inti¬ 
mate friends with simple hospitality ; and being of 
kindly disposition, of unaffected piety, and given to 
all good works, he was respected by all, and much 
beloved by a few devoted friends ; but of all his rel¬ 
atives and friends none had so deep-rooted a place 
in the old man’s heart as his nephew, Harry, the 
son of his only brother, who was long since dead. 

Harry Newton, thanks to the liberality of his 
uncle, had lately purchased a partnership in the 
oldest firm of solicitors in Thorpestone, and was 
doing remarkably well ; he loved his uncle with the 
devotion of a son, and no pleasanter sight could be 
seen than uncle and nephew walking, arm-in-arm, of 
a summer’s evening down the well-trimmed walks of 
the little garden. 

Three years before the commencement of my 
story there came to live in Thorpestone a half-pay 
officer, named Major Wagstaff ; and, as it happened, 
he took up his quarters in the comfortable house of 
Mrs. Robinson, Harry Newton’s landlady (for Mr. 
Newton was far two sensible a man to make his 
nephew live in a dull house with an old bachelor). 
Harry Newton soon got to know his fellow lodger, 
and ere long introduced him to his worthy uncle, 
when, to the surprise of all Thorpestone, and to no¬ 
body more than Harry himself, the strangest friend¬ 
ship sprang up between the two old gentlemen. Mr. 
Newton, like many men who have lived all their lives 
in retirement, enjoyed hearing tales and wonders of 
lands he had never seen. And Major Wagstaff 
would talk about his varied experiences as long as 
he could get anybody to listen to him. 

Now, Major Wagstaff, having come with good in¬ 
troductions, was soon asked to all the best houses in 
Thorpestone, and, enjoying society, was a regular 
attendant at all the Thorpestone gayeties. But he 
did not rest contented with that, he determined that 
his friend, Mr. Newton, should enjoy them too ; and 
what with perpetual bothering him and working upon 
his friend’s naturally passive nature, he overcame 
the habits and scruples of the old bachelor, and one 
fine summer day he succeeded in inducing him to 
go to a grand garden party, given by the Dean. 
Imagine Harry Newton’s surprise when, on entering 
the Dean’s garden, he saw his uncle, clad in a frock 
coat of antique build, and a hat that, from its ap¬ 
pearance, could not have seen light for the last 
twenty years, handing tea and ices to the dowagers 
of Thorpestone. 

The Dean’s garden party was but the thin end of 
the wedge. The old man’s simple vanity was grati¬ 
fied by the congratulations he received on all sides 
on his unexpected reappearance in society, and soon 
he was as constant an habitiif of the Thorpestone 
gayeties as the little Major himself. There wasn’t a 
dance, a drum, rout, tea-fight or garden party in 


Thorpestone that wasn’t graced by the presence of 
the two old gentlemen. And truly a strange con¬ 
trast they made: Mr. Newton, tall and slight, with 
scanty locks and high forehead, quietly dressed, and 
with a simple old-fashioned courtesy that savored of 
a by-gone age ; the Major, on the other hand, pom¬ 
pous in manner, short and stout in appearance, and 
with a red face, adorned by a very black moustache 
and whiskers, and surmounted by a plentiful supply 
of silky hair of the darkest hue. 

Ill-natured people in Thorpestone used to point 
to the Major’s name in the tell-tale Army List, and 
make very ill-natured remarks regarding the Major’s 
ebon locks ; but then, you see, in a small cathedral 
town, unless the canon’s youngest daughter is kind 
enough to run away with the junior verger, or the 
preceptor and the organist have the consideration to 
quarrel in the cathedral aisle, topics for conversation 
—at least such conversation as Thorpestone loved— 
are apt to grow scarce, and as you must have some 
subjects to talk about during the long winter evenings, 
the Major’s hair did quite as well as any other. 

In the meantime, Harry Newton viewed the strange 
friendship with feelings of doubt and suspicion. 
He liked the old Major well enough as a dinner 
companion, but, knowing the simplicity and gener¬ 
osity of his uncle, he objected strongly to the influ¬ 
ence and ascendancy the Major was gradually as¬ 
suming over him ; besides which, Harry saw plainly 
enough that when they dined together it was invari¬ 
able at his uncle’s house, when they drove to a party 
it was his uncle who paid the cabman, if they ar¬ 
ranged to go to a concert the Major would be 
graciously pleased to allow Mr. Newton to pay for 
both tickets, and so on ; and Harry determined if 
ever he should have an opportunity of breaking up 
this very one-sided friendship, he would not hesitate 
to use it. 

A year or so after the Dean’s garden party 
Thorpestone was in a state of flutter, owing to the 
arrival of a widow, who had taken a pretty house on 
the banks of the Thorpe. All they knew was that 
her name was Mrs. Lomax, that she was the widow 
of a London stockbroker, and that she was coming 
to Thorpestone. 

Popular excitement was at its height as the widow 
appeared in the cathedral the first Sunday after her 
arrival ; and, as regards her personal appearance, 
the male portion, at least, of Thorpestone was per¬ 
fectly satisfied, for she was a plump, lively looking 
woman of forty-five or so, and dressed in perfect 
taste. She furnished her house prettily, and waited 
for the neighbors to call on her. 

Nor did she wait long ; in a month or so she had the 
honor of receiving a visit from no less a personage 
than the wife of the Dean, and, let me tell you, in the 
good town of Thorpestone, to be called upon by the 
Mrs. and Misses Dean was to be at once stamped 
with the hall-mark of respectability. The rest of the 
town followed, and Mrs. Lomax, being fond of so- 




Major Wagstaff' s Wig. 


i57 


-cie y and having plenty of money, soon made the 
house the most popular in the town. Her Thursday 
receptions were invariably crowded, and among 
those who never failed to attend were Mr. Newton 
and Major Wagstaff. Both found the widow 
charming, both soon began to have dim thoughts that, 
after all, bachelorhood was but a cheerless way of 
passing through the sear and yellow leaf, and each 
began to sound the other on the subject as they walk¬ 
ed away together from the pretty little house on the 
river bank. 

But very soon the day arrived when they did not 
walk together to and from the widow’s house, but 
when, on the contrary, each went stealthily by him¬ 
self, not on the reception day at all, but when Mrs. 
Lomax was most likely to be alone ; and as each 
walked up to the hall door he trusted in his heart 
that the other would not be there. Mrs. Lomax soon 
saw how matters stood, and, being fond of fun, played 
her admirers off, the one against the other, with all 
the skill of a finished coquette. 

The friendship between them had already begun 
to cool, and when the Major found Mr. Newton on 
Christmas day, 18—, having a tete-a-tete with the wid¬ 
ow, over a cup of five o’clock tea, he smothered a re¬ 
mark scarcely suited to the sacred character of the 
day, and strode back to his own house with rage 
and mortification in his heart. That evening Harry 
came to eat his Christmas turkey as usual with his 
uncle. He noticed that the latter was unusually pre¬ 
occupied, and being a pretty shrewd fellow he knew 
very well the cause. He had observed the cleft be¬ 
tween the two men gradually widening, with feelings 
of intense pleasure, for he would have gladly seen 
his uncle married to the jolly widow, and thus have 
somebody to look after him in his old age ; “and,” 
thought Harry, “ I don’t mind much what happens 
as long as the Major gets his congJ” so, as he sat 
at dessert with Mr. Newton he skilfully led the 
conversation up to the matter, and finding him in a 
sympathetic—if despondent—mood, soon managed 
to extract the whole truth. 

“Come, uncle,” said Harry, “the whole matter 
resolves itself into this—both you and the Major 
are sweet on Mrs. Lomax, and you are afraid' he’ll 
cut you out. Eh ? ” 

“Well, Harry,” said the uncle, “you put things a 
little plainly, you know, still I’m bound to confess 
you’re not far wrong. But Harry, dear boy, re¬ 
member,” he continued, “ even if I was fortunate 
enough to marry Mrs. Lomax, I shouldn’t allow it 
to interfere with your future prospects, and what¬ 
ever money I intended-” 

“Now, uncle,” interrupted Harry, “please stop 
talking like that ; you’ve been more than a father 
to me ever since I was a little child, and if you were 
never to give me another sixpence from to-day, you 
would already have done far more for me than I 
could ever hope to repay ; so please don’t let any¬ 
thing of that sort enter into your mind. I’m in a 


good business, healthy, strong, and love my profes¬ 
sion—what more does a young man want ? and if 
there is one thing left to make me happier, it would 
be to see you married to some nice lady, like our 
friend, Mrs. Lomax ! By-the-by, uncle, I suppose 
you’re going to her dance on New Year’s Day?” 

“ Yes, of course,” said the old gentleman, with a 
blush. 

“ And the Major too ? ” asked Harry. 

“ Oh ! indeed yes,” he replied, dolefully : “ he’s 
going to open the dance with her : she asked me to, 
but I refused, for you know I can’t dance, and 
I’m afraid I’m a little too old to learn now.” 

Harry went on sipping his port and pondering 
deeply ; suddenly his eye twinkled, and he looked 
up and said, 

“ I suppose, uncle, if anything were to stop the 
Major going in for the widow you would try your¬ 
self—straightaway, I mean.” 

“ I—er think I—er might try,” replied the uncle. 

“ Done with you,” cried Harry. “ Now mind, 
uncle, if anything stops the Major I shall expect 
you to have a shot yourself.” 

And very soon he said good-night, and returned 
to his lodgings. On arriving there he went straight 
up to the Major’s room, and found that worthy 
smoking a cheroot over a novel. 

“ Look here, Major,” said Harry, “you’re going to 
Mrs. Lomax’s dance, aren’t you ? ” 

“Yes ! ” replied the Major, “why?” 

“ Oh ! I am going too, and I thought if you would 
care to dine downstairs with me at seven, we could 
have a quiet smoke after dinner and go together.” 

“Very well,” said the Major ; “but as I have to 
open the ball with Mrs. Lomax at nine, I should 
like the cab not later than a quarter to nine.” 

Harry Newton, as he started to the office on 
New Year’s Day, called his landlady and told her 
Major Wagstaff would dine with him at quarter-past 
seven ; and as he left the room, he opened the clock 
glass and put the hands back a quarter-of-an-hour. 
In the evening the Major arrived at seven, in full 
evening costume ; Harry looked for a moment at his 
hair with deep anxiety and then gave a sigh of relief. 

“ Come before your time, Major; it wants a 
quarter-of-an-hour yet to dinner.” 

The Major looked at the clock, and replied, “ So 
it seems by your clock, but I make the hour by my 
watch. Are you quite sure you’re right ?” 

“ Oh perfectly ! ” said Newton ; “ but, never mind, 
dinner will soon be up,” and in a quarter-of-an-hour 
it appeared. It was a nice little bachelors’ dinner, 
and the Major evidently enjoyed it. As soon as it 
was over, Harry drew the chairs to the fire and asked 
the Major to have a cigar. The Major hesitated, 
thought of dancing with the widow in a smoke-per 
fumed coat; but when Harry suggested a certain 
brand of “ Henry Clays ” the Major specially loved, 
the latter gave way. Harry went to the side-board 
and fetched out a box, which, alas, was empty. 







158 


Treasury of Tales. 


“Oh,” said he, “its odd, there’s not one left. 
Just excuse me one moment, Major, I have my case 
full up-stairs on my dressing-table.” 

It took at least five minutes for Harry to find that 
cigar case, and he seemed to be very red and excited 
from the search. Each lit a cigar and smoked on ; 
as the hands of Newton’s clock pointed to half-past 
eight a cab drove up to the door, and there was a 
ring at the front-door bell. ^ 

“By Jove!” said Newton, looking at his watch, 
“ that’s our cab ; and, what’s more, Major, you’re 
right, my clock is a quarter-of-an-hour slow ; it’s a 
quarter to nine now.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” cried the Major, “we shall be 
late ; I must run up to my room for a moment.” 

The Major darted upstairs, while Harry stood at 
the foot in the passage with fixed lips and beating 
heart. Suddenly he heard the Major yell out, 
“Hang it, Newton, I can’t find my matches; for 
goodness’ sake bring me a box.” 

Harry waited a moment, and then ran up to the 
Major’s room and said, 

“Bad luck to it, Major, I can’t find one in the 
place, and I haven’t time to get you a candle ; but 
you’re all right, Major, and unless you’re ^harp 
you’ll be awfully late—good gracious ! there goes 
the hour chiming ! ” 

The Major rushed downstairs, breathlessly seized 
a hat, and dashed into the cab—Harry giving vent 
to a chuckle as they passed a gas-lamp in the hall. 
In five minutes they arrived at the widow’s house. 
As the door opened the footman looked at the 
Major and began to grin from ear to ear ; but Harry, 
who walked behind, soon stopped the flunkey’s mirth 
by putting his finger to his lips and displaying a half- 
sovereign. The result of this manoeuvre was magi¬ 
cal ; and, having told the Major to go up first, the 
latter was conducted with becoming gravity to the 
drawing-room, where Mrs. Lomax was anxiously 
waiting for him to open the dance. 

“ Major Wagstaff ! ” cries the footman. 

“ How d’ye do, my dear madam,” began the little 
Major, with his politest bow ; “ allow me to wish you 
a happy New Year.” He saw, however, to his aston¬ 
ishment, the happy face of the widow grow broader, 
and an irrepressible smile wreathing round her lips 
as she replied : 

“ Oh, Major Wagstaff, how—er funny—er—you 
are.” 

“ Funny, madam ! I really fail to see any fun in 
my remark ; I can assure you it came from the bot¬ 
tom of my heart.” 

Hereupon the widow, burst into a fit of uncon¬ 
trollable laughter, followed in this by everybody 
in the room. 

“ Good heavens ! madam, what is the cause of 
this ill-timed mirth,” cried the indignant Major. 

“Your funny” {sob) “hair” {sob), shrieked the 
widow. 


The Major, happening at that moment to catch a 
glimpse of himself in a pier-glass close at hand, saw 
to his horror that the locks that hitherto had been 
as black as the raven’s wing were now as fiery as the 
rising sun. Yes, notwithstanding the fact that the 
hair on his face was jet-black, that on his head was 
glowing red—red ! no, I say carrots ! With a terri¬ 
ble imprecation he rushed from the house and re¬ 
turned to his lodgings ; and, dreading the universal 
chaff that would for the future await him on all 
sides, and knowing his reputation as a lady-killer 
gone forever, he left Thorpestone the next morning. 

As he flew downstairs there was one person, how¬ 
ever, who gave an inward chuckle of satisfaction, 
and that was Master Harry, who had waited on the 
landing ensconced behind a curtain, and there saw 
what almost unexpected success had attended his 
cunningly devised plot. For Harry Newton had 
often observed that when he and the Major dined 
together before going to a dance or concert, no mat¬ 
ter how carefully the Major might have been dressed 
for dinner, he always made a point of running 
upstairs for a few minutes just before starting, and 
coming downstairs with his hair unusually black, 
glossy and well brushed. From which phenomenon 
Harry easily concluded that the very last piece of 
the Major’s toilet was to change his ordinary wig 
for the one he used on special occasions. 

So as soon as they arranged to dine together, 
Harry betook himself to the coiffeur he knew Major 
Wagstaff patronized, and after a little pecuniary 
transaction had passed between them, he found out 
that not only was the barber accustomed to re-dress 
the Major’s wig, but that he actually had one of 
them in his hands undergoing repair. So by dint of 
bribery and persuasion Harry induced him to make 
a wig the exact fac-simile of the one then in his 
hands, only fiery red instead of black. Having de¬ 
layed dinner, and having ordered the cabman to 
come five minutes too soon ; when dinner was con¬ 
cluded, under the specious excuse of finding his 
cigar-case, he went to the Major’s bed-room, and 
there, to his delight, on the dressing-table lay a 
glossy well-combed wig. Harry substituted the red 
one, took away the matches from both the Major’s 
room and his own, and when the cab came and the 
Major found himself late, what between the darkness 
and the bustle he fell easily into the cleverly con¬ 
ceived trap ; and never discovered his mistake till 
he saw his carrotty pate in Mrs. Lomax’s pier- 
glass. 

The widow soon recovered her equanimity and the 
dance went off capitally. A few days later old Mr. 
Newton, seeing his only rival disposed of, proposed 
to the widow and was accepted. They are now the 
happiest couple in Thorpeshire ; and if ever they 
happen to be in a fit of the dumps or blues, they 
have only to think of Major Wagstaff and his wig, 
and a hearty laugh is the immediate result ! 








Something to be Thankful for. 


! 59 



SOMETHING TO BE THANKFUL FOR. 

BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 

A LONELY little house on a spur of the hill, so 
that there was valley all about it except where 
the mountain rose behind it, was the dwell¬ 
ing of Miss Mowbray and Miss Betty Mowbray. 

Some way beneath it lay the village with its spire ; 
but Miss Mowbray and Miss Betty were dependent 
on the village only on Sundays, when they enjoyed 
the one excitement and dissipation of their lives, 
induing the raiment that had been their best for 
thirty years and over, and sallying down the hill to 
“ meeting ” in all the state they could command ; so 
eagerly, indeed, that long before the bell tolled they 
were to be seen prancing up and down the garden 
path, wheeling at the first stroke of the church-bell 
and off and away. 

But Tildy Tillingust, their friend, counsellor, 
tyrant, and general maid-at-arms, was dependent 
on the village for a great deal, for about all the 
variety and liveliness in her life in fact, always com¬ 
ing home from her gossip there, wild with interest 
on Monday to tell a story which she was equally 
wild with interest to contradict on Tuesday. And, 
moreover, Job Ransom lived in the village, and 
when you had said that, to Tildy Tillingust’s mind 
you had said everything. 

To be sure, Job was only the doctor’s man, keep¬ 
ing his garden in order and waiting on old Boreas, 
the horse ; but he was clad, to the eyes of the young 
woman who adored him, with a nimbus that sepa¬ 
rated him from all other men, and even made him 
superior to the doctor, since the doctor was a poor 
creature of many wants which he was unable to 
gratify himself, but must needs have Job to gratify 
them. 

Tildy Tillingust felt herself to stand in the same 
superior relation to Miss Mowbray and Miss Betty, 
—helpless old women who could not take care of 
themselves, and might have gone to dust and ashes 
but for the tender mercies of Tildy Tillingust, who 
took all the care of them that was to be taken, and 
allowed them to pay her a dollar a week, more to 
save their feelings than to fill her purse. 

It used to be said, indeed, that the care which 


Tildy Tillingust took was according to her own 
ideas, and not according to Gunther ; but the vil¬ 
lagers seemed to think everything was condoned 
when adding to this expression of opinion the for¬ 
mula that Tildy meant it all right. They knew that 
if she put forward the clock on a winter’s afternoon, 
and gave the old ladies their tea at half past four, 
and saw them safely in bed and was off to the village 
at six, it was so that she might be home all the 
earlier and up betimes for the morrow’s washing, or 
because going to meeting twice a day had tired them 
out and they were so wedded to routine that they 
would not take their needed rest an hour before the 
set time if they dropped, unless the kind deceit were 
practised ; and so, taking one thing and another, 
if Tildy Tillingust’s administration were not all it 
should be, it was generally conceded that the old 
ladies would not have thriven so well under an ad¬ 
ministration that was all it should be. We all of us 
need a little tyranny ; and perhaps Tildy Tillingust’s 
was a sort of tonic that the old ladies found bene¬ 
ficial. Tildy Tillingust herself thought that, far 
from being severe with her mistresses, she was more 
indulgent than was good for old ladies. 

For instance, Tildy often said she did not approve 
of so much church-going ; she thought it conduced 
to melancholy, always holding up one’s latter end 
before one ; but she took as much pleasure as if she 
had been dressing dolls in doing what she called 
“ ragging them out ” for church, which expression, 
as regards their clothing, was more grievously near 
truth than poetry. 

She. herself had ceased going to church for a sin¬ 
gular reason, or want of reason. She had been a 
little wild some ten years or so before the especial 
season of which I speak, when she was scarcely 
more than a child—a wildness that had no absolute 
viciousness about it, but which at the time gave her 
so questionable a repute that when, during a revival, 
she experienced some of the general emotion and ap¬ 
plied for admission to the church, it was considered 
by the ruling elders that her admission was likely to 
be of less advantage to Tildy than of disadvantage 
to the church, on which it might cast discredit. It 
was something of a dilemma for poor Parson Keene ; 
but he solved it easily by telling her that just now 
the church was full, but that he would let her know 


Copyright, 1883. 





















































i6o 


Treasury of Tales. 


as soon as there was a vacancy. And then supposing 
it was all a temporary ebullition on Tildy’s part, not 
hearing from her again in relation to it, he dismissed 
it from his mind. 

Tildy Tillingust, however, had gone away perfectly 
satisfied, and had taken service in the kitchen of the 
innocent old Misses Mowbray, who never believed 
any harm of anybody because they did not know 
what harm was ; and there she waited, as decorously 
as was possible to her, till she should be informed 
of the vacancy which poor old Parson Keene had for¬ 
gotten all about. She felt herself on the threshold 
of the church, and quite as good as those that were 
within, since it was only as a matter of time that they 
had been before her; and she held herself up to the 
duty-mark by having the “wash ” out before break¬ 
fast every Monday, and sprinkled and half ironed 
before bedtime ; by turning loose a perfect whirlwind 
in the house every Tuesday as she swept it from gar¬ 
ret to cellar ; by washing all the windows inside and 
out on Wednesday, and so continuing till the unde¬ 
layed week’s work came around again to Monday. 

When Parson Keene should send her notice of that 
vacancy, she would be on hand, but till he did, 
through some subtle and wholly inexplicable process 
of thought, she did not feel herself called upon to go 
to meeting as church members werl called upon, 
and found enough to do Sundays, anyway, in having 
dinner for the old ladies on their return, and in re¬ 
ceiving the Sunday call of Job Ransom, who always 
helped her shell the peas, or pick over the beans, or 
make kindlings, on that forenoon. 

Job, also, had his own reasons for not attending 
meeting, which made the mornings with Tildy Til¬ 
lingust a comfort to him. During the same season 
of revival that had affected Tildy, his father and his 
brother and himself had felt the common impulse, 
and had expressed the same wish that Tildy had ex¬ 
pressed. There was a special meeting held to rejoice 
over the conversion, with that of several others, and 
Parson Keene, far too well acquainted with human 
nature not to know that, although we sometimes 
like to call ourselves sinners, we never like to have 
other people call us so, but whose articulation was 
not particularly distinct, unsuspiciously gave out 
his hymn ; and coming to the line : 

“ Welcome, ye ransomed sinners, home,” 
saw to his consternation old Mr. Ransom seize his 
hat, throw open the pew door, beckon to his boys, 
and stride out of the church, fully under a new 
conviction now, which was a conviction that Parson 
Keene had pointed the finger of scorn at the Ran¬ 
som sinners. 

Naturally enough, Job did not go to church, and 
did go to see Tildy Tillingust. And Tildy, although 
she sometimes wondered why Job contented himself 
week after week and year after year with just coming 
to see her, doing odd turns for her, and looking at 
her askance in pauses of whittling or conversation, 
felt nevertheless not exactly as she did about the 


church—that is, that she was to wait for a vacancy 
in Job’s affections, but that there was an under¬ 
standing between them which, if it did not amount 
to an engagement of marriage, was of the same na¬ 
ture, and depended in some way for its denouement on 
first this mysterious contingency and then that. 

For one day she had persuaded herself that Job 
was bashful, and if it ever came to anything she was 
the one who would have to put the previous ques¬ 
tion ; and presently she had forgotten that, and held 
to the theory that Job thought it proper to wait till 
she should hear from Parson Keene ; or again quite 
an opposite notion possessed her, one that Job had 
a hostility to the church and hesitated to unite him¬ 
self with one who only awaited the first vacancy in 
order to become a church member ; and on another 
day, without any conscious meddling of mind with 
matter—with this matter, at any rate—she was as 
sure as she had been of all the rest, that Job did 
not like to speak till the doctor raised his wages. 
Again, she would have reason to believe that Job 
suspected an intention on the part of the Misses Mow¬ 
bray of deeding their property to Tildy and him¬ 
self on condition of being taken care of for the rest 
of their lives, and that he waited prudently for the 
fact ; and then again she would be plunged in 
despair on hearing that he had taken Susan Lowe to 
singing meeting, sure now that he had never meant 
anything any way, and going about with a tear on 
the end of her nose, which constituted all the re¬ 
semblance there was between herself and the flower 
called the crown-imperial. But when on Sunday Job 
putin his weekly appearance, Tildy’s face broke into 
smiles again, and with no more reason for that than 
for any of the others, she recurred to her first im¬ 
pression that she and Job belonged to each other, 
and, when their positions warranted, they would 
probably marry, and till then there was no use in 
saying anything about it. 

It must be admitted now that Tildy’s duty-mark 
on Mondays made the poor old ladies, whom she 
took care of, lose two good hours of their morning 
sleep', as she rattled and banged about with doors 
and tubs and stove and boiler, after putting her head 
into their room to see if there were any uncollected 
contributions to the “ wash,” and occasionally rous¬ 
ing them summarily by taking a sheet off their bed, 
having forgotten to remove it the day before. 

It is also to be admitted that in letting loose the 
Tuesday’s sweeping whirlwind through the whole 
house at once, as she did, the two victims were often 
obliged to go out and sit in the porch for the liberty 
of breathing, where they invariably took a cold, so 
that there was always an influenza or a neuralgic 
pain on hand ; or else they choked and stifled with 
the dust and coughed all the rest cf the day. 

And if they did not catch cold, by any interposi¬ 
tion of Providence, on Tuesday, by going out on the 
porch, they were sure to do it on Wednesday, when 
the windows were washed and, being set wide open. 






Something to be Thankful for. 


161 


allowed all manner of draughts to career like evil 
spirits from room to room. 

And if they had had any loophole of escape from 
the draughts, that danger renewed itself Thursday, 
when Tildy Tillingust roasted the coffee and baked 
the gingerbread and made a pandowdy, and was 
sure to burn one or the other of them so thoroughly 
as to fill the house with smoke and an insufferable 
odor of sweet cinders, which occasioned another 
opening of windows and careering of draughts. 

Nor was Friday without its special uses in the 
catalogue of admissions, for on that day the burnt 
things were always to be eaten up, which Tildy in¬ 
sisted on because she could not have anything 
wasted, and if she, who had a right to good board 
as part of her wages, and well earned too, could eat 
burned crusts, certainly the owners of them could, 
and besides, they sweetened the breath; while 
Saturday was always a day of perils, as then Tildy 
scrubbed the bare floors of the kitchen and shed and 
porch, and the oil-cloth of the entry, and did it, not 
foot by foot, but altogether and all over, with slop¬ 
ping pails of water that were so long in being mopped 
up thoroughly and in drying afterwards that the 
chronic state of slipperiness made it impossible to 
take a step for some hours without danger of break¬ 
ing a limb, and the old ladies fell into the involun¬ 
tary habit of sitting on Saturday with their feet up 
in a chair in a sort of parlor pillory. 

But although all this account of her administra¬ 
tion is to be admitted, it is equally to be admitted 
that, as the villagers said, “Tildy Tillingust meant 
it well/’ and poor Miss Mowbray and Miss Betty 
would very possibly have been lonesome and un¬ 
happy under a more quiet regime, and have missed 
Tildy with her spotlessness and her boisterousness. 

Occasionally, too, Tildy treated them to a sur¬ 
prise ; she went up on the mountain early in the 
morning, and gathered wild strawberries, and there 
was a delicious strawberry short-cake for dinner,— 
sometimes it was delicious, that is, and when it was 
sodden and doughy, who would say anything about 
that, seeing that she meant it so well ? 

Often, too, without their asking her, she gave 
them hot tea-cakes ; they might have wished she 
had not made so many of them, since they had to 
eat them all the rest of the week when they were 
certainly cold and possibly “ heavy,” but if they said 
anything about that they might not get them at all. 

Once in a while, moreover, she took one of their 
old bonnets apart and sponged and pressed and put 
it together again ; if it did not look quite right, if 
she got the back part on the front, it came round 
again all right next time when she was sure to get 
the front part on the back. 

One thing about her, however, was not to be im¬ 
proved. She made a little go a great way, and their 
small purchases of a pound at a time were eked out 
to the last item ; it frequently appeared as if she got 
up a dinner out of nothing : to-day, a bit of boiled 


pork and some “pusly” greens or dandelions from 
the roadside ; to-morrow, a scrap of peppered salt 
fish and toast ; and nobody knew how good crusts 
stewed in milk with a dish of fried apples were, un¬ 
less Tildy fried the apples after she had picked them 
on the wild trees up the mountain. 

On the whole, the poor old ladies thought they 
were in luck, and used to speak of their kind, capa¬ 
ble Tildy Tillingust with particular protective 
warmth whenever Parson Keene or any of the dig¬ 
nitaries of the church were within hearing. It never 
did Tildy any good, their speaking so ; for you 
might as well tear up Mount Athos by the roots as 
a prejudice ; and instead of believing any more in 
Tildy, the good folks believed just a little less in the 
Misses Mowbray. 

Poor as the Misses Mowbray were they yet contrived 
to give a little in charity, or thought they did ; and 
every Thanksgiving they sent two of their yearly six 
mince pies to somebody yet poorer. They never 
knew that Tildy Tillingust only half filled those two 
pies, and did not take the plum pudding to the poor- 
farm at all. She was very careful to give an elabo¬ 
rate message of thanks, all the same, and quite as if 
she had sent it, and the gentle ladies felt that they 
had contributed their item to the happiness of the 
season, and Tildy Tillingust felt that she had saved 
both their feelings and what was very necessary to 
their own subsistence, and no harm done. 

Poor Tildy Tillingust ! I am not sure she would 
have known a lie had you pointed it out to her ; her 
duty-mark was simply care of the old ladies, and this 
was her idea of care of them. 

The cold came on early one Thanksgiving time. 
“ It is so comfortable to have a good fire,” said Miss 
Mowbray, as the hearth sparkled while they sipped 
their tea ; for Job had spent his last Sunday morn¬ 
ing bringing down from the mountain a load of un¬ 
owned dead-wood and old boughs that would make 
many a bright winter fire. “ How I wish we could 
put just such a fire on every poor man’s hearth ! ” 

“You’d better !” said Tildy, who felt that she was 
keeping her place sufficiently by never offering to 
take a seat at table, and always standing behind 
Miss Mowbray’s chair, and, that duty done, never 
scrupling to join in the conversation. “ When Job 
went up into the woods and lugged that down spe¬ 
cially for you ! You’d hurt Job’s feelings awful if you 
went to sending wheelbarrows of that light stuff 
down to the Walbones. There always is a lot of 
shif’less critters in every place. I s’pose the Lord 
has uses for ’em ;—but if they want firewood,” she 
added without much consecutiveness, “ they can 
borry a sled, and go up the mountain jest’s well ’s 
Job. I’ll tell you what I’ll do ! ” she continued, 
eagerly, as if she were heart and soul with them in a 
work of charity. “ I’ll go down to-night when I carry 
the pudd’n’ and tell ’em where to get it.” 

“ That’s a good girl, Tildy ! ” said Miss Mowbray, 
“ You always are so thoughtful.” 




162 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ And it’s quite as if we sent it,” said Miss 
Betty. 

“You had better go early, too, Tildy,” said Miss 
Mowbray. 

“For you see it’s coming on to snow,” said Miss 
Betty. 

It was coming on to snow, and early dark ; and. 
tea was hurried up and the old ladies’ heads were on 
their pillows in all haste, and Tildy, with a pair of 
men’s socks over her shoes—which socks, by the 
way, she had knit herself, in order to make folks 
wonder where she got them—was on her way to the 
village with the key in her pocket. 

Up in that hill-country, when the early snow came 
it sometimes fell with an astonishing density and 
swiftness and softness ; and hushed all night by the 
gentle fall, Miss Mowbray and Miss Betty slept 
soundly, and only woke when the late day broke 
through the storm, if it could be called a storm, to 
find no smell of smoke, no aroma of coffee in the 
house, no rattle of Tildy’s movements, no sound of 
life, in fact. Hastily getting on some clothes, Miss 
Mowbray hurried down, only to find no fire on any 
hearth, no soul in any room,—no Tildy. 

“ What has become of her ? ” she cried to Miss 
Betty. “ Do you suppose she set out to come home, 
and is buried in the snow ? ” 

“No, indeed,” was the reply, “Tildy Tillingustis 
nobody’s fool. She staid all night, and she’ll be up 
to-day.” 

“Up to-day, my dear ! Just look out! There 
isn’t a sign of a road ;—the snow is I don’t know 
how many feet on a level.” 

“ Never mind. Tildy ’ll be here, if she has to fly. 
I have faith to believe she could fly, if she was 
put to it.” 

But the day wore on, and Tildy did no flying ; 
and the poor old ladies were half distraught. They 
contrived to get a fire after great effort, and some¬ 
thing to eat, and then sat and watched the fine scud 
fly, for the wind had begun to blow, and the drifts 
were banking everywhere as far as one could see 
through the thick air. 

“It is impossible to get into the cow-shed,” said Miss 
Mowbray, opening the back door, and trying in vain 
to shut it for the drift that fell in. “ The snow is 
up to one’s waist, and I don’t know what will happen 
to the cow. She’ll starve, or die of thirst, or have a 
fever for want of milking.” 

“ Now, dear, don’t fret,” said Miss Betty. “We 
shall be taken care of, and so will the cow. Just 
have faith to believe it, and it will all come right.” 

“ I do have faith,” said Miss Mowbray, stirring 
the fire, and stooping to put on the last stick. “ I 
always have had faith. But if there’s no wood left 
in the house, and we can’t get out to get any, and 
we can’t get the door to anyway, faith won’t hinder 
us from freezing to death. Oh, Betty, Betty ! there 
goes my purse ! And all the money we shall have 
till the end of the year is in it. Quick ! quick ! ” 


And her old hands would have been among the 
burning coals if Miss Betty had not caught them ere 
they quite touched the flames, and before the strug¬ 
gle ended and the tongs could be used, the wallet 
and its little store of bills had curled to a crisp and 
changed to a burning coal. 

“Talk to me of faith!” cried Miss Mowbray, 
with the tears raining through her thin old hands. 

“Well, I do,” said Miss Betty, sweeping away as 
energetically as she could at the drift, and at last 
victoriously closing the door. “ It’s the very time 
to have it. Not some time when there’s no crying 
need of it. Now the best thing for us to do is to 
cook up a little something while this fire lasts.” 

“ There isn’t anything to cook,” said Miss Mow¬ 
bray. “ Tildy Tillingust was to buy some oatmeal 
and crackers and sugar and chops, and bring them 
up with her ; and there’s nothing but mince-pies and 
molasses in the house ! ” 

“Well, then, we must live on mince-pies and mo¬ 
lasses.” 

“ But we never touch the pies till Thanksgiving ! ” 

“ And that will be to-morrow. How you do bor¬ 
row trouble, dear. We’ve always been taken care of.” 

“ By Tildy. And now Tildy’s not here.” 

And then there was a pause, while they still hov¬ 
ered over the coals. 

“Well,” said Miss Mowbray, at last, “ all that I 
can see for us to do is to go to bed and starve there. 
Nobody ’ll ever come to dig out two poor old 
women from this drift. And we might as well starve 
there as anywhere, for we haven’t fifty cents to buy 
a bushel of potatoes with till next January ! ” 

And go to bed they did. And being in bed, they 
went to sleep, and after getting up in their wrappers 
to prowl round the house two or three times, and 
finding neither burglar, nor clearing weather, nor 
Tildy, nor anything, they returned to their pillows 
and the kindly oblivion forced by fatigue and 
worry, and broken many hours after only by the 
sound of the eight-day clock striking nine. 

“ It can’t be nine last night, and it can’t be nine 
to-morrow night, and so it must be nine this morn¬ 
ing,” said Miss Betty, with some incoherence. 
“ When did we ever sleep till nine in the morning 
before ? It is Thanksgiving Day, and I wish you a 
cheerful Thanksgiving, sister.” 

“ Thanksgiving ! ” said Miss Mowbray, with as 
much bitterness as so gentle a creature could gather. 
“ What in the world have we to be thankful for, 
with the snow above the doors, and no fire, and no 
food, and all alone, and Tildy gone—Oh, where do 
you suppose Tildy Tillingust is?” 

“ She’s safe, undoubtedly. If you only had a 
little faith,” said Miss Betty, “you wouldn’t feel so 
bad. Faith like a grain of mustard seed.” 

“ I have ! ” said the elder lady ; “ I have ! ” And 
it must be confessed that she had, exactly like a 
grain of mustard seed. “ But faith won’t feed you ; 
faith won’t keep you warm.” 





John Inglefield's Thanksgiving. 


163 


“ Love will! ” said a sudden voice at the door, and 
they looked up to see Tildy, radiant and rosy, 
standing there and nodding as if her head went by 
machinery. 

“ Tildy Tillingust ! ” cried both the old ladies in 
one breath, “ where have you been ? ” 

“ I’ve been in a snow-bank,” she said, beginning 
to take off her hood and peel off the socks. “ The 
fact is, Job and I started to come up night before 
last, and it was awful against the driving storm, and 
we stopped in the church porch, just to take breath, 
and if you’ll believe it, we couldn’t get out ! And 
I don’t know as we’d have been out yet if they hadn’t 
come to dig the doors out for morning meeting. 
And then I told them about you, and Parson Keene 
and all the rest of ’em, come up with us and helped 
to tunnel you out, reg’lar tunnel, and there they are 
now downstairs, a-waiting to say good-morning.” 

“ Tildy Tillingust! ” cried Miss Mowbray, snatch¬ 
ing off her night-cap and snatching on her wrapper. 
“ Do you mean to say that you’ve been all this time 
in the meeting-house porch with Job Ransom ? ” 

“Lor, yes, Miss Mowbray, with Job and a snow¬ 
drift and Susan Lowe and her mother and Job’s 
dog.” 

“ I don’t care anything about where Susan Lowe 
was,” said Miss Mowbray, with awful dignity, dismis¬ 
sing Susan from the case. “ Betty, get on your wrap¬ 
per and your day-cap, quickly. And Tildy, tell 
Parson Keene and Job that I want them up here 
directly ! ” 

Three minutes afterward her mandate was obeyed, 
and the parson and Job were gazing at her with 
eyes as round as dollars. 

“ I will not waste any words or lose any time, dear 
reverend sir,” said Miss Mowbray, “ but if you will 
marry Job and Tildy Tillingust at once—” 

Marry Job and Tildy ! Tildy’s face grew red and 
redder, and her smile broader and broader. But 
there was no time for hesitation ; she turned to look 
at Job half a moment, and then she had taken his 
hand and ranged herself beside him, where he stood 
grinning like a mask. And in a remarkably short 
space of time for such a miracle there was no longer 
any Tildy Tillingust, and the individual now repre¬ 
senting her was entirely rehabilitated in Miss Mow¬ 
bray’s good opinion. 

“I do’no’,” said Job, when it was all over, “but 
it’s as well to hurry it up as to wait any. I always 
thought I shouldn’t mind if I only could take nitrous 
oxyd, or sunthin’.” 

“Well, now Job, ” said Tildy. “We won’t stop 
philandering round this place. You jest go down 
and build a fire and see to the cow, and I’ll find 
something to do up here. You needn’t think,’ she 
said, as the door closed behind him, “ that I’m ever 
going to leave you for all the Job Ransoms in Chris¬ 
tendom ! Perhaps you won’t mind, though, if Job 
comes up here and helps me take care of you ?’ 

“ Do you know, Tildy,” said Miss Mowbray, sol¬ 


emnly, “ that there isn’t a scrap of anything to eat 
in this house ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, there is,” said Tildy. “ There’s the 
crackers. They kept us all alive in the porch, and 
they’ll make a nice sop-toast till the neighbors send 
something in. I heard Deacon Bligh say they wus 
goin’ to send a turkey, seein’ I hadn’t been here to 
see to things.” 

“ Oh, sister ! ” cried Miss Betty. “And you said 
there was nothing to be thankful for ! ” 

“ Well, and what is there ? ” said the owner of the 
mustard-seed. “ There’s no flour, there’s no pota¬ 
toes, there’s no meat, there’s no money ! What is 
there to be thankful for ? ” 

“There’s Tildy Tillingust,—I mean Ransom,— 
back again ! And I call that something to be thank¬ 
ful for.” 

And in reply Miss Mowbray burst into tears. 
“ I’m a blind, ungrateful wretch ! ” she cried. “Tildy 
Tillingust is something to be thankful for ! ” 


JOHN INGLEFIELD’S THANKSGIVING. 

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

N the evening of Thanksgiving Day, John 
Inglefield, the blacksmith, sat in his elbow- 
chair among those who had been keeping 
festival at his board. Being the central figure of 
the domestic circle, the fire threw its strongest light 
on his massive and sturdy frame, reddening his 
rough visage so that it looked like the head of an 
iron statue all aglow from his own forge, and with 
its features rudely fashioned on his own anvil. At 
John Inglefield’s right hand was an empty chair. 
The other places round the hearth were filled by the 
members of the family, who all sat quietly, while, 
with a semblance of fantastic merriment, their shad¬ 
ows danced on the wall behind them. 

One of the group was John Inglefield’s son, who 
had been bred at college, and was now a student of 
theology at Andover. There was also a daughter 
of sixteen, whom nobody could look at without 
thinking of a rosebud almost blossomed. The only 
other person at the fireside was Robert Moore, for¬ 
merly an apprentice of the blacksmith but now his 
journeyman, and who seemed more like an own son 
of John Inglefield than did the pale and slender stu¬ 
dent. 

Only these four had kept New England’s festival 
beneath that roof. The vacant chair at John Ingle¬ 
field’s right hand was in memory of his wife, whom 
death had snatched from him since the previous 
Thanksgiving. With a feeling that few would look 
for in his rough nature, the bereaved husband had 
himself set the chair in its place next his own, and 
often did hie eye glance thitherward, as if he deemed 
it possible that the cold grave might send back its 
tenant to the cheerful fireside, at least for that one 
evening. 







164 


Treasury of Tales. 


Thus did he cherish the grief that was dear to 
him. But there was another grief which he would 
fain have torn from his heart ; or, since that could 
never be, have buried it too deep for others to be¬ 
hold or for his own remembrance. Within the past 
year another member of his household had gone 
from him—but not to the grave ; yet they kept no 
vacant chair for her. 

While John Inglefield and his family were sitting 
round the hearth, with the shadows dancing behind 
them on the wall, the outer door was opened, and a 
light footstep came along the passage. The latch 
of the inner door was lifted by some familiar hand, 
and a young girl came in wearing a cloak and hood, 
which she took off and laid on the table beneath the 
looking-glass. Then, after gazing a moment at the 
fireside circle, she approached and took the seat at 
John Inglefield’s right hand, as if it had been re¬ 
served on purpose for her. 

“ Here I am at last, father,” said she. “ You ate 
your Thanksgiving dinner without me ; but I have 
come back to spend the evening with you.” 

Yes—it was Prudence Inglefield. She wore the 
same neat and maidenly attire which she had been 
accustomed to put on when the household work was 
over for the day, and her hair was parted from her 
brow in the simple and modest fashion that became 
her best of all. If her cheek might otherwise have 
been pale, yet the glow of the fire suffused it with 
a healthful bloom. If she had spent the many 
months of her absence in guilt and infamy, yet they 
seemed to have left no traces on her gentle aspect. 
She could not have looked less altered had she 
merely stepped away from her father’s fireside for 
half an hour and returned while the blaze was quiv¬ 
ering upwards from the same brands that were burn¬ 
ing at her departure. And to John Inglefield she 
was the very image of his buried wife, such as he re¬ 
membered her on the first Thanksgiving which they 
had passed under their own roof ; therefore, though 
naturally a stern and rugged man, he could not 
speak unkindly to his sinful child, nor yet could he 
take her to his bosom. 

“You are welcome home, Prudence,” said he, 
glancing sideways at her, and his voice faltered. 
“Your mother would have rejoiced to see you, but 
she has been gone from us these four months.” 

“ I know it, father, I know it,” replied Prudence, 
quickly. “ And yet, when I first came in my eyes 
were so dazzled by the firelight that she seemed to 
be sitting in this very chair.” 

By this time the other members of the family had 
begun to recover from their surprise, and became 
sensible that it was no ghost from the grave nor vis¬ 
ion of their vivid recollections, but Prudence her 
own self. Her brother was the next that greeted 
her. He advanced and held out his hand affec¬ 
tionately, as a brother should ; yet not entirely like 
a brother, for with all his kindness he was still a 
clergyman, and speaking to a child of sin. 


“Sister Prudence,” said he earnestly, “I rejoice 
that a merciful Providence hath turned your steps 
homeward in time for me to bid you a last farewell. 
In a few weeks, sister, I am to sail as a missionary 
to the far islands of the Pacific. There is not 
one of these beloved faces that I shall ever hope to 
behold again on this earth. Oh, may I see all of 
them—yours and all—beyond the grave ! ” 

A shadow flitted across the girl’s countenance. 

“The grave is very dark, brother,” answered she, 
withdrawing her hand somewhat hastily from his 
grasp. “ You must look your last at me by the light 
of this fire.” 

While this was passing, the twin-girl—the rose¬ 
bud that had grown on the same stem with the cast¬ 
away—stood gazing at her sister, longing to fling 
herself upon her bosom, so that the tendrils of their 
hearts might intertwine again. At first she was re¬ 
strained by mingled grief and shame, and by a dread 
that Prudence was too much changed to respond to 
her affection, or that her own purity would be felt as 
a reproach by the lost one. But as she listened to 
the familiar voice, while the face grew more and 
more familiar, she forgot everything, save that 
Prudence had come back. Springing forward, she 
would have clasped her in a close embrace. At 
that very instant, however, Prudence started from 
her chair, and held out both her hands with a warn¬ 
ing gesture. 

“No, Mary—no, my sister,” cried she. “Do not 
you touch me. Your bosom must not be pressed to 
mine ! ” 

Mary shuddered, and stood still, for she felt that 
something darker than the grave was between 
Prudence and herself, though they seemed so near 
each other in the light of their father’s hearth, where 
they had grown up together. Meanwhile, Prudence 
threw her eyes around the room, in search of one 
who had not yet bidden her welcome. He had with¬ 
drawn from his seat by the fireside, and was standing 
near the door, with his face averted, so that his 
features could be discerned only by the flickering 
shadow of the profile on the wall. But Prudence 
called to him, in a cheerful and kindly tone : 

“ Come, Robert,” said she, “ won’t you shake 
hands with your old friend ? ” 

Robert Moore held back for a moment; but affec¬ 
tion struggled powerfully and overcame his pride 
and resentment; he rushed towards Prudence, seized 
her hand, and pressed it to his bosom. 

“ There, there, Robert,” said she, smiling sadly as 
she withdrew her hand. “You must not give me 
too warm a welcome.” 

And now, having exchanged greetings with each 
member of the family, Prudence again seated herself 
in the chair at John Inglefield’s right hand. She 
was naturally a girl of quick and tender sensibilities, 
gladsome in her general mood, but with a' bewitch¬ 
ing pathos interfused among her merriest words and 
deeds. It was remarked of her, too, that she had a 




John Smith; or, Two Thanksgivings. 


faculty, even from childhood, of throwing her own 
feelings like a spell over her companions. Such as 
she had been in her days of innocence, so did she 
appear this evening. Her friends, in the surprise 
and bewilderment of her return, almost forgot that 
she had left them, or that she had forfeited any of 
her claims to their affection. In the morning, per¬ 
haps, they might have looked at her with altered 
eyes, but by the Thanksgiving fireside they felt only 
that their own Prudence had come back to them, 
and were thankful. 

John Inglefield’s rough visage brightened with the 
glow of his heart, as it grew warm and merry within 
him ; once or twice, even, he laughed till the room 
rang again, yet seemed startled by the echo of his 
own mirth. The grave young minister became as 
frolicsome as a school-boy. Mary, too, the rose¬ 
bud, forgot that her twin blossom had ever been 
torn from the stem and trampled in the dust. And 
as for Robert Moore, he gazed at Prudence with the 
bashful earnestness of love new-born, while she, with 
sweet maiden coquetry, half smiled upon and half 
discouraged him. 

In short, it was one of those intervals when sorrow 
vanishes in its own depth of shadow, and joy starts 
forth in transitory brightness. When the clock 
struck eight, Prudence poured out her father’s cus¬ 
tomary draught of herb tea, which had been steeping 
by the fireside ever since twilight. 

“God bless you, child,” said John Inglefield, as 
he took the cup from her hand ; “ you have made 
your old father happy again. But we miss your 
mother sadly, Prudence—sadly. It seems as if she 
ought to be here now.” 

“Now, father, or never,” replied Prudence. 

It was now the hour for domestic worship. But 
while the family were making preparations for this 
duty, they suddenly perceived that Prudence had 
put on her cloak and hood, and was lifting the latch 
of the door. 

“ Prudence, Prudence ! where are you going ? ” 
cried they all with one voice. 

As Prudence passed out of the door, she turned 
towards them, and flung back her hand with a ges¬ 
ture of farewell. But her face was so changed that 
they hardly recognized it. Sin and evil passions 
glowed through its comeliness, and wrought a hor¬ 
rible deformity ; a smile gleamed in her eyes, as 
of triumphant mockery at their surprise and grief. 

“Daughter!” cried John Inglefield, between 
wrath and sorrow, “stay, and be your father’s bless¬ 
ing—or—take his curse with you ! ” 

For an instant Prudence lingered and looked back 
into the fire-lighted room, while her countenance 
wore almost the expression as if she were struggling 
with a fiend, who had power to seize his victim 
even within the hallowed precincts of her father’s 
hearth. The fiend prevailed ; and Prudence van¬ 
ished into the outer darkness. When the family 
rushed to the door, they could see nothing, but 


i6 5 

heard the sound of wheels rattling over the frozen 
ground. 

That same night, among the painted beauties at 
the theatre of a neighboring city, there was one 
whose dissolute mirth seemed inconsistent with any 
sympathy for pure affections, and for the joys and 
griefs which are hallowed by them. 

Yet this was Prudence Inglefield. 


JOHN SMITH; 

OR, 

T w O THANKSGIVINGS. 

BY ELLA WHEELER. 

T was the night before Thanksgiving. Aunt 
Tabitha sat knitting a blue woolen sock. Un¬ 
cle Joel was poring over the column of patent- 
medicine advertisements, which he found a never- 
failing source of entertainment and delight. Janet, 
their spinster daughter, was washing the supper- 
dishes, and the rattling of teacups and saucers, spoons 
and forks mingled with the click of Aunt Tabitha’s 
needles, and made a sort of domestic melody, which 
was presently interrupted by a long-drawn sigh and 
an ejaculation from the lips of Miss. Janet of— 

“ Oh, yes ! ” 

Now, as no one had spoken for full five minutes, 
such an exclamation seemed somewhat irrelevant 
and one necessitating an explanation. But neither 
Uncle Joel or Aunt Tabitha expressed any surprise, 
or indeed seemed to notice Janet’s ejaculation. The 
truth was, this was but one of the many idiosyn¬ 
crasies of this most peculiar family. 

Aunt Tabitha Smith was designed by heaven for 
the sphere of an old maid. Her prim ideas of pro¬ 
priety, her severe criticisms, her aggressive clean¬ 
liness and order, and her limited idea of human 
nature and needs, all fitted her for the calling of, a 
spinster of the most approved pattern. 

In some moment of weakness, never accounted 
for, and through some impulse inexplicable to him¬ 
self and to all who knew them, Uncle Joel Smith' 
had persuaded her to forsake her predestined voca¬ 
tion and assume the duties of a wife and mother. 

But, as is frequently the case with a career cut 
short or turned aside from its natural course, or 
with talents hindered and restrained in one genera¬ 
tion, they culminate and flower in the next. 

Aunt Tabitha had not been allowed to fulfil her 
destiny; but her daughter Janet was completing it 
for her in the most approved manner. A more per¬ 
fect specimen of the spinster it would be difficult 
to conceive. 

To be sure, she was only twenty-five—an age 
which in these days is considered the very morning 
of youth ; an age far more attractive to the average 
man of the period than sixteen or eighteen—just as 
the ripe peach is more appetizing than its fair blos¬ 
som. _ 

Copyright, j8Sj. 









Treasury of Tales. 


166 


But Janet had been a spinster at fifteen ; at twenty 
she was a confirmed old maid. She cared nothing 
for the pleasures of youth, preferring her daily 
routine of home life and her round of domestic 
duties to any festivity ; and by her primness, her 
reserve, and her odd little whims, keeping all pos¬ 
sible suitors at a safe distance; and when I say safe, 

I mean it in the full sense of the term. For it 
would have been a rash and reckless youth who had 
ventured into the presence of “ Aunt Tabitha,” as 
Mrs. Smith was generally known, to woo her daugh¬ 
ter. 

Despite the evident fact that she herself had been 
wooed and won, Aunt Tabitha denounced all lovers 
as “ miserable fools,” and she received the reports 
of neighborhood marriages with the same denun¬ 
ciatory phrases which she bestowed upon other 
crimes. For Aunt Tabitha seemed to have little 
pity in her composition for the world of misdoers. 
She was of the severest type of grim old Puritan 
stock. She planned and executed her life on the 
most austere principles, and felt no sympathy for 
those who deviated in the least from her ideas of 
propriety. 

Endearing words and caresses between friends or 
members of a family she considered weak, if not 
vulgar ; and Janet would as soon have thought of 
striking her mother as kissing her. Uncle Joel, who 
had once been a man of warm affections, had learned 
years ago to repress any impulse of demonstration 
toward wife or children. 

After a child could walk and talk, Aunt Tabitha 
considered it too old to kiss or fondle ; and, rather 
than listen to her caustic criticisms and sarcastic 
rebukes, he concealed his natural feelings of affec¬ 
tion, even toward his own children, and turned his 
thoughts—like many a woman—for lack of some¬ 
thing else to occupy his mind, to his physical ail¬ 
ments. 

He was a man of delicate physique, and his aches 
and pains became his pets, which he could coddle 
to his heart’s content in spite of Aunt Tabitha. 

Janet—who had cut her life by the pattern of her 
mother’s ideas—was, according to Aunt Tabitha’s 
thinking, a model personage, sensible, and free 
from all nonsense. 

If Janet ever had longings or aspirations beyond 
her narrow and colorless life, no one knew it. 

And her frequent and audible ejaculation of “ Oh, 
yes,” seemed an utterance of approval and satisfac¬ 
tion at her own discreet and orderly existence. 

As she wiped the last dish out of scalding water, 
Uncle Joel read : 

“ ‘ Over ten thousand testimonials have been re¬ 
ceived from sufferers who have been cured by the 
Gallopin’ Pain Pacifier.’ Over ten thousand ! That 
is a great many people to be cured by one remedy. 
There must be something in it if it cures ten thou¬ 
sand suffering people.” 

“ They ought to be ashamed of themselves,” pro¬ 


claimed Aunt Tabitha, who had no patience with 
Uncle Joel’s patent-medicine mania. 

There was a quick step on the walk, a mellow 
whistle in the hallway, and the door burst open as if 
a strong wind had blown it. A handsome, stalwart 
young man of twenty, with curling, chestnut hair, 
and warm, brown eyes, strode across the room, after 
banging the door behind him, and throwing his cap 
into the corner, and clasping Janet about the neck, 
placed a sounding kiss upon either cheek. 

Janet gave a little feminine shriek, and struggled 
to free herself. 

“ For shame, John ! ” cried Aunt Tabitha, “what 
coarse manners you have fallen into lately ! You 
should treat your sister with more respect.” 

John’s boyish face clouded, and a suspicious mist 
came into his brown eyes. He threw himself face 
downward on a lounge which stood at one end of 
the room. 

“ A nice greeting for a fellow who has been gone 
two weeks from home,” he said. “ A sweet scolding 
to give him because he kisses his own sister.” 

“You are too old to conduct yourself like chil¬ 
dren,” Aunt Tabitha answered sternly. “I think 
kissing and hugging altogether out of place among 
grown people, and very coarse and underbred. You 
could shake hands with Janet, and show your pleas¬ 
ure at seeing her quite as well.” 

John lay in a moody silence, his handsome mouth 
quivering. 

“ Who is coming here to-morrow ? ” he asked, 
presently. 

“ Oh, Aunt Mary, Uncle John, Cousin Sarah and 
her children—that’s all, I believe.” 

“ Why don’t you invite Gerty Denvers?” John 
ventured, in a low voice. “ She has no home, and 
no relatives, and it will be a dull day for her.” 

“Well, then it better be,” spoke Aunt Tabitha, 
making a great clatter with her knitting needles. 
“ What is she to us, I’d like to know ? I think you 
have made the family conspicuous enough by racing 
around with that dressmaker’s apprentice during the 
last two months, without our inviting her here to 
Thanksgiving.” 

John rose to a sitting posture, the mist in his eyes 
dried by their flashing fire. 

“ She is a sweet, beautiful girl, if she is a dress¬ 
maker’s apprentice,” he said, “ and I love her with 
all my heart.” 

“ ‘Should try Gallopin’ Pain Pacifier,’” read Uncle 
Joel aloud to himself. He was so accustomed to 
these tilts and controversies between John and his 
mother that he paid little attention to them. 

For John was wholly unlike Janet, and the trial of 
Tabitha’s life. He was full of warm, young blood, 
and craving for affection, demonstrative and irre¬ 
pressible. The strict home rules oppressed him 
and depressed him. He wanted more sunlight, 
more mirth, more gayety, and more love in the 
household. But his mother rebuked him, and Janet 






John Smith; or, Two Thanksgivings. 


167 


shrieked if he offered her a brotherly caress. Never 
since he was four years old, and donned his first 
pair of trousers, had his mother ever kissed him 
voluntarily. 

She cooked, baked, washed, and ironed for him, 
she took care of his body and his brain, but she let 
his heart starve within him, and was angry that it 
cried aloud for food, and because it was not given 
at home he sought for it abroad. 

At first he fed the fire of his boyish heart with 
lovers of his own sex. Tom and Bill and Charley 
all reigned their season as his dearest friends and 
comrades, who shared his full heart’s lavish wealth 
of affection. Why he should so idealize and idolize 
these common boys, and seek their society and sing 
their praises, Aunt Tabitha could not understand. 
She did not realize that his heart craved more than 
was given by that cold, Puritan household, and that 
he must seek it elsewhere. 

But by and by, when he transferred his worship 
to idols of the opposite sex, and sang their praises, 
and became their abject slave, Aunt Tabitha’s indig¬ 
nation knew no bounds. 

“ That a son of mine should become such a 
spooney,” she would cry. “ Runnin’ after girls at 
his age, sittin’ 'round with ’em evenin’s when he 
ought to be abed and asleep—it’s a shame an’ a dis¬ 
grace.” 

But the more Aunt Tabitha scolded and railed at 
John and his inamoratas, the less he remained at 
home. He worked diligently in the field by day, 
ate his meals in silence, and was off to the vil¬ 
lage in the evening. And all Tabitha’s sarcasms 
were of no avail. As for Uncle Joel, his sympathies 
were with John ; he had once been young himself, 
and he had been fond of youthful sports, and a great 
gallant among the girls. Yet he had too great a 
fear of Tabitha’s tongue to venture a voice in the 
matter. He did not like to take any responsibility 
upon his shoulders which he could avoid. And so 
he kept discreetly silent, and let the war wage as it 
would, while he found refuge behind the column of 
newspaper advertisements. 

Aunt Tabitha’s face flushed angrily as John made 
the bold assertion of his love for Gerty Denvers. 

“You’d better make yourself still more ridicu¬ 
lous,” she said, “ and announce your passion to the 
girl. She may be fool enough to marry you, and 
then you will reach the end of your folly, and come 
to your senses, perhaps. I’m sick of having you 
running after her.” 

“ If I got any love at home, may-be I would not 
have to seek abroad for it,” John said, as he seized 
his hat and left the house. 

They did not see him again until the next morn¬ 
ing—Thanksgiving morning. Then he stood before 
them tall, handsome, pale, determined. 

“ I am going to take your advice, mother,” he 
said, “ and marry Gerty Denvers. The minister is 
waiting to perform the ceremony now. She has no 


home and no friends, and we love each other. Do 
you want me to bring my wife home to Thanksgiv¬ 
ing dinner ? She doesn’t expect to live here ; she 
is going to stay in the shop and keep at work.” 

Aunt Tabitha grew pale with anger. 

“ I want you to take your simpleton of a wife and 
go where I will never see you again,” she said. “If 
you choose to disgrace us, I don’t want to have the 
evidence before my eyes daily.” 

“Very well, I will go,” he said. He turned and 
left the house. Twenty-four hours later he and his 
young bride had left the place. 

Janet broke into tears when the report was brought 
to them. 

“John did nothing so very wrong, mother,” she 
sobbed, “ that he should have been turned out of 
doors.” 

“ Wrong ? ” Aunt Tabitha responded sternly. “ He 
has disgraced himself and us by marrying at his age. 
Why could he not behave himself as well as you have 
done ? Why did he need love that he could not get 
here, any more than you need it? Were you not 
children of the same parents ? He was always de¬ 
fying me, always neglecting his home for other 
people, always going against my rules. He was 
never a proper child like you. Let him make a 
home for himself, and don’t let me see you shedding 
tears over him again.” 

So Janet said no more about him, only sighed 
“ Oh, yes,” more frequently over her dishes and 
mending ; for now she knew that, despite her disap¬ 
proval of his demonstrative manner, John had been 
necessary to her happiness, and she was lonely 
without him. 

Uncle Joel grew more and more in the habit of 
petting his ailments, and talking of his complaints, 
and studying the advertisements for remedies. And 
he aged rapidly after John went away. 

The old farm ran down, and the place grew sadly 
out of repair. 

Uncle Joel had never been a very energetic man, 
and he seemed to have lost all ambition when John 
left him alone. Aunt Tabitha urged him to repair 
the fence, and repaint the house, and stay the little 
leaks which were reducing them from independence 
to poverty. But Uncle Joel said, “Wait till next 
year, Tabby.” And to Janet and some of his con¬ 
fidential neighbors he added, “ John will be coming 
home pretty soon, and he’ll fix things up.” 

But John did not come. 

So the years went by until nearly fifteen had gone 
since that Thanksgiving morning so long ago. And 
they had never heard from John in all those years. 

It was October. There was a shadow of gloom 
over the Smith household. Uncle Joel had become 
thoroughly shiftless and inefficient, thinking only of 
his aches and pains. 

Aunt Tabitha’s heretofore vigorous constitution 
seemed breaking down, and all the work and care of 
farm and household rested upon Janet’s shoulders. 





Treasury of Tales. 


168 


She stood washing up the supper dishes again, 
while her mother lay half asleep in her easy-chair, 
and Uncle Joel was whispering behind his news¬ 
paper. 

Janet had changed the least of the three during 
this decade and a half of years. She was the same 
prim, precise little old maid that she had been during 
her whole life. Perhaps there was a line or two more 
about the mouth and eyes, but never having had any 
youth or freshness, she had none to lose. 

“ We need somebody to husk the corn and dig the 
potatoes, father,” she said presently. “ It is getting 
late in the year. 1 wish we could have help for a 
few weeks. I can’t do everything.” 

“ Tabby, didn’t I hear you complainin’ of feel¬ 
ing a pain in your back and limbs this morning ? ” 
asked Uncle Joel from behind his newspaper. 

“ Yes. I don’t understand it,” Aunt Tabitha 
responded from the depths of her great chair. “ I 
feel so dull and lifeless too.” 

“ Well, I’ve just found a new and infallible rem¬ 
edy for those symptoms—‘ The Electric Eradicator. 
Only one dollar per bottle ; for sale by all druggists.’ 
You might send down and see if Johnson keeps it at 
the village. I know he used to keep a supply of 
the Gallopin’ Pain Pacifier, but The Electric Eradica¬ 
tor is said to be much better. It has cured thou¬ 
sands who suffer as you do.” 

“ They were great fools to be cured by the stuff,” 
was Aunt Tabitha’s reply. “All I need is a little 
mint-tea.” 

A timid knock sounded at the door. Janet wiped 
her hands on her apron, and opened the door cau¬ 
tiously a little way. 

Janet always responded to a knock, night or day, 
in this extremely cautious fashion, as if she feared 
being seized bodily and carried away, after the man¬ 
ner of the Sabine women, by the person without. 

But it was a very small and weary-looking Roman 
whom she espied through the crack of the door 
to-night. A moment’s conversation ensued; then 
Janet closed the door and spoke to her mother. 

“A little boy wants lodging and supper,” she said. 
“ He has walked a long distance to-day, and is 
looking for work.” 

“ Some young tramp, I suppose, who will murder 
us all in our beds,” responded Aunt Tabitha. “ He 
ought to be in better business than wandering about 
the country.” 

“ He is trying to get into better business,” said 
Janet, whose heart was more easily touched than her 
mother’s. “ He looks as if he needed rest and 
food.” 

“‘Can be restored by The Electric Eradicator,’ ” 
continued Uncle Joel, unmindful of the parley at the 
door, so occupied was he with the testimonials of 
sufferers. 

“ Guess he’d better come in,” said Janet; “ he may 
be willing to husk our corn;” and she opened the 
door just wide enough to admit an undersized boy 


of twelve or fourteen years, and then quickly closed 
it lest a regiment of ferocious Romans should 
follow. 

“ Take a chair, little boy, and I will give you a 
bite of something.” 

“ There’s the mouldy cheese I said was spoiling 
to-day—put that on,” said Aunt Tabitha, whose 
economy had grown into parsimony with adversity. 
And then, as if ashamed of herself, and moved by 
some sudden impulse of pity toward the tired stran¬ 
ger, she arose, and with her own hands prepared 
him a gcnefous repast. 

“ What might your name be, and where have you 
travelled from ?” asked Uncle Joel, laying aside his 
interesting testimonials, to question the boy. 

“ My name’s John Smith, sir, and I came from 
town this morning.” 

“John Smith, hey? Well, that’s a good enough 
name,” laughed Uncle Joel. “Though I should 
hate to advertise ye, hoping to find ye by that name 
alone, ef I lost ye. A good many men hev had that 
name. An orphan?” 

“ My mother is alive ; she’s sewing in town. I 
couldn’t get work there, and mother thought the 
winter was coming on, and I’d better try and get a 
place on a farm to work for my board, maybe, till 
spring. It’s awful expensive living in town.” 

“ Father dead, I suppose ? ” 

“ We fear so, sir. It’s nine years since mother 
saw him. He went to California to seek his for¬ 
tune. Fie sent mother money, off and on, till two 
years ago. Since then she’s never heard from him. 
We think he must be dead. Mother gets along with 
her sewing, but she is not very well now, and she’s 
always worryin’ about me. She’s afraid she’ll die 
and leave me alone in the city ; so she told me to 
go out in the country and learn to farm.” 

“ Better keep him to do chores this winter, fa¬ 
ther,” whispered Janet. “We need help, and we 
can’t afford to hire.” 

“Well, just as you and mother say,” responded 
Uncle Joel, returning to his newspaper, glad to 
avoid this responsibility, as he had all others possi¬ 
ble through life. 

“ Poor shiftless creeters ! his parents, not to have 
anything saved up,” muttered Tabitha. “ But you’d 
better keep him. He’ll be handy, and it ’ll save 
paying anything out; and a growin’ boy ’ll eat ’most 
anything.” 

So John stayed, and wonderfully handy he did 
prove, outdoor and in, until each of the trio won¬ 
dered how they had lived without him. 

And John grew fat and rosy in spite of Aunt 
Tabitha’s economy. 

Janet rejected a sun-browned potato one day 
which she had taken on her plate. 

“ If you can’t eat it, save it for John,” said Tabi¬ 
tha. Yet when John came in, tired and hungry, she 
again prepared him a generous supper. 

“Somehow, John’s face reminds me of some one,” 







John Smith ; or , Two Thanksgivings. 


169 


mused Uncle Joel, one evening. “ Doesn’t it you, 
Tabby ? ” 

But Tabitha only answered abruptly : 

“ Don’t be a fool, Joel ! ” and knit with more than 
usual vigor; while Janet heaved a sigh over her bas¬ 
ket of mending, and said : 

“ Oh, yes ! ” 

But Tabitha was more than usually kind, almost 
tender, in her manner to John that night. 

The day before Thanksgiving found Aunt Tabi¬ 
tha in a high fever. She grew delirious, and wanted 
John constantly in her sight, and she talked wild- 

] y- 

“ I am glad you came back,” she said, over and 
over. “ I never want you to go away again. It 
has been a long, long time since you went away, and 
I have missed you so, all these years. You must 
promise me never to go again, John—never ! ” 

And little John would promise, wondering. 

The village physician shook his head and looked 
puzzled when questioned by Uncle Joel. 

“ She seems to be breaking down,” he said, “ as 
if under a long mental strain.” 

“Nerves, I suppose,” Uncle Joel said, “women 
are made of nerves. And this new discovery, this 
Electric Eradicator, is just the thing for nervous 
complaints. Thousands give their testimonials. But 
Tabitha is dreadfully sot against patent medicines.” 

“ She’s sensible there,” responded the physician. 
“ Poisonous drugs kill more people every year than 
—than—” 

“ Than the doctors-? ” queried Uncle Joel, with a 
chuckle. 

“ Very good, very good, Uncle Joel,” laughed the 
doctor. “ You are not so slow after all. But about 
your good wife, her case puzzles me. I really am 
alarmed about her. Medicine doesn’t seem to reach 
her disease. That boy seems to remind her of 
something or of somebody. Let him stay by her. 
Sometimes the mind is so centred upon some ob¬ 
ject of the affections that nothing else can fdl the 
place—” 

“Oh, yes,” sighed Janet, coming up from the 
cellar with a pan of potatoes, and thinking what a 
dreary, dreary Thanksgiving day it was to be. 

Somebody rapped. The doctor, standing near 
the door, opened it. A big man rushed in, and 
clasped Janet in his arms, kissing her most vigor¬ 
ously. 

Janet screamed and struggled feebly. The 
thought flashed through her mind that her hour 
had come. In allowing the doctor to go to the door 
caution had been forfeited, and the Sabine maiden, 
so long protected by Providence and her own pru¬ 
dence, was captured at last. But she remembered 
how useless it was to resist, so she only screamed, 
and after one faint struggle resigned herself to her 
fate. All this flashed through Miss Janet’s mind in 
a second’s time, of course, as dying people recall the 
events of a lifetime. 


In another second Janet found herself free, and 
gazing into the face of—John Smith, her brother ! 

It was not a Roman soldier, after all. 

“ Here’s something better than The Electric Erad¬ 
icator, Tabitha,” said Uncle Joel, as he led John to 
her bedside. 

“ There, I never believed father would own any¬ 
thing was better than his last new patent medicine,” 
half sobbed Janet. “You are wonderfully compli¬ 
mented, John.” 

And Aunt Tabitha actually clung about John’s 
neck and kissed him—an act which caused Uncle 
Joel to stare in amazement. 

“ If you’d only done that years ago he’d never 
have gone away,” he muttered sotto voce , as he 
turned away. “ Affection and kisses are as neces¬ 
sary to some natures—as—as—” 

“ As sunlight to plants,” suggested the doctor, 
helping him out with a simile, and looking at Janet. 

“ Oh, yes,” sighed Janet. 

And just then little John Smith, who had been 
sent out on an errand, returned, and big John Smith 
caught him in his arms, crying out, “ My boy,tiny 
darling boy ! ” 

And then everybody began to ask questions, and 
pretty soon they all were made to understand that 
little John Smith was big John Smith’s son ! and 
that little John Smith had been sent out into the 
country by his mother, hoping he would find a place 
in the hearts of his grandparents before she died 
and left him an orphan ; and that big John Smith 
had miraculously returned with pockets full of gold 
after his long exile from his home, to find his wife 
grieving for him as for one dead, and she had sent 
him to bring back her boy ; but instead she was 
brought back to the old homestead ; and such a hap¬ 
py, happy Thanksgiving day as it proved to them all! 

And Aunt Tabitha recovered, and kissed big 
John and little John every day of her life afterward. 
For she and Uncle Joel went to live with them— 
John and his wife would have it so. 

And Janet ? Why the good old doctor who was 
a lonely widower, admiring Janet’s thrift and energy, 
proposed to her that very Thanksgiving day to come 
and cheer his declining years ; and Janet, in spite 
of her hereditary aptitude for the sphere of a spin¬ 
ster, sighed, “ Oh, yes,” and the doctor accepted it 
as an answer to his proposal, whether Janet had 
meant it so or not. 

When she was married, and about to leave her old 
home and go with her husband, Uncle Joel took her 
aside. 

“ Here is a bottle of The Electric Eradicator,” he 
said, in a confidential tone. “Your man, bein’ a 
doctor, is dreadfully sot against such things, and 
likely as not you might be pizened with a lot of 
his long-named drugs, when a leetle dose of this 
would be all you needed. So I thought I’d give you 
a bottle to keep. Needn’t say anything to the doc¬ 
tor about it, you know.” 





Treasury of 1 ales. 


170 


THE SPECTRE BF(IDEGF(OOM. 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING. 

He that supper for is dight. 

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night! 

Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray-steel has made his bed ! 

Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-steel. 

O N the summit of one of the heights of the 
Odenwald, a wild and romantic tract of Up¬ 
per Germany, that lies not far from the conflu¬ 
ence of the Maine and the Rhine, there stood, many, 
many years since, the castle of the Baron von Land- 
short. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost 
buried among beech trees and dark firs; above 
which, however, its old watch-tower may still be seen 
struggling, like the former possessor I have men¬ 
tioned, to carry a high head, and look down upon a 
neighboring country. 

The Baron was a dry branch of the great family 
of Katzenellenbogen,* and inherited the relics of 
the property and all the pride of his ancestors. 
Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors 
had much impaired the family possessions, yet the 
Baron still endeavored to keep up some show of 
former state. The times were peaceable, and the 
German nobles, in general, had abandoned their in¬ 
convenient old castles, perched like eagles’ nests 
among the mountains, and had built more conven¬ 
ient residences in the valleys ; still the Baron 
remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, 
cherishing with hereditary inveteracy all the old fam¬ 
ily feuds ; so that he was on ill terms with some of 
his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that 
had happened between their great-great-grand-fa¬ 
thers. 

The Baron had but one child, a daughter ; but 
Nature, when she grants but one child, always com¬ 
pensates by making it a prodigy ; and so it was with 
the daughter of the Baron. All the nurses, gossips, 
and country cousins assured her father that she had 
not her equal for beauty in all Germany ; and who 
should know better than they ? She had, moreover 
been brought up with great care, under the super¬ 
intendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some 
years of their early life at one of the little German 
courts, and were skilled in all the branches of knowl¬ 
edge necessary to the education of a fine lady. 
Under their instructions she became a miracle of 
accomplishments. 

By the time she was eighteen she could embroider 
to admiration, and had worked whole histories of 
the saints in tapestry, with such strength of expres¬ 
sion in their countenances that they looked like so 
many souls in purgatory. She could read without 
great difficulty, and had spelled her way through 
several church legends and almost all the chivalric 

* I.e. Cat’s Elbow —the name of a family of those parts, very power¬ 
ful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in com¬ 
pliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for a fine arm. 


wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made 
considerable proficiency in writing, could sign her 
own name without missing a letter, and so legibly 
that her aunts could read it without spectacles. She 
excelled in making little good-for-nothing lady-like 
knicknacks of all kinds ; was versed in the most 
abstruse dancing of the day ; played a number of 
airs on the harp and guitar ; and knew all the tender 
ballads of the Minnelieders by heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and co¬ 
quettes in their younger days, were admirably calcu¬ 
lated to be vigilant guardians and strict censors of 
the conduct of their niece ; for there is no duenna 
so rigidly prudent and inexorably decorous as a su¬ 
perannuated coquette. She was rarely suffered out 
of their sight ; never went beyond the domains of 
the castle unless well attended or rather well 

t 

watched ; had continual lectures read to her about 
strict decorum and implicit obedience ; and, as to 
the men—pah ! she was taught to hold them at such 
distance and distrust that, unless properly author¬ 
ized, she would not have cast a glance upon the 
handsomest cavalier in the world—no, not if he were 
even dying at her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonderfully 
apparent. The young lady was a pattern of docility 
and correctness. While others were wasting their 
sweetness in the glare of the world and liable to be 
plucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was 
coyly blooming into fresh and lovely womanhood 
under the protection of those immaculate spinsters, 
like a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian 
thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and 
exultation, and vaunted that though all the other 
young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thank 
Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the 
heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 

But however scantily the Baron von Landshort 
might be provided with children, his household was 
by no means a small one, for Providence had 
enriched him with abundance of poor relations. 
They, one and all, possessed the affectionate disposi¬ 
tion common to humble relatives ; were wonderfully 
attached to the Baron, and took every possible 
occasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle. 
All family festivals were commemorated by these 
good people at the Baron’s expense ; and when they 
were filled with good cheer, they would declare that 
there was nothing on earth so delightful as these 
family meetings, these jubilees of the heart. 

The Baron, though a small man, had a large soul, 
and it swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness 
of being the greatest man in the little world about 
him. He loved to tell long stories about the stark 
old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down 
from the walls around, and he found no listeners 
equal to those who fed at his expense. He was much 
given to the marvellous, and a firm believer in all 
those supernatural tales with which every mountain 
and valley in Germariy abounds. The faith of his 







The Spectre Bridegroom. 


guests even exceeded his own: they listened to 
every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and 
never failed to be astonished, even though repeated 
for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron von 
Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute 
monarch of his little territory, and happy, above all 
things, in the persuasion that he was the wisest man 
of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats there was a 
great family gathering at the castle, on an affair of 
the utmost importance—it was to receive the des¬ 
tined bridegroom of the Baron’s daughter. A nego¬ 
tiation had been carried on between the father and 
an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of 
their houses by the marriage of their children. The 
preliminaries had been conducted with proper punc¬ 
tilio. The young people were betrothed without 
seeing each other, and the time was appointed for 
the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Alt- 
enburg had been recalled from the army for the 
purpose, and was actually on his way to the Baron’s 
to receive his bride. Missives had even been received 
from him from Wurtzburg, where he was accident¬ 
ally detained, mentioning the day and hour when he 
might be expected to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give 
him a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been 
decked out with uncommon care. The two aunts 
had superintended her toilet and quarrelled the 
whole morning about every article of her dress. 
The young lady had taken advantage of their con¬ 
test to follow the bent of her own taste ; and for¬ 
tunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely as 
youthful bridegroom could desire ; and the flutter 
of expectation heightened the lustre of her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, 
the gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and 
then lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that 
was going on in her little heart. The aunts were 
continually hovering around her (for maiden aunts 
are apt to take great interest in affairs of this na¬ 
ture), they were giving her a world of staid counsel 
how to deport herself, what to say, and in what 
manner to receive the expected lover. 

The Baron was no less busied in preparations. 
He had, in truth, nothing exactly to do ; but he was 
naturally a fuming, bustling little man, and could 
not remain passive when all the world was in a hur¬ 
ry. He worried from top to bottom of the castle, 
with an air of infinite anxiety ; he continually called 
the servants from their work to exhort them to be 
diligent, and buzzed about every hall and chamber, 
as idly restless and importunate as a blue-bottle fly 
of a warm summer’s day. 

In the meantime the fatted calf had been killed ; 
the forests had rung with the clamor of the hunts¬ 
men ; the kitchen was crowded with good cheer ; 
the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhein- 
wein and Ferne-wein, and even the great Heidleberg 
tun had been laid under contribution. Everything 


I 71 

was ready to receive the distinguished guest with 
Saus und Braus in the true spirit of German hos¬ 
pitality—but the guest delayed to make his ap¬ 
pearance. 

Hour rolled after hour. The sun that had poured 
his downward rays upon the rich forests of the Oden- 
wald, now just gleamed along the summits of the 
mountains. The Baron mounted the highest tower, 
and strained his eyes in hopes of catching a distant 
sight of the Count and his attendants. Once he 
thought he beheld them ; the sound of horns came 
floating from the valley, prolonged by the mountain 
echoes ; a number of horsemen were seen far below 
slowly advancing along the road ; but when they 
had nearly reached the foot of the mountain, they 
suddenly struck off in a different direction. The 
last ray of sunshine departed—the bats began to 
flit by in the twilight—the road grew dimmer and 
dimmer to the view ; and nothing appeared stirring 
in it but now and then a peasant lagging homeward 
from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this 
state of perplexity, a very interesting scene was 
transacting in a different part of the Odenwald. 

The young Count von Altenburg was tranquilly 
pursuing his route in that sober jog-trot way in 
which a man travels toward matrimony when his 
friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty 
of courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting 
for him as certainly as a dinner, at the end of his 
journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg a 
youthful companion in arms, with whom he had 
seen some service on the frontiers, Herman von 
Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and wor¬ 
thiest hearts of German chivalry, who was now re¬ 
turning from the army. His father’s castle was not 
far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, al¬ 
though a hereditary feud rendered the families hos¬ 
tile and strangers to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition the 
young friends related all their past adventures and 
fortunes, and the Count gave the whole history of 
his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he 
had never seen, but of whose charms he had re¬ 
ceived the most enrapturing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same di¬ 
rection they agreed to perform the rest of their 
jonrney together; and that they might do it more 
leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, 
the Count having given directions for his retinue to 
follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections 
of their military scenes and adventures ; but the 
Count was apt to be a little tedious, now and then, 
about the reputed charms of his bride and the fe¬ 
licity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the moun¬ 
tains of the Odenwald, and were traversing one of 
its most lonely and thickly wooded passes. It is 
well known that the forests of Germany have al- 






172 


Treasury 

ways been as much infested with robbers as its 
castles by spectres ; and at this time the former 
were particularly numerous, from the hordes of 
disbanded soldiers wandering about the country. It 
will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the 
cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, 
in the midst of the forest. They defended them¬ 
selves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered 
when the Count’s retinue arrived to their assistance. 
At sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the 
Count had received a mortal wound. He was slowly 
and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtz- 
burg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring 
convent, who was famous for his skill in administer¬ 
ing to both soul and body. But half of his skill 
was superfluous ; the moments of the unfortunate 
Count were numbered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to 
repair instantly to the castle of Landshort, and ex¬ 
plain the fatal cause of his not keeping his appoint¬ 
ment with his bride. Though not the most ardent 
of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of 
men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that this 
mission should be speedily and courteously executed. 
“Unless this is done,” said he, “I shall not sleep 
quietly in my grave! ” He repeated these last 
words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a mo¬ 
ment so impressive, admitted no hesitation. Stark- 
enfaust endeavored to soothe him to calmness; 
promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave 
him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man 
pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed 
into delirium—raved about his bride—his engage¬ 
ments—his plighted word ; ordered his horse, that 
he might ride to the castle of Landshort, and ex¬ 
pired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier’s tear 
on the untimely fate of his comrade ; and then 
pondered on the awkward mission he had under¬ 
taken. His heart was heavy, and his head per¬ 
plexed ; for he was to present himself an unbidden 
guest among hostile people, and to damp their fes¬ 
tivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there 
were certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom 
to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so 
cautiously shut up from the world ; for he was a 
passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash 
of eccentricity and enterprise in his character that 
made him fond of all singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure, he made all due ar¬ 
rangements with the holy fraternity of the convent 
for the funeral solemnities of his friend, who was 
to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near 
some of his illustrious relatives ; and the mourning 
retinue of the Count took charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the 
ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impa¬ 
tient for their guest and still more for their din¬ 
ner ; and to the worthy little Baron, whom we left 
airing himself on the watch-tower. 


of Tales. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The 
Baron descended from the tower in despair. The 
banquet, which had been delayed from hour to hour, 
could no longer be postponed. The meats were 
already overdone ; the cook in an agony ; and “the 
whole household had a look of a garrison that had 
been reduced by famine. The Baron was obliged 
reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the 
presence of the guest. All were seated at table, and 
just on the point of commencing, when the sound 
of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the 
approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled 
the old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was 
answered by the warder from the walls. The Baron 
hastened to receive his future son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the 
stranger was before the gate. He was a tall, gallant 
cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His counte¬ 
nance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic 
eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The Baron 
was a little mortified that he should have come in 
this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a 
moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to con¬ 
sider it a want of proper respect for the important 
occasion and the important family with which he 
was to be connected. He pacified himself, however, 
with the conclusion that it must have been youth¬ 
ful impatience which had induced him thus to spur 
on sooner than his attendants. 

“ I am sorry,” said the stranger, “ to break in 
upon you thus unseasonably—” 

Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of 
compliments and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he 
prided himself upon his courtesy and his eloquence. 
The stranger attempted, once or twice, to stem the 
torrent of words, but in vain ; so he bowed his 
head and suffered it to flow on. By the time the 
Baron had come to a pause, they had reached the inner 
court of the castle ; and the stranger was again 
about to speak, when he was once more interrupted 
by the appearance of the female part of the family, 
leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He 
gazed on her for a moment as one entranced ; it 
seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the 
gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. One of 
the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear ; 
she made an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye 
was timidly raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on 
the stranger, and was cast again to the ground. 
The words died away ; but there was a sweet smile 
playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the 
cheek, that showed her glance had not been unsat¬ 
isfactory. It was impossible for a girl of the fond 
age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and 
matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a 
cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived 
left no time for parley. The Baron was peremp¬ 
tory, and deferred all particular conversation until the 
morning, and led the way to the untasted banquet 





The Spectre Bridegroom. 


i73 


It was served in the great hall of the castle. 
Around the walls hung the hard-favored portraits 
of the heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, 
and the trophies which they had gained in the 
field and in the chase. Hacked croslets, splintered 
jousting spears, and tattered banners were mingled 
with the spoils of sylvan warfare : the jaws of the 
wolf and the tusks of the boar grinned horribly 
among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair 
of antlers branched immediately over the head of 
the youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company 
or the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the ban¬ 
quet, but seemed absorbed in admiration of his 
bride. He conversed in a low tone that could not 
be overheard—for the language of love is never 
loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that it 
■cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover ? 
There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his 
manner that appeared to have a powerful effect upon 
the young lady. Her color came and went as she 
listened with deep attention. Now and then she 
made some blushing reply ; and when his eye was 
turned away she would steal a sidelong glance at 
his romantic countenance, and heave a gentle sigh 
of tender happiness. It was evident that the young 
•couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who 
were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, 
declared that they had fallen in love with each other 
at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for 
the guests were all blessed with those keen appetites 
that attend upon light purses and mountain air. 
The Baron told his best and longest stories, and 
never had he told them so well or with such great 
effect. If there was anything marvellous, his auditors 
were lost in astonishment ; and if anything face¬ 
tious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right 
place. The Baron, it is true, like most great men, 
was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one : 
it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of 
excellent Hochheimer : and even a dull joke, at one’s 
table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. 
Many good things were said by poorer and keener 
wits, that would not bear repeating, except on simi¬ 
lar occasions ; many sly speeches whispered in ladies’ 
ears, that almost convulsed them with suppressed 
laughter ; and a song or two roared out by a poor 
but merry and broad-faced cousin of the Baron, that 
absolutely made the maiden aunts hold up their 
fans. 

Amid all this revelry, the stranger guest main¬ 
tained a most singular aud unseasonable gravity. 
His countenance assumed a deeper cast of dejection 
as the evening advanced, and, strange as it may 
appear, even the Baron’s jokes seemed only to ren¬ 
der him the more melancholy. At times he was 
lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed 
and restless wandering of the eye that bespoke a 
mind but ill at ease. His conversation with the 


bride became more and more earnest and mysteri¬ 
ous. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair 
serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through 
her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the com¬ 
pany. Their gayety was chilled by the unaccount¬ 
able gloom of the bridegroom ; their spirits were 
infected ; whispers and glances were interchanged, 
accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the 
head. The song and the laugh grew less and less 
frequent ; there were dreary pauses in the conver¬ 
sation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales 
and supernatural legends. One dismal story pro¬ 
duced another still more dismal, and the Baron 
nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics 
with the history of the goblin horseman that car¬ 
ried away the fair Leonora—a dreadful but true his¬ 
tory, which has since been put into excellent verse, 
and is read and believed by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with pro¬ 
found attention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on 
the Baron, and as the story drew to a close, began 
gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and 
taller, until, in the Baron’s entranced eye, he seemed 
almost to tower into a giant. The moment the tale 
was finished, he heaved a deep sigh and took a sol¬ 
emn farewell of the company. They were all 
amazement. The Baron was perfectly thunder¬ 
struck. 

“ What ! going to leave the castle at midnight ? 
why, everything was prepared for his reception ; a 
chamber was ready for him if he wished to re¬ 
tire.” 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mys¬ 
teriously : “ I must lay my head in a different cham¬ 
ber to-night ! ” 

There was something in this reply and the tone in 
which it was uttered that made the Baron’s heart 
misgive him ; but he rallied his forces, and repeated 
his hospitable entreaties. The stranger shook his 
head silently but positively at every offer; and 
waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly 
out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely 
petrified—the bride hung her head, and a tear stole 
to her eye. 

The Baron followed the stranger to the great 
court of the castle, where the black charger stood 
pawing the earth, and snorting with impatience. 
When they had reached the portal, whose deep arch¬ 
way was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger 
paused, and addressed the Baron in a hollow tone 
of voice which the vaulted roof rendered still more 
sepulchral. “Now that we are alone,” said he, “I 
will impart to you the reason of my going. I have 
a solemn and indispensable engagement—” 

“Why,” said the Baron, “cannot you send some 
one in your place ? ” 

“ It admits of no substitute—I must attend it in 
person—I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral—” 

I “Ay,” said the Baron, plucking up spirit, “but 





i74 


Treasury of Tales. 


not until to-morrow—to-morrow you shall take your 
bride there.” 

“No! no!” replied the stranger, with tenfold 
solemnity, “ my engagement is with no bride—the 
worms ! the worms expect me ! I am a dead man 
—I have been slain by robbers—my body lies at 
Wurtzburg—at midnight I am to be buried—the 
grave is waiting for me—I must keep my appoint¬ 
ment ! ” 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the 
drawbridge, and the clattering of his horse’s hoofs 
was lost in the whistling of the night-blast. 

The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost 
consternation, and related what had passed. Two 
ladies fainted outright; others sickened at the idea 
of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the 
opinion of some that this might be the wild hunts¬ 
man famous in German legend. Some talked of 
mountain sprites, of wood demons, and of other 
supernatural beings, with which the good people of 
Germany have been so grievously harassed since 
time immemorial. One of the poor relations ven¬ 
tured to suggest that it might be some sportive 
evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very 
gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so 
melancholy a personage. This, however, drew on 
him the indignation of the whole company, and es¬ 
pecially of the Baron, who looked upon him as little 
better than an infidel ; so that he was fain to abjure 
his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into the 
faith of the true believers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts enter¬ 
tained, they were completely put to an end by the 
arrival, next day, of regular missives, confirming the 
intelligence of the young Count’s murder and his 
interment at Wurtzburg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. 
The Baron shut himself up in his chamber. The 
guests who had come to rejoice with him could not 
think of abandoning him in his distress. They wan¬ 
dered about the courts, or collected in groups in the 
hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoul¬ 
ders at the troubles of so good a man ; and sat 
longer than ever at table, and ate and drank more 
stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. 
But the situation of the widowed bride was the most 
pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had 
even embraced him—and such a husband ! if the 
very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what 
must have been the living man ? She filled the 
house with lamentations. 

On the night of the second day of her widow¬ 
hood, she had retired to her chamber, accompanied 
by one of her aunts who insisted on sleeping with 
her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of 
ghost stories in all Germany, had just been recount¬ 
ing one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the 
very midst of it. The chamber was remote, and 
overlooked a small garden. The niece lay pensive¬ 
ly gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they 


trembled on the leaves of an aspen tree before the 
lattice. The castle clock had just tolled midnight, 
when a soft strain of music stole up from the 
garden. She rose hastily from her bed, and 
stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood 
among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its 
head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. 
Heaven and earth ! she beheld the Spectre Bride¬ 
groom ! A loud shriek at that moment burst upon 
her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by 
the music, and had followed her silently to the 
window, fell into her arms. When she looked 
again the spectre had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the 
most soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself 
with terror. As to the young lady, there was some¬ 
thing, even in the spectre of her lover, that seemed 
endearing. There was still the semblance of manly 
beauty ; and though the shadow of a man is but 
little calculated to satisfy the affections of a love¬ 
sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, 
even that is consoling. The aunt declared she 
would never sleep in that chamber again ; the niece,, 
for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly 
that she would sleep in no other in the castle. The 
consequence was that she had to sleep in it alone; 
but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate 
the story of the spectre, lest she should be denied 
the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth—that 
of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian 
shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed 
this promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to 
talk of the marvellous, and there is a triumph in 
being the first to tell a frightful story ; it is, how¬ 
ever, still quoted in the neighborhood as a memo¬ 
rable instance of female secrecy that she kept it to 
herself for a whole week ; when she was suddenly 
absolved from all further restraint, by intelligence 
brought to the breakfast table one morning that the 
young lady was not to be found. Her room was 
empty—the bed had not been slept in—the window 
was open—and the bird had flown ! 

The astonishment and concern with which the in¬ 
telligence was received can only be imagined by 
those who have witnessed the agitation which the 
mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. 
Even the poor relations paused for a moment 
from the indefatigable labors of the trencher 
when the aunt, who had at first been struck speech¬ 
less, wrung her hands and shrieked out, “ The goblin I 
the goblin ! she’s carried away by the goblin ! ” 

In a few words she related the fearful scenes of 
the garden, and concluded that the spectre must 
have carried off his bride. Two of the domestics 
corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the 
clattering of the horse’s hoofs down the mountain 
about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the 
spectre on his black charger, bearing her away to 
the tomb. All present were struck with the direful 





Rab and his Friends. 


i75 


probability ; for events of the kind are extremely 
common in Germany, as many well-authenticated 
histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the 
poor Baron ! What a heart-rending dilemma for a 
fond father, and a member of the great family of 
Katzenellenbogen ! His only daughter had either 
been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have 
some wood - demon for a son - in - law, and, per¬ 
chance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, 
he was completely bewildered, and all the castle in 
an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse, 
and scour every road and path and glen of the 
Odenwald. The Baron himself had just drawn on 
his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about 
to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful 
quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new 
apparition. A lady was seen approaching the castle, 
mounted on a palfrey attended by a cavalier on 
horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang 
from her horse, and falling at the Baron’s feet, em¬ 
braced his knees. It was his lost daughter and her 
companion—the Spectre Bridegroom ! The Baron 
was astounded. He looked at his daughter, then at 
the Spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his 
senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved 
in his appearance, since his visit to the world of 
spirits. His dress w r as splendid, and set off a noble 
figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale 
and melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed 
with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large 
dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier 
(for in truth, as you must have known all the while, 
he was no goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman 
Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure with 
the young Count. He told how he had hastened to 
the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that 
the eloquence of the Baron had interrupted him in 
every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the 
bride had completely captivated him, and that to 
pass a few hours near her he had tacitly suffered the 
mistake to continue. How he had been sorely per¬ 
plexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until 
the Baron’s goblin stories had suggested his ec¬ 
centric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of 
the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth—had 
haunted the garden beneath the young lady’s window 
—had w'ooed—had w r on—had borne away in tri¬ 
umph—and, in a word, had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the Baron would 
have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal 
authority, and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds ; 
but he loved his daughter; he had lamented her as 
lost ; he rejoiced to find her still alive ; and, though 
her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank 
Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was some¬ 
thing, it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly 
accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the 
joke the knight had passed upon him of his being a 


dead man ; but several old friends present, who had 
served in the wars, assured him that every stratagem 
was excusable in love, and that the cavalier -was en¬ 
titled to especial privilege, having lately served as a 
trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The 
Baron pardoned the young couple on the spot. The 
revels at the castle were resumed. The poor rela¬ 
tions overwhelmed this new member of the family 
with loving kindness ; he was so gallant, so gener¬ 
ous, and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were some¬ 
what scandalized that their system of strict seclusion 
and passive obedience should be so badly exempli¬ 
fied, but attributed it all to their negligence in not 
having the windows grated. One of them was par¬ 
ticularly mortified at having her marvellous story 
marred, and that the only spectre she had ever seen 
should turn out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed 
perfectly happy at having found him substantial 
flesh and blood—and so the story ends. 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS. 

BY DOCTOR JOHN BROWN. 

I. 

F OUR-AND-THIRTY years ago, Bob Ainslie 
and I were coming up Infirmary Street, from 
the High School, our heads together, and our 
arms intertwisted as only lovers and boys know how 
or why. 

When we got to the top of the street, and turned 
north, we espied a crowd at the Tron Church. “A 
dog-fight! ” shouted Bob, and was off ; and so waa 
I, both of us all but praying that it might not be 
over before we got up ! And is not this boy-nature ? 
and human nature too ? and don’t we all wish a 
house on fire not to be out before we see it ? Dogs 
like fighting ; old Isaac says they “delight ” in it, and 
for the best of all reasons ; and boys are not cruel 
because they like to see the fight. They see three 
of the great cardinal virtues of dog or man—cour¬ 
age, endurance, and skill—in intense action. This 
is very different from a love of making dogs fight, 
and enjoying, and aggravating, and making gain by 
their pluck. A boy, be he never so fond himself of 
fighting, if he be a good boy, hates and despises all 
this, but he would have run off with Bob and me 
fast enough : it is a natural and a not wicked inter¬ 
est that all boys and men have in witnessing intense 
energy in action. 

Does any curious and finely ignorant woman wish 
to know how Bob’s eye at a glance announced a dog¬ 
fight to his brain ? He did not, he could not, see 
the dogs fighting ; it was a flash of an inference, a 
rapid induction. The crowd around a couple of dogs 
fighting is a crowd masculine mainly, with an occa¬ 
sional active, compassionate woman fluttering wildly 
round the outside, and using her tongue and her hands 








176 Treasury 

freely upon the men, as so many “ brutes ” ; it is a. 
crowd annular, compact, and mobile ; a crowd cen¬ 
tripetal, having its eyes and its heads all bent down¬ 
ward and inward, to one common focus. 

Well, Bob and I are up, and find it is not over : 
a small thoroughbred white bull-terrier is busy 
throttling a large shepherd’s dog, unaccustomed to 
war, but not to be trifled with. They are hard at it ; 
the scientific little fellow doing his work in great 
style, his pastoral enemy fighting wildly, but with the 
sharpest of teeth and a great courage. Science and 
breeding, however, soon had their own ; the Game 
Chicken, as the premature Bob called him, working 
his way up, took his final grip of poor Yarrow’s 
throat,—and he lay gasping and done for. 

His master, a brown, handsome, big young shep¬ 
herd from Tweedsmuir, would have liked to knock 
down any man, would “ drink up Esil, or eat a 
crocodile,” for that part, if he had a chance. It 
was no use kicking the little dog : that would only 
make him hold the closer. Many were the means, 
shouted out in mouthfuls, of the best possible ways 
of ending it. “ Water ! ” but there was none near, 
and many cried for it who might have got it from the 
well at Blackfriars Wynd. “ Bite the tail ! ” and a 
large, vague, benevolent, middle-aged man, more de¬ 
sirous than wise, with some struggle got the bushy 
end of Yarrow’s tail into his ample mouth, and bit 
it with all his might. This was more than enough 
for the much-enduring, much-perspiring shepherd, 
who, with a gleam of joy over his broad visage, de¬ 
livered a terrific facer upon our large, vague, be¬ 
nevolent, middle-aged friend,—who went down like 
a shot. 

Still the Chicken holds ; death not far off. “ Snuff! 
a pinch of snuff ! ” observed a calm, highly dressed 
young buck, with an eye-glass in his eye. “ Snuff, 
indeed ! ” growled the angry crowd, affronted and 
glaring. “ Snuff ! a pinch of snuff! ” again observes 
the buck, but with more urgency ; whereupon were 
produced several open boxes, and from a mull which 
may have been at Culloden, he took a pinch, knelt 
down, and presented it to the nose of the Chicken. 
The laws of physiology and of snuff take their 
course ; the Chicken sneezes, and Yarrow is 
free. 

The young pastoral giant stalks off with Yarrow 
in his arms,—comforting him. 

But the Bull Terrier’s blood is up, and his soul 
unsatisfied ; he grips the first dog he meets, and dis¬ 
covering she is not a dog, in Homeric phrase, he 
makes a brief sort of amende , and is off. The boys, 
with Bob and me at their head, are after him : down 
Niddry Street he goes, bent on mischief ; up the 
Cowgate, like an arrow,—Bob and I, and our small 
men, panting behind. 

"There, under the single arch of the South Bridge, 
is a huge mastiff, sauntering down the middle of the 
causeway, as if with his hands in his pockets : he is 
old, gray, and brindled, as big as a little Highland 


of 1'ales. 

bull, and has the Shakespearian dewlaps shaking as 
he goes. 

The Chicken makes straight at him, and fastens 
on his throat. To our astonishment, the great creat¬ 
ure does nothing but stand still, hold himself up, 
and roar,—yes, roar ; a long, serious, remonstrative 
roar. How is this ? Bob and I are up to them. 
He is muzzled ! The bailies had proclaimed a gen¬ 
eral muzzling, and his master, studying strength and 
economy mainly, had encompassed his huge jaws 
in a home-made apparatus, constructed out of the 
leather of some ancient breeching. His mouth was 
open as far as it could ; his lips curled up in rage,— 
a sort of terrible grin ; his teeth gleaming, ready, 
from out the darkness ; the strap across his mouth 
tense as a bow-string ; his whole frame stiff with in¬ 
dignation and surprise ; his roar asking us all round, 
“ Did you ever see the like of this ? ” He looked a 
statue of anger and astonishment, done in Aberdeen 
granite. 

We soon had a crowd ; the Chicken held on. “ A 
knife ! ” cried Bob ; and a cobbler gave him his 
knife. You know the kind of knife, worn away 
obliquely to a point, and always keen. I put its 
edge to the tense leather. It ran before it; and then ! 
—one sudden jerk of that enormous head, a sort of 
dirty mist about his mouth, no noise,—and the bright 
and fierce little fellow is dropped, limp and dead. 
A solemn pause : this was more than any of us had 
bargained for. I turned the little fellow over, and 
saw he was quite dead : the mastiff had taken him 
by the small of his back, like a rat, and broken it. 

He looked down at his victim, appeased, ashamed, 
and amazed ; snuffed him all over, stared at him, 
and taking a sudden thought, turned round and 
trotted off. Bob took the dead dog up, and said : 
“John, we’ll bury him after tea.” “Yes,” said I, 
and was off after the mastiff. He made up the Cow- 
gate at a rapid swing ; he had forgotten some en¬ 
gagement. He turned up the Candlemaker Row, 
and stopped at the Harrow Inn. 

There was a carrier’s cart ready to start, and a 
keen, thin, impatient, black-a-vised little man, his 
hand at his gray horse’s head, looking about angrily 
for something. “ Rab, ye thief ! ” said he, aiming a 
kick at my great friend, who drew cringing up, and 
avoided the heavy shoe with more agility than dig¬ 
nity, and, watching his master’s eye, slunk dismayed 
under the cart,—his ears down, and as much as he 
had of tail down too. 

What a man this must be—thought I—to whom 
my tremendous hero turns tail ! The carrier saw 
the muzzle hanging, cut and useless, from his neck, 
and I eagerly told him the story, which Bob and I 
always thought, and still think, Homer, or King 
David, or Sir Walter alone were worthy to rehearse. 
The severe little man was mitigated, and conde¬ 
scended to say, “ Rab, ma man, puir Rabbie ; ” 
whereupon the stump of a tail rose up, the ears 
were cocked, the eyes filled and were comforted : 






Rak and his Friends. 


the two friends were reconciled. “ Hupp ! ” and a 
stroke of the whip were given to Jess ; and off went 
the three. 

Bob and I buried the Game Chicken that night 
(we had not much of a tea) in the back-green of his 
house in Melville Street, No. 17, with considerable 
gravity and silence ; and being at the time in the 
Iliad, and, like all boys, Trojans, we called him 
Hector, of course. 

II. 

Six years have passed,—a long time for a boy and 
a dog : Bob Ainslie is off to the wars ; I am a medi¬ 
cal student, and clerk at Minto House Hospital. 

Rab I saw almost every week, on the Wednesday ; 
and we had much pleasant intimacy. I found the 
way to his heart by frequent scratching of his huge 
head, and an occasional bone. When I did not 
notice him he would plant himself straight before 
me, and stand wagging that bud of a tail, and look¬ 
ing up, with his head a little to the one side. His 
master I occasionally saw; he used to call me 
“ Maister John,” but was laconic as any Spartan. 

One fine October afternoon, I was leaving the 
hospital, when I saw the large gate open, and in 
walked Rab, with that great and easy saunter of his. 
He looked as if taking general possession of the 
place,—like the Duke of Wellington entering a sub¬ 
dued city, satiated with victory and peace. After 
him came Jess, now white from age, with her cart; 
and in it a woman carefully wrapped up,—the car¬ 
rier leading the horse anxiously, and looking back. 
When he saw me, James (for his name was James 
Noble) made a curt and grotesque “boo,” and said, 
“Maister John, this is the mistress; she’s got a 
trouble in her breest,—some kind o’ an income 
we’re thinkin’.” 

By this time I saw the woman’s face ; she was sit¬ 
ting on a sack filled with straw, her husband’s plaid 
round her, and his big-coat, with its large white 
metal buttons, over her feet. 

I never saw a more unforgetable face—pale, seri¬ 
ous, lonely, delicate, sweet, without being at all 
what we call fine. She looked sixty, and had on a 
mutch, white as snow, with its black ribbon, her sil¬ 
very, smooth hair setting off her dark gray eyes— 
eyes such as one sees only twice or thrice in a life¬ 
time, full of suffering, full also of the overcoming of 
it ; her eyebrows black and delicate, and her mouth 
firm, patient, and contented, which few mouths ever 
are. 

As I have said, I never saw a more beautiful 
countenance, or one more subdued to settled quiet. 

“Ailie,” said James, “this is Maister John, the 
young doctor ; Rab’s freend, ye ken. We often 
speak aboot you, doctor.” She smiled and made a 
movement, but said nothing, and prepared to come 
down, putting her plaid aside and rising. Had Sol¬ 
omon, in all his glory, been handing down the Queen 
of Sheba at his palace gate, he could not have done 


A / 7 

it more daintily, more tenderly, more like a gentle¬ 
man, than did James the Howgate carrier when he 
lifted down Ailie his wife. 

The contrast of his small, swarthy, weather-beaten, 
keen, worldly face to hers, pale, subdued, and beau¬ 
tiful, was something wonderful. Rab looked on 
concerned and puzzled, but ready for anything that 
might turn up—were “it to strangle the nurse, the 
porter, or even me. Ailie and he seemed great 
friends. 

“ As I was sayin’, she’s got a kind o’ trouble in 
her breest, doctor : wull ye tak’ a look at it ? ” We 
walked into the consulting-room, all four ; Rab grim 
and comic, willing to be happy and confidential if 
cause could be shown, willing also to be the reverse 
on the same terms. Ailie sat down, undid her open 
gown and her lawn handkerchief rCund her neck, 
and, without a word, showed me her right breast. I 
looked at and examined it carefully ; she and James 
watching me, and Rab eying all three. ‘ What could 
I say ? There it was, that had once been so'soft, so 
shapely, so white, so bountiful, so “ full of all blessed 
conditions,” hard as a stone, a centre of horrid pain, 
making that pale face with its gray, lucid, reasonable 
eyes, and its sweet resolved mouth, express the full 
measure of suffering overcome. Why was that 
gentle, modest, sweet woman, clean and lovable, 
condemned by God to bear such a burden ! I got 
her away to bed. 

“ May Rab and me bide ?” said James. 

“ You may ; and Rab, if he will behave himself.” 

“ I’se warrant he’s do that, doctor.” And in slunk 
the faithful beast. 

I wish you could have seen him. There are no 
such dogs now. He belonged to a lost tribe. As I 
have said, he was brindled and gray like Rubislaw 
granite ; his hair short, hard, and close, like a lion’s ; 
his body thick-set, like a little bull—a sort of com¬ 
pressed Hercules of a dog. He must have been 
ninety pounds’ weight, at the least; he had a large, 
blunt head ; his muzzle black as night, his mouth 
blacker than any night, a tooth or two—being all he 
had—gleaming out of his jaws of darkness. His 
head was scarred with the records of old wounds, a 
sort of series of fields of battle all over it; one eye 
out, one ear cropped as close as was Archbishop 
Leighton’s father’s ; the remaining eye had the 
power of two ; and above it, and in constant com¬ 
munication with it, was a tattered rag of an ear, 
which was forever unfurling itself like an old flag ; 
and then that bud of a tail, about one inch long—if 
it could in any sense be said to be long, being as 
broad as long—the mobility, the instantaneousness, 
of that bud were very funny and surprising, and 
its expressive twinklings and winkings, the inter¬ 
communications between the eye, the ear, and it, 
were of the oddest and swiftest. 

Rab had the dignity and simplicity of great size ; 
and having fought his way all along the road to ab¬ 
solute supremacy, he was as mighty in his own line 





178 Treasury 

as Julius Caesar or the Duke of Wellington, and had 
the gravity of all great fighters. 

You must have observed the likeness of certain 
men to certain animals, and of certain dogs to men. 
Now, I never looked at Rab without thinking of the 
great Baptist preacher, Andrew Fuller. The same 
large, heavy, menacing, combative, sombre, honest 
countenance, the same deep inevitable eye, the same 
look—as of thunder asleep, but ready—neither a dog 
nor a man to be trifled with. 

Next day my master, the surgeon, examined Ailie. 
There was no doubt it must kill her, and soon. It 
could be removed ; it might never return ; it would 
give her speedy relief; she should have it done. 

She courtesied, looked at James, and said, 
“ When ? ” 

“To-morrow,” said the kind surgeon, a man of 
few words. 

She and James and Rab and I retired. I noticed 
that he and she spoke little, but seemed to antici¬ 
pate everything in each other. The following day 
at noon the students came in, hurrying up the great 
stair. At the first landing-place, on a small, well- 
known blackboard, was a bit of paper fastened with 
wafers, and many remains of old wafers beside it. 
On the paper were the words, “ An operation to-day. 
J. B., Clerk .” 

Up ran the youths, eager to secure good places ; 
in they crowded, full of interest and talk. “ What’s 
the case ? ” “ Which side is it ? ” 

Don’t think them heartless: they are neither 
better nor worse than you or I ; they get over their 
professional horrors, and into their proper work ; 
and in them pity, as an emotion , ending in itself or 
at best in tears and a long-drawn breath, lessens; 
while pity as a motive is quickened, and gains power 
and purpose. It is well for poor human nature that 
it is so. 

III. 

The operating theatre is crowded ; much talk and 
fun, and all the cordiality and stir of youth. The 
surgeon with his staff of assistants is there. In 
comes Ailie ; one look at her quiets and abates the 
eager students. That beautiful old woman is too 
much for them ; they sit down, and are dumb, and 
gaze at her. These rough boys feel the power of 
her presence. She walks in quickly, but without 
haste ; dressed in her mutch, her neckerchief, her 
white dimity short-gown, her black bombazine pet¬ 
ticoat, showing her white stockings and her carpet- 
shoes. Behind her was James with Rab. James sat 
down in the distance, and took that huge and noble 
head between his knees. Rab looked perplexed 
and dangerous, forever cocking his ear and drop¬ 
ping it as fast. 

Ailie stepped up on a seat, and laid herself on the 
table, as her friend the surgeon told her ; arranged 
herself, gave a rapid look at James, shut her eyes, 
rested herself on me, and took my hand. The 


of Tales. 

operation was at once begun ; it was necessarily 
slow ; and chloroform—one of God’s best gifts to 
his suffering children—was then unknown. The 
surgeon did his work. The pale face showed its 
pain, but was still and silent. Rab’s soul was work¬ 
ing within him ; he saw that something strange was 
going on—blood flowing from his mistress, and she 
suffering ; his ragged ear was up and importunate ; 
he growled and gave now and then a sharp, impatient 
yelp ; he would have liked to do something to that 
man. But James had him firm, and gave him a 
glower from time to time, and an intimation of a 
possible kick : all the better for James, it kept his 
eye and his mind off Ailie. 

It is over: she is dressed, steps gently and 
decently down from the table, looks for James ; 
then, turning to the surgeon and the students, she 
courtesies, and in a low, clear voice begs their par¬ 
don if she has behaved ill. The students—all of 
us—wept like children ; the surgeon happed her up 
carefully; and, resting on James and me, Ailie went 
to her room, Rab following. We put her to bed. 

James took off his heavy shoes, crammed with 
tackets, heel-capped, and put them carefully under 
the table, saying, “ Maister John, I’m for nane o’ 
yer strange nurse bodies for Ailie. I’ll be her 
nurse, and I’ll gang aboot on my stockin’ soles as 
canny as pussy.” And so he did ; and handy and 
clever, and swift and tender, as any woman was 
that horny-handed, snell, peremptory little man. 
Everything she got, he gave her ; he seldom slept; 
and often I saw his small, shrewd eyes out of the 
darkness fixed on her. As before, they spoke little. 

Rab behaved well, never moving, showing us how 
meek and gentle he could be, and occasionally, in his 
sleep, letting us know that he was demolishing some 
adversary. He took a walk with me every day, gen¬ 
erally to the Candlemaker Row ; but he was sombre 
and mild ; declined doing battle, though some fit 
cases offered, and indeed submitted to sundry indig¬ 
nities ; and was always very ready to turn, and came 
faster back and trotted up the stair with much light¬ 
ness, and went straight to that door. 

§ Jess, the mare, had been sent, with her weather¬ 
worn cart, to Howgate, and had doubtless her own 
dim and placid meditations and confusions on the 
absence of her master and Rab, and her unnatural 
freedom from the road and her cart. 

For some days Ailie did well. The wound healed 
“by the first intention”; for, as James said, 
“ Oor Ailie’s skin’s ower clean to beil.” The stu¬ 
dents came in quiet and anxious, and surrounded 
her bed. She said she liked to see their young hon¬ 
est faces. The surgeon dressed her, and spoke to 
her in his own short, kind way, pitying her through 
his eyes, Rab and Jame£ outside the circle—Rab 
being now reconciled, and even cordial, and having 
made up his mind that as yet nobody required 
worrying, but, as you may suppose, semper paratus. 

So far, well : but, four days after the operation, 




Rab and his Friends. 


179 


my patient had a sudden and long shivering, a 
“ groossin’,” as she called it. I saw her soon after ; 
her eyes were too bright, her cheek colored ; she 
was restless, and ashamed of being so ; the balance 
was lost ; mischief had begun. On looking at the 
wound, a blush of red told the secret; her pulse 
was rapid, her breathing anxious and quick, she 
wasn’t herself, as she said, and was vexed at her 
restlessness. We tried what we could. James did 
everything, was everywhere, never in the way, never 
out of it. Rab subsided under the table into a dark 
place and was motionless, all but his eye, which fol¬ 
lowed every one. 

Ailie got worse ; began to wander in her mind, 
gently; was more demonstrative in her ways to 
James, rapid in her questions, and sharp at times. 
He was vexed, and said, “ She was never that way 
afore ; no, never.” For a time she knew her head 
was wrong, and was always asking our pardon—the 
dear gentle old woman : then delirium set in strong, 
without pause. Her brain gave way, and then came 
that terrible spectacle— 

The intellectual power through words and things 

Went sounding on its dim and perilous way ; 

she sang bits of old songs and Psalms, stopping sud¬ 
denly, mingling the Psalms of David, and the 
diviner words of his Son and Lord, with homely 
odds and ends and scraps of ballads. 

Nothing more touching, or in a sense more 
strangely beautiful, did I ever witness. Her tremu¬ 
lous, rapid, affectionate, eager Scotch voice—the 
swift, aimless, bewildered mind, the baffled utter¬ 
ance, the bright and perilous eye ; some wild words, 
some household cares, something for James, the 
names of the dead, Rab called rapidly and in a 
“fremyt” voice, and he starting up, surprised, and 
slinking off as if he were to blame somehow, or had 
been dreaming he heard ; many eager questions and 
beseechings which James and I could make nothing 
of, and on which she seemed to set her all, and then 
sink back ununderstood. It Avas very sad, but 
better than many things that are not called sad. 
James hovered about, put out and miserable, but 
active and exact as ever ; read to her, when there 
was a lull, short bits from the Psalms, prose and 
metre, chanting the latter in his own rude and seri¬ 
ous way, showing great knowledge of the fit words, 
bearing up like a man, and doting over her as his 
“ ain Ailie.” “Ailie, ma woman ! ” “Ma ain bon- 
nie wee dawtie ! ” 

The end was drawing on ; the golden bowl was 
breaking ; the silver cord was fast being loosed : 
that animula blandula , vagula, hospes, comesque , was 
about to flee. The body and soul—companions for 
sixty years—were being sundered, and taking leave. 
She was walking, alone, through the valley of the 
shadow into which one day we must all enter—and 
yet she was not alone, for we know whose rod and 
staff were comforting her. 


One night she had fallen quiet, and as we hoped 
asleep : her eyes were shut. We put down the gas, 
and sat watching her. Suddenly she sat up in bed, 
and taking a bed-gown which was lying on it rolled 
up, she held it eagerly to her breast—to the right 
side. We could see her eyes bright with surprising 
tenderness and joy, beqding over this bundle of 
clothes. She held it as a woman holds her sucking 
child ; opening out her nightgown impatiently, and 
holding it close, and brooding over it, and murmur¬ 
ing foolish little words, as over one whom his mother 
comforteth, and who sucks and is satisfied. It was 
pitiful and strange to see her wasted, dying look, 
keen and yet vague—her immense love. 

“ Preserve me ! ” groaned Janies, giving way. And 
then she rocked back and forward, as if to make it 
sleep, hushing it, and wasting on it her infinite 
fondness. 

“ Wae’s me, doctor; I declare she’s thinkin’ it’s 
that bairn.” 

“ What bairn ? ” 

“ The only bairn we ever had ; our wee Mysie, 
and she’s in the Kingdom forty years and mair.” 

It was plainly true ; the pain in the breast telling 
its urgent story to a bewildered, ruined brain, was 
misread and mistaken ; it suggested to her the un¬ 
easiness of a breast full of milk and then the child; 
and so again once more they were together, and she 
had her ain wee Mysie in her bosom. 

This was the close. She sank rapidly : the de¬ 
lirium left her; but, as she whispered, she was 
“ clean silly ” : it was the lightning before the final 
darkness. After having for some time lain still, her 
eyes shut, she said, “James ! ” He came close to' 
her, and lifting up her calm, clear, beautiful eyes, 
she gave him a long look, turned to me kindly but 
shortly, looked for Rab, but could not see him, then 
turned to her husband again, as if she would never 
leave off looking, shut her eyes, and composed her¬ 
self. She lay for some time breathing quick, and 
passed away so gently that when we thought she was 
gone, James, in his old-fashioned way, held the 
mirror to her face. After a long pause, one small 
spot of dimness was breathed out; it vanished away, 
and never returned, leaving the blank, clear darkness 
of the mirror without a stain. “ What is our life ? 
it is even a vapor, which appeareth for a little time, 
and then vanisheth away.” 

Rab all this time had been full awake and motion¬ 
less ; he came forward beside us : Allie’s hand, which 
James had held, was hanging down; it was soaked 
with his tears; Rab licked it all over carefully, looked 
at her, and returned to his place under the table. 

James and I sat, I don’t know how long, but for 
some time, saying nothing. He started up abruptly, 
and with some noise went to the table, and putting 
his right fore and middle fingers each into a shoe, 
pulled them out, and put them on, breaking one of 
the leather latchets, and muttering in anger, “ I 
never did the like o’ that afore ! ” 




i8o 


Treasury of Tales. 


I believe he never did ; nor after either. “ Rab ! ” 
he said roughly, and pointing with his thumb to the 
bottom of the bed. Rab leapt up, and settled him¬ 
self, his head and eye to the dead face. “ Maister 
John, ye ’ll wait for me,” said the carrier, and dis¬ 
appeared in the darkness, thundering down stairs in 
his heavy shoes. I ran to a front window ; there he 
was, already round the house and out at the gate, 
fleeing like a shadow. 

I was afraid about him, and yet not afraid ; so I 
sat down beside Rab, and, being wearied, fell asleep. 
I awoke from a sudden noise outside. It was No¬ 
vember, and there had been a heavy fall of snow. 
Rab was in statu quo ; he heard the noise too, and 
plainly knew it, but never moved. I looked out; 
and there, at the gate, in the dim morning,—for the 
sun was not up,—was Jess and the cart, a cloud of 
• steam rising from the old mare. I did not see 
James ; he was already at the door, and came up the 
stairs, and met me. It was less than three hours 
since he left, and he must have posted out—who 
knows how ?—to Howgate, full nine miles off, yoked 
Jess, and driven her astonished into town. He had 
an armful of blankets, and was streaming with per¬ 
spiration. He nodded to me, spread out on the 
floor two pairs of clean old blankets, having at their 
corners, “A. G., 1794,” in large letters in red worst¬ 
ed. These were the initials of Alison Grame, and 
James may have looked in at her from without— 
himself unseen but not unthought of—when he was 
“ wat, wat, and weary,” and after having walked 
many miles over the hills, may have seen her sitting 
while “ a’ the lave were sleepin’ ” ; and by the fire¬ 
light working her name on the blankets, for her ain 
James’s bed. 

He motioned Rab down, and, taking his wife in 
his arms, laid her in the blankets, and happed her 
carefully and firmly up, leaving the face uncovered; 
and then lifting her, he nodded again sharply to me, 
and, with a resolved but utterly miserable face, 
strode along the passage, and down stairs, followed 
by Rab. I followed with a light; but he didn’t 
need it. I went out, holding stupidly the candle in 
my hand in the calm, frosty air ; we were soon at 
the gate. I could have helped him, but I saw he 
was not to be meddled with, and he was strong, and 
did not need it. He laid her down as tenderly, as 
safely, as he had lifted her out ten days before,—as 
tenderly as when he had her first in his arms when 
she was only “ A. G.,”—sorted her, leaving that 
beautiful sealed face open to the heavens ; and then 
taking Jess by the head, he moved away. He did 
not notice me, neither did Rab, who presided be¬ 
hind the cart. 

I stood till they passed through the long shadow 
of the College, and turned up Nicholson Street. I 
heard the solitary cart sound through the streets, and 
die away and come again ; I returned, thinking of 
that company going up Libberton Brae, then along 
Roslin Muir, the morning light touching the Pent- 


lands and making them like on-looking ghosts ; then 
down the hill through Auchindinny woods, past 
“ haunted Woodhouselee ” ; and as daybreak came 
sweeping up the bleak Lammermuirs, and fell on his 
own door, the company would stop, and James 
would take the key, and lift Ailie up again, laying 
her on her own bed, and, having put Jess up, would 
return with Rab and shut the door. 

IV. 

James buried his wife with his neighbors mourn¬ 
ing, Rab inspecting the solemnity from a distance. 
It was snow, and that black, ragged hole would look 
strange in the midst of the swelling, spotless cushion 
of white. James looked after everything ; then rather 
suddenly fell ill, and took to bed ; wp.s insensible 
when the doctor came, and soon died. A sort of 
low fever was prevailing in the village, and his want 
of sleep, his exhaustion, and his misery made him 
apt to take it. The grave was not difficult to reopen. 
A fresh fall of snow had again made all things white 
and smooth ; Rab once more looked on, and slunk 
home to the stable. 

And what of Rab ? I asked for him next week 
of the new carrier who got the good-will of James’s 
business, and was now master of Jess and her cart. 
“ How’s Rab ? ” He put me off, and said rather 
rudely, “ What’s your business wi’ the dowg ? ” I 
was not to be so put off. “ Where’s Rab ? ” He, 
getting confused and red, and intermeddling with 
his hair, said, “’Deed, sir, Rab’s deid.” “Dead! 
what did he die of ?” “ Weel, sir,” said he, getting 

redder, “ he didna exactly dee ; he was killed. I had 
to brain him wi’ a rack-pin ; there was nae doin’ wi’ 
him. He lay in the treviss wi’ the mear, and wadna 
come oot. I tempit him wi’ kail and meat, but he 
wad tak naething, and keepit me frae feedin’ the 
beast, and he was aye gur gurrin’, and grup gruppin’ 
me by the legs. I was laith to make awa wi’ the 
auld dowg, his like wasna atween this and Thornhill, 
—but ’deed, sir, I could do naething else.” 

* * * I believed him. Fit end for Rab, 

quick and complete. His teeth and his friends gone, 
why should he keep the peace and be civil ? 


THE WIDOW MERAND. 

A STORY IN TWELVE PICTURES. 

I. 

I T is evening in St. Roque. Broad August moon¬ 
light silvers the gray gables of the quaint old 
Norman houses—silvers the exquisite spire 
of St. Pierre and the empty booths of the fruit- 
sellers in the market-place beneath, and brings into 
dark distinctness, at the far end of the long pictu¬ 
resque street, the twin spires of severe, frowning 
St. Etienne. 






The Widow Merand. 


181 


“ I must take yet another turn,” says M. Alphonse 
Rendu to himself. He lights a fresh cigar, and 
walks back toward St. Etienne. 

Moonlight and the reflection from a cigar are 
neither of them flattering to the complexion. 

So it is better to follow Monsieur Rendu until he 
passes the old cathedral of St. Etienne and turns 
into the great square beyond ; the square is full of 
lamps, and here he is so obliging as to sit down on 
one of the benches under the lime-trees, and take 
off his hat, and we get quite a good look at his 
face. 

Not so bad ! And yet he is not what can be called 
handsome. He has honest blue eyes and a benevo¬ 
lent forehead, and a good mouth—a little severe, 
perhaps, but his moustache and beard curl over it so 
playfully that you can’t find much fault, as your 
eyes go wandering up and you note how well the 
crisp auburn waves of his hair match with the beard. 
If his face were not so flat and his nose so broad, 
Monsieur Rendu would, after all, come under the 
objectionable denomination “ handsome.” He does 
not think the word objectionable. Listen to his 
thoughts as he sits smoking, in the broad moon¬ 
light of the Place St. Etienne : 

“ Yes, she is handsome ! Her eyes are as bright as 
diamonds, and as dark as velvet; but they have the 
hardness of diamonds. But why am I a fool ? can 
it signify whether a woman’s eyes be hard or soft, 
so long as they are full of love for me ? and Madame 
Merand gives more than love to her husband, she 
gives him a home—position. Well, what do I want 
with these ? have I not enough to pay for lodging 
and clothes, and food enough and to spare, out of 
my own earnings ? ” He rises and paces up and 
down till he has finished his cigar, and then he still 
paces up and down, whistling softly. “ If I could 
think—but no, no, no ! She is as cold as a little 

stone, and as proud as-ah ! it is hard that, in 

this life, we cannot have things as we choose.” 

Having given birth to this surprising discovery of 
hardships, Monsieur Alphonse takes his way back 
into the Rue Notre Dame, and then goes on past the 
Hotel St. Barbe, to his lodging over the shop of 
Madame Bobineau, that well-known perfumer and 
glover at the corner of the Place St. Pierre. To his 
lodging and to bed, but not to dream of handsome¬ 
eyed widow Merand, the wealthy proprietor of the 
Hotel St. Barbe. The dreams of Monsieur Al¬ 
phonse are of a young face with a pale, clear skin 
and large wondering eyes—eyes that have no fixed 
beauty in them, though they haunt the memory— 
eyes that fake fresh meanings as fresh emotions 
lighten in them. “ Mimi ! ” this young clerk mur¬ 
murs in his sleep, and “ Mimi ” is not the name of 
Madame Merand. 

II. 

Next morning is a festival, and Madame Merand’s 
dark oval face looks very handsome as she hurries 


home from early mass. She likes to be at home 
again, settled in her little parlor opposite the salle-a- 
rnanger by the time her regular visitors come in and 
breakfast. This parlor is a little room for so queen¬ 
like a woman, but it commands the whole of the 
arched entrance, and she can overlook from it the 
courtyard of the inn. 

She looks very handsome, as she sits near the 
open door ; her plain black stuff gown fits her per¬ 
fect shape so easily, and the tiny cambric collar and 
cuffs are snowy in their fineness. She wears coral 
ear-rings and a brooch to match, of the simplest 
form ; a rich plait of dark glossy hair circling her 
well-shaped head ; and yet Madame Merand cannot 
look simple—with all this plainness, she is like a 
queen. 

The guests pass in and out : she bows to some, to 
one or two she rises and courtesies ; but generally 
she gets up and retreats into her little room. 

A young man is coming out of the salle ; he bows 
to madame, and smiles. 

She courtesies and then her lips move. He cannot 
hear, and has to go into the little parlor before he 
can understand what she says. 

“ My neighbor, Monsieur Le Petit, is going to 
Cabourg-les-bains on Sunday,” says Madame ; “ he 
has room in his char-a-ba?ic , if you, Monsieur, will 
accept a place ; it is very pleasant at Cabourg.” 

And then the bright dark eyes look at Monsieur 
Rendu with an intensity of expression that troubles 
him. 

Only for a moment, Monsieur Rendu thinks of 
the fresh sea-breezes in contrast with the furnace¬ 
like heat that comes in through the arched entrance. 

“ Ma foi !—yes, it must be pleasant. Madame, I 
return many thanks to Monsieur Le Petit, and I am 
enchanted to accept his offer.” 

Monsieur Rendu bows and smiles devotedly and 
then sallies forth to the banking-house. The widow 
looks after him, and she sighs. 

Madame Merand can quit her parlor now and 
go up to her own room. There she paces up 
and down a different woman altogether from the 
calm, self-possessed owner of the little parlor of the 
Hotel St. Barbe. 

“ Does he love me—or has he no feeling, or does 
he love some one else? He likes me—he never 
shuns an opportunity of talking to me—but there it 
ends. Oh, mon Dieu ! how much longer is this 
torture to go on ? ” 

She stops before the looking-glass : a proud 
smile curves her lips, usually too firm in their chis¬ 
elling. “ He must love me 1 ” the beautiful woman 
murmurs ; “ but he dares not show his love because 
he is poor.” 

And yet her heart aches still—aches with that 
incessant hunger so hard to appease—the hunger of 
a love which has given itself unsought. Looking 
at Madame Merand, it is difficult to think this can 
be her case—more difficult to realize that she will 










182 


Treasury of Tales. 


fail in attaining anything on which she has deter¬ 
mined. 

There is power as well as passion in those dark, 
flashing, resolute eyes. 

III. 

Old Madame Bobineau makes a good contrast 
to Madame Merand. She is Norman born, and 
has long ago lost every tooth in her head. Her 
face, in color and wrinkles, puts one in mind of a 
peach-stone ; while the face of the young girl she 
talks to on this sunny August morning may serve 
as counterpart to the bloom on the peach. The girl 
is very fair ; as she lifts her large wondering eyes to 
the old woman’s face, a tinge of soft rose steals 
through the transparent skin. 

There is a mutinous movement in the red full 
lips. 

“ I tell thee, Mimi, it is neglectful and intolerable 
—an orphan, with her own living to earn, to con¬ 
sider herself above her duties : it is thy positive 
duty to fit each glove across the knuckles, so ”—the 
old lady doubles up her skinny claws by way of 
illustration—“ and from the point of the finger and 
the thumb-tip, so. I will have it done, I say ! ” 
Madame Bobineau stamps her foot, and her voice 
rises into that exasperating pitch of shrillness which, 
to some feminine minds, represents power. 

“ Well, madame—I hear you,” Mimi says. Her 
heart swells proudly ; she would like to put on her 
bonnet, and seek another employment : but she is 
an orphan. Her father, Christophe Lalonge, an un¬ 
successful musician in Rouen, married one of his 
pupils, for love, against the wish of her parents, and 
reaped the bitter fruit. When he and his young 
wife died of the same fever, their one child was left 
destitute. Through the intervention of the priest 
who had ministered to them, little Mimi was brought 
up carefully and kindly by some of the good relig- 
ieuses of Rouen ; and, later on, Madame Bobineau, 
a far-off cousin of the dead musician’s, agreed to 
take the orphan as shop-woman in her business at 
St. Roque, provided Mimi established no expecta¬ 
tions on this offer, and found her own lodgings ; for 
Madame Bobineau’s house was close to the beautiful 
church of St. Pierre and the market-place, and her 
lodgings were sought after and well paid for. She 
had now, au premier , an invalid lady staying at St. 
Roque for the sake of its famous library ; au second, 
Monsieur le Capitaine Loigereau ; au troisihne, 
Monsieur le Vicomte de Foulanges, sous-lieutenant 
—both attached to the 75th, now quartered in 
the town ; and, au quatrieme , in the front room, 
Monsieur Alphonse Rendu, clerk at the bank of 
Carmier Freres, in the Rue St. Jean; all good 
customers, who took their meals at the table of 
Madame Bcbineau’s gossip and friend, widow 
Merand, of the Hotel St. Barbe. In Madame Bob¬ 
ineau’s orderly and well-regulated household a 
young girl could not be located among so many men, 
two of them soldiers; so Mimi had a lodging in a 


by-street. There was a private door to the house 
of Madame Bobineau ; if the lodgers came into 
the shop, it must be from the street, and as custom¬ 
ers ; and it is about one of these very lodgers that 
she is now so angry as to raise a storm of controlled 
rebellion in Mimi Lalonge. 

Madame Bobineau gives another stamp with her 
carpet-shod foot, and retreats to her den, whence, 
spider-like, she can watch through the semi-cur¬ 
tained glass-door. 

Mimi sits down behind the counter, and leans her 
head back against the rows of compartmented 
shelves, so as to get beyond the range of the glass- 
door. There is a far-off seeking look in her gray 
eyes—a look that easily becomes imploring ; it does 
so now—the red lips part, and the lower one droops. 

“ What can I do ? Madame Bobineau is not 
kind ; I cannot love her ; but she might be worse ; 
and if I leave her she will not give me a recom¬ 
mendation, and how is a young girl to find employ¬ 
ment without one ? Why am I so silly ? why is it 
nothing to me to try on the gloves of others, and 
yet with him—ah ! with him it is quite different. I 
cannot; my fingers tremble — they all become 
thumbs. Oh, what is it ? ” 

IV. 

Madame Bobineau went to mass at St. Etienne; 
on her way home she called in on Madame Merand. 

In her calm, quiet way, madame related to her 
sympathizing gossip her domestic grievances ; how 
the new fe?nme de chambre would spend her time 
in chattering with the waiter-boy ; how the up¬ 
stairs garfon Ferdinand, had been lost for three 
hours yesterday, and was then discovered sound 
asleep in the bed he was supposed to be making ; 
how a plum-pudding had been served in honor of 
some English travellers, and how the English had 
grimaced, and refused it, because of the rum—the 
“ rhom,” Madame Merand affirmed, being the only 
good point about it. Having related these griev¬ 
ances in her calm, assured voice, Madame Merand 
inquired after Madame Bobineau’s lodgers. 

“ Ma foi ! ” the two little black beads in the 
peach-stone face of Madame Bobineau twinkle into 
slyness ; “ it seems to me you see as much of them 
as I do : as I went to mass, Monsieur Rendu was 
coming out of your parlor. He is favored ; but 
he is a well-mannered, discreet youth. Very well: 
only this morning I had a discussion about him with 
Mimi—I have told you of Mimi, the orphan of poor 
Christophe ? ” 

The pupils of Madame Merand’s eyes contract, 
and then they blaze on the withered old crone with 
fierce intelligence. 

“ Mimi, your shop-girl ? what should she know of 
Monsieur Rendu ? Madame Bobineau, your good 
sense should teach you to keep her out of the way 
of your lodgers.” 

Madame Bobineau has outgrown passion, except 




The Widow Merand. 


when she is disobeyed. Moreover, she is unwilling 
to offend a friend who can give away sometimes a 
ris de veau , sometimes the remains of a vol-au-vent 
aux truffes —and Bobineau’s old mouth waters at 
the thought of such dainties — so she answers 
meekly : 

“ Yes—yes, I am careful ! but the girl must serve 
customers. I have seen Monsieur Rendu come into 
the shop often lately for gloves, and Mimi stands 
there useless ; she lets him choose and try for him¬ 
self. It is not respectful ; it may give him offence, 
and he may seek another lodging.” 

Madame Merand listens, and then she falls off 
into a reverie. She does not hear what Madame 
Bobineau is saying about the uncertain habits of the 
literary lady— au premier, who forgets her dinner, 
and spends the whole day in the dusty old library of 
the Mu see. 

“ Madame Bobineau,” says the calm voice on a 
sudden, “ Mimi is too pretty to serve in a shop. 
Why don’t you marry her off ? ” 

“ Goodness ! ” (the old, brown face is more puck¬ 
ered than before) “ who will marry a girl without a 
dowry ? And I have none to give her ; I am a poor 
old woman, Madame Merand, and shall scarcely 
leave enough behind me to pay for masses for my 
soul.” 

The old woman, so hard and callous to her fel¬ 
lows, grows sentimental over her friend’s canary 
bird : it is a “jewel,” a “pet” ; but the endearing 
names which Madame Bobineau has at command 
are not many. She stands peering between the gay 
gilded wires, and Madame Merand sits thinking. 
She is bending forward ; her handsome face rests in 
the long slender hand ; the eyes are so veiled by the 
sweeping dark lashes that only an occasional glitter 
betrays their light. 

“ I will find a husband for Mimi,” she says, after 
awhile ; and there is a hurry in the calm voice—a 
voice that has a way of snubbing excitement in 
others by its ordinary repose. “ I take charge of it. 
And, by the way, I know of one already—your 
lodger, the Captain Loigereau.” 

“ Monsieur Loigereau ! ” Bobineau shrieks in her 
shrillest falsetto : “ a full captain—a gentleman ! he 
marry Mimi ? My friend, you are laughing at me ! ” 

“ I tell you—No ! Monsieur Loigereau is a good 
man ; he is humble ; he tells me everything ; he has 
risen by his own merits ; he can read, but his writing 
is that of an ignorant person. Well, Monsieur 
Loigereau is more than forty ; he will have com¬ 
pleted his full term of military service in October; 
ne has been prudent, and he will then buy a little 
property in the Auvergnat. He wishes to take a 
wife, and he has asked me to choose him one : she 
must be young, and pretty, and amiable. Are you 
convinced now ? ” 

“ He must be a fool! ” but Madame Bobineau 
looked round her cautiously as she said it. “ He 
might find a woman with a nice little sum to add to 


183 

his. Ah ! my friend ”—she puts her skinny fingers 
impressively on the fair widow’s plump arm—“ there 
is nothing like money—but I must go home.” 

They kiss each other on both cheeks ; Madame 
Merand’s glowing skin, like a nectarine in its rich 
dark tint, seems more even and velvet-like than ever 
against Bobineau’s wrinkles. 

“ Au revoir,” says the younger woman, “I am 
coming down to the Place presently.” 

“ Nothing like money ! ” she murmurs, while her 
dark eyes follow Madame Bobineau. “ Old imbe¬ 
cile ! nothing like happiness she means.” 

At seventeen Madame Merand had married her 
first husband, aged seventy, for money and nothing 
else, so she was qualified to give her opinion. 

Y. 

Mimi goes into the den and says, “ Good-evening ” 
to her employer. 

Madame Bobineau looks at her sharply with 
those unfringed eyes of hers, and nods her head, 
then she calls Mimi back again in her shrill rasping 
voice. 

The girl turns, but she does not come back. 

“ Come here, child. Why dost thou not tell me 
of Madame Merand’s goodness to thee ? ” 

A flush steals over the delicate face, and deepens 
there till Mimi is rosy red. 

“ There is nothing to tell. Madame asked me to 
go and see her to-morrow evening, but she did not 
wait for my answer. She went away. I am not 
going to see her.” 

“ What ” (the old wrinkled face falls on one 
shoulder), “ this whim of Mimi’s is incomprehen¬ 
sible.” 

“ Hush ! ” madame cries, shrilly ; “ thou art only a 
child, or I should be angry. Such an honor may 
not come again in thy life. Besides, simpleton, thou 
art not asked alone—thou wilt go with me. I will 
not listen to refusal; to-morrow at eight we visit 
Madame Merand.” 

Mimi turned away ; her high spirits rose against 
this tyranny, and then the natural feelings of youth 
pleaded its cause. There was something exhilarat¬ 
ing in the idea of this her first soiree at St. Roque. 
Why should she refuse ? 

“ I know why it is ; Madame Merand is a person 
I dislike. Why need she fix her great black eyes on 
me as if she thought I had done something wrong ; 
I am sure she did not care for my company. She 
only wanted to do me a kindness.” 

She reached her little attic-room, in a back 
street, close to the Place St. Etienne. She sat down 
wearily, and threw her bonnet on the bed. 

“ I am like the child in the story-book : I can’t 
get cake, so I won’t eat biscuit. What would the 
good sisters think if they saw me so ungrateful for 
kindness ? I have grown wicked since I left Rouen ; 
he may not be at Madame Merand’s, and if he is 
there he will bow to me, and then it will be over.” 










184 


Treasury of Tales. 


Afternoon comes next day, and Madame Bobineau 
mounts up to her own bedroom to lay out her cap 
of real Valenciennes lace, with its blue bows, and 
her black silk gown, and old-fashioned shawl. She 
is only up-stairs half an hour ; but much may hap¬ 
pen in that time. 

Mimi sits in the shop as usual—no, not quite as 
usual; she is sewing some lace on to a band to 
make a frill for her throat to-night, and Monsieur 
Rendu comes in before she sees him. 

“ Oh, I hope he will not come to-night,” she 
thinks ; but he comes up to the counter and asks for 
a pair of lavender gloves, and Mimi feels there is no 
hope of his absence. It is strange that this want of 
hope should make her feel so happy. She does not 
fit his gloves, but she hands him those he has chosen 
neatly wrapped in paper. 

“ Mademoiselle,” says Rendu, his quick eyes have 
detected Madame’s absence through the open door, 

“ I-.” Here he stops, as embarrassed as the 

blushing girl behind the counter. “ Mademoiselle, 
I will have, if you please, another pair.” 

He looks so confused, so embarrassed, that Mimi 
smiles. She cannot help it; it is so wonderful to 
see Monsieur Rendu nervous and - blushing like 
herself. 

He sees the smile and grows yet redder—takes 
the gloves, pays for them hastily, and leaves the 
shop with a formal bow to Mimi. 

“ Cold ! ” the young man says to himself ; “ she 
is a thousand times worse : she is sarcastic, she 
laughs at me—she is heartless ! I will buy my 
gloves somewhere else. I will not be laughed at.” 

Mimi is puzzled at herself. 

“ He changes so ! I was quite feeling glad that 
he would be at Madame Merand’s, and then when I 
saw his proud face I was more afraid of him than 
ever. Why do I think of him at all ? It is always 
him—him—him ! I hope he will mot be there.” 

VI. 

At Madame Merand’s, where the young girl, in 
her simple white dress, is only stared at by the guests, 
she feels as if a damp, dull mist has fallen on her 
enjoyment. There is no one in the room nearly as 
young as Monsieur Rendu ; there is deaf Monsieur 
Le Petit and his chattering wife, and Monsieur 
Leroux, who takes snuff every five minutes, while 
little fat Monsieur Martin holds him by the button 
and talks politics, rising to the tips of his boots and 
sinking his voice to a whisper each time he quotes 
a dangerous opinion. 

These are all; but a little later the door of the 
large, low room is thrown open, and in walks an 
officer in full uniform. “ Monsieur le Capitaine 
Loigereau,” shouts Ferdinand. The captain is 
short and stout, with a face like a full moon. He is 
bald, too, and has little hair beside his moustaches ; 
and as he holds his head very erect, he has the air 


of a grocer’s image in the act of making a summer¬ 
sault backwards. 

Mimi is surprised, and a little elated, when this 
gentleman with the epaulettes is presented to her— 
still more when he converses. 

She has not seen him in the shop. Monsieur 
Loigereau does not affect gloves and perfumes ; his 
idea of happiness is to be in the open air, within 
sight of green trees and fields, if he can find them. 

“ Does—mademoiselle—like—trees ? ” he puffs 
out each word separately like the snort of a steam- 
engine. 

“Yes, but I have seen so few.” 

“ Mademoiselle has been in the Cours Caffarelli ? ” 

“No, monsieur,” Mimi sighs. She has often 
longed for an evening walk beside the river ; but 
Madame Bobineau has told her she cannot go there 
alone. She is surprised when the old woman joins 
in— 

“ 1 will take thee there on Sunday, Mimi, after 
vespers.” 

Mimi wonders why the captain smiles and looks 
pleased. 

“Certainly I have enjoyed myself,” says Mimi, 
when she reaches her lodging; u that captain is a 
kind old man. How good of him to take the old 
Bobineau home ! ” 

VII. 

Next morning is market-day. Monsieur Rendu 
meets Monsieur Loigereau with an enormous 
bouquet. 

“ Aha, Monsieur le Capitaine, that is for some fair 
lady ! ” and Rendu laughs a little too merrily per¬ 
haps at the fat captain, with his crimson trousers 
and full-colored nosegay. 

“Monsieur,” says the captain, scarlet to his ears, 
“it is indeed for the lady who is to be my wife.” 

Monsieur Rendu asks pardon, and goes on with¬ 
out even wondering who is the object of the cap¬ 
tain’s devotion. 

The captain stumps along on his sturdy little 
legs to the corner of the Place ; he will be late at 
breakfast, but he must do his duty. 

“ Good morning, mademoiselle ! ” he goes into the 
shop and presents the bouquet to Mimi, with a grace 
that could not have been expected from him. Mimi 
is delighted. The captain is neither confused nor 
hesitating. Good man ! He is taking a preliminary 
step in his wooing; he means to get that over 
quickly, but he will do it all in approved style. 

He talks to Mimi, asks after Madame Bobineau 
—who peeps at him meanwhile from an ingenious 
little hole in the curtain—gives a military salute, and 
departs. 

Madame Bobineau enters, all agog to know what 
he has said. 

“ See,” the young girl blushes with delight, “ is 
not this a beautiful nosegay ? The Captain Loi¬ 
gereau is a kind, good gentleman.” 







The Widow Merand. 


“ Ma foi! I think so ; ” Bobineau frowns a little. 
“ It is wasteful; a one-franc bouquet would have 
pleased thee just as well, and he has paid at least 
three. Put it in water, child, it will die else.” 

Mimi places her precious treasure near her, so 
that she can take her fill of gazing, and enjoy the 
exquisite fragrance—the roses are so sweet; she had 
never had such a nosegay of her own before. Mimi 
is a child yet, spite of her sad, lonely life ; and when 
madame retreats to her web, the girl dances for joy 
behind the counter. 

VIII. 

It is that serious moment in the life of a French¬ 
man, the dinner hour—the five o’clock table d’hote, 
at the Hotel St. Barbe ; the bell is ringing loudly. 
In troop the regular town diners, far outnumbering 
the denizens of the inn itself. Some of these last 
are English ; they come into the room as if they 
were ashamed of themselves, and take the places the 
waiter points out, as if they got them by favor, but 
having accomplished the agony of entrance and 
placing, they cock their chins up and snuff the air, 
and* give the company to understand, by pitying 
glances and disparaging remarks made aloud, but 
supposed only to be heard by their own party, that 
this is a very different sort of thing indeed from what 
they are used to. If these observations are made in 
French, they are safe to be unintelligible to the 
“natives” ; but if the Britisher speaks English, he 
has a way of disguising his language in a hope of 
thus making himself comprehended, especially when 
he asks for “ pale ale.” 

Monsieur Loigereau looks more like a full moon 
than ever to-day, he is so beaming. As he goes out 
from dinner a few significant words pass between 
him and the widow. 

“ Madame,” says the captain, with effusion, “ I 
am a happy man, and you must allow me to thank 
you for my happiness.” 

The widow places her slender fingers in his 
chubby palm, and a solemn “ shake hands ” is ex¬ 
changed. 

“ I congratulate you from my heart,” says the 
widow, as he rolls away. 

Her eyes come back from following the captain 
and meet the honest blue gaze of Monsieur Rendu. 
He is puzzled. He has only half-heard ; is the 
widow then the object of Monsieur Loigereau’s 
adoration ? 

Madame Merand reads his thoughts as easily as 

print. 

“ Is he not good, our captain ? I am so happy 
in his happiness ! I must not tell secrets ”—she 
puts her head on one side, and steals a long soft 
glance from under her lashes ; “ and yet I would 
like to tell you. I think you know the girl ; and 
you, perhaps, take an interest in her, as I do.” She 
watches his face, and she draws her breath hard at 
the eager intelligence that flashes in his eyes. 


185 

“Yes, it is the shop-girl of Madame Bobineau. 
Poor little thing! she is so glad and grateful. He 
was telling me of her delight at a present he made 
this morning.” 

But Rendu is looking at his watch. 

“ Pardon, madame, I have an appointment this 
evening.” 

The widow does not like this haste ; but “ the 
sharper the medicine, the sooner the patient is 
cured,” she says: “if he once realizes that Mimi 
belongs to some one else, his infatuation will be 
over.” 

IX. 

Monsieur Rendu hurries along; he feels almost 
savage joy when he sees the captain’s crimson legs 
rolling into a cafe. At any rate, he shall find Mimi 
alone. But he feels stung—sore all over. He knew 
she was a shop-girl, but it is different to hear her 
called one by Madame Merand ; shop-girls are not 
always as guileless as he had imagined Mimi to be. 
This man is old enough to be her father, and she is 
going to sell herself to him. 

Rendu grinds his teeth as he reaches the shop. 
Yes, there is the bouquet, and as he stands on the 
doorstep, hesitating, Mimi bends her face over the 
flowers and seems to kiss them. 

But Madame Bobineau is not up-stairs to-day ; 
she sees the young man’s approach, and comes out 
into the shop to greet him. 

“ How is the weather, monsieur ? ” she asks. “ I 
am praying for a fine Sunday. I have premised to 
go for a walk ; and you, too, monsieur, you want 
it to be fine on Sunday ? ” 

“ I ? ” says Rendu, and then ; “ Oh, yes, I am 
going to Cabourg.” 

“ Aha ! ” says Bobineau, slyly, “ we know all 
about that, monsieur, we wish you a happy day— 
don’t we, Mimi ! ” 

Mimi looks up, with her innocent wondering eyes, 
at the furiously blushing Alphonse. She wonders a 
little at madame’s unwonted notice. 

“ Yes,” she says, simply ; “ I am sure you will be 
happy. ” The poor child has never seen the sea, 
but she is glad he is to have such a pleasure. 

He turns on her in bitter anger : 

“I wish you happiness, too, mademoiselle. You 
love flowers, I see.” 

“ Oh, yes ; so much—so very much ! ” His look 
and words stir her heart strangely ; she is frightened, 
and yet she wishes Madame Bobineau away. If she 
and Monsieur Rendu could be left alone just one 
little five minutes she would get courage, and he 
would be again as kind, as gentle as he used to be. 

“ He must not be angry with me,” thinks the poor 
child ; “ if he is not kind I shall die.” By way of 
hiding her great trouble she hides her face in her 
roses. 

When she raises it Rendu has turned away ; he is 
speaking to some one on the steps. 










186 


Treasury of Tates. 


“ Aha, my friend ! ” says the captain, “ I con¬ 
gratulate you. I hope you and Madame Merand 
will have a fine day at Cabourg. Don’t you con¬ 
gratulate me ? ” This is said lower, and ends in a 
hearty laugh, in the midst of which the captain 
advances into the shop. 

It seems to Mimi as if she and the world are turn¬ 
ing round : Madame Merand—that proud, beautiful 
woman !—then all this while Monsieur Rendu has 
“ loved her— her , ah ! ” sighs the child, “ he has 
been loving her while I thought—oh, what have I 
not thought!” 

The captain talks to Madame Bobineau ; “ That 
will be a fine marriage, will it not ? I have for 
some time had my suspicions ; but now it is, I 
believe, decided—she is very handsome, and he is 
a worthy young man. Do you consider Madanie 
Merand handsome, Mademoiselle ? ” 

Mimi does not know how she answers ; her heart 
swells and nearly chokes her, she wants to run 
away. She could push the captain aside in her de¬ 
spair and rush along the street without her bonnet. 
The captain requests permission to shake hands 
with her, and she hears him ask madame, in a grave, 
formal voice, if he may call on her to-morrow even¬ 
ing. 

X* 

Mimi, Madame Merand, and Alphonse Rendu 
sleep little that night. The widow is easy as to 
Mimi; she feels sure that the orphan will be com¬ 
pelled to marry the captain, but she is uneasy about 
her lover. 

“ Chut ! ” she said, “ it is my love that makes me 
distrustful; a man does not yield himself up for 
love alone, and I have much to offer besides my¬ 
self;” she winces, and then she smiles. “ I know I 
am enough for any man, but if every one looks for 
something besides the wife in marriage, why should 
not he ? I am too guarded with him—to-morrow— 
ah, to-morrow !—in that long drive we shall be all 
in all to each other.” 

Saturday is a long weary day to Madame Merand. 
In the evening comes Monsieur Le Petit to say he 
will be at the door at nine o’clock next morning. 
It is a gray, misty morning, and as they drive along 
beside the Orne, the many-spired city looks phantom¬ 
like, looming between the long poplar alleys. 

The drive is silent, Monsieur and Madame Le 
Petit in front, Madame Merand and Monsieur 
Rendu behind. But after a hearty good breakfast 
at Monsieur Le Petit’s cottage, the party stroll on to 
the sands in a more sociable humor. Monsieur Le 
Petit’s cider is potent, and Rendu has drunk freely 
of it. He is so miserable—so at variance with the 
whole world, that he feels the need of stimulating 
his spirits. As he sits by madame, he grows more 
and more interested in her talk; he takes more 
and more pleasure in looking into those dark deep 
eyes—soft as velvet beneath his glances ; and as he 
gazes she becomes silent, confused—her lashes 


droop, a soft warm blush rises on her cheek. Why 
at that dangerous moment does a vision of won¬ 
dering gray eyes, with a yet softer tint rising in a 
fairer skin, pass between Alphonse and the widow ? 
He cannot tell, and the involuntary question es¬ 
capes him— 

“ Are you sure she will marry the Captain Loige- 
reau ?” 

He does not see the widow; he sees only the fair 
mist-like face out of which shine those pure liquid 
eyes—it is the contrast between a spring morning 
and the hot glow of an autumn sunset. He does not 
see the lightning glance of the jealous woman be¬ 
side him flashing from the dark eyes, fierce and 
stormy now ; he only shrinks from the stern answer— 

“ Come with me this evening into the Cours Caffa- 
relli, and I will give you proof.” 

XI. 

“ But, madame, I took the bouquet because I love 
flowers, and because it was so kind of Monsieur 
Loigereau.” 

“ La, la, la !” shrieks Madame Bobineau; “thou 
art not a baby, Mimi; did any one ever before offer 
thee a bouquet ? but for my bounty thou mightest 
be sweeping the streets of St. Roque !” 

“ No, indeed ! ” says Mimi ; “ I could have stayed 
■with the good sisters, and have professed.” And 
then her fresh, warm youth kindles, and she shivers 
at the thought of the whitewashed convent and its 
peaceful monotony. 

This talk is at madame’s breakfast-table on Sun¬ 
day. Yesterday she announced to Mimi that Mon¬ 
sieur Loigereau was her future husband, and Mimi 
wept and entreated, and was threatened and stormed 
at. She would not submit; but when Madame 
Bobineau represented that, as her nearest relative, 
the law gave her power over her, and that if she 
proved stubborn she would have her shut up in the 
Asyle (the Asyle of St. Roque is a refuge for fallen 
women), the poor child grew terrified at the threat. 

So she sits, with a shy, downcast face, when Mon¬ 
sieur Loigereau comes ; and with much disgust shd 
lets him kiss her hand when he goes away. Poor 
desolate child ! she has cried all through the night, 
and now she sits writhing beside Madame Bobineau. 

She balances her life while she listens : is it so 
very happy, that she should shrink from the pros¬ 
pect of a nice little house and garden, with flowers 
—flowers as plentiful as her heart can desire ? 

“ And life will be worse than ever when she is his 
wife,” she sighs. 

“Yes, madame,” says Mimi desperately ; “as you 
wish—leave me in peace ; I will marry the cap¬ 
tain.” 

She endures a rasping of her smooth cheeks by 
those fac-similes of the peach-stone, and much good 
advice. The day drags along wearily ; after ves¬ 
pers they find Monsieur Loigereau in the church 
porch. 





The Widow Merand. 


% 

He gives one arm to madame, the other to Mimi, 
and they march off to the Cours Caffarelli. The 
band is playing here, and people are moving up 
and down, chatting and laughing under the trees. 
Mimi’s heart is heavy, or she would enjoy the merry 
scene: groups of laughing children romping round 
their mothers, young girls and their sweethearts 
whispering in the shade, old people sitting on the 
benches, watching the lights of the town twinkling, 
in the water—twinkling first like rare glowworms, 
or, as Mimi thinks, like the first blush of love ; 
then, as darkness grows and lamps multiply, the 
radiance shoots along the waters in rays of living 
fire, “ and the water does not quench it, ” sighs 
the poor heart-struck child—“ nothing can quench 
it till death.” 

Madame Le Petit seizes on her gossip, and Mimi 
walks up and down alone with Monsieur Loigereau. 
He is more intent on showing off his prize than on 
talking. Presently they turn, and come face to face 
with Madame Merand and Monsieur Rendu. The 
two eldest greet each other warmly; Mimi and 
Rendu are dumb. 

“Come,” says Loigereau, “have you not a word 
of congratulation for me and mademoiselle ?” 

Rendu bows, and then passes on. Monsieur 
Loigereau is hailed by two comrades ; he turns to 
Mimi, but she is gone. 

“ She does not like being stared at, the little dove,’’ 
says the good captain ; “ but she should not run 
away.” 

XII. 

Meantime, Rendu walks up and down with the 
widow in moody, determined silence, till she ex¬ 
presses a wish to go home. 

“Adieu, monsieur!” she says when they reach 
the inn. “ I am sadly unfortunate. I thought to 
give you a day’s pleasure, and I have given you pain. 
Forgive me ; I tried to make you happy.” Her 
shining eyes are full of tears ; she holds out her un¬ 
gloved hand. 

Rendu is moved. Here is a woman laying her 
heart at his feet, and he neglects her for the 
thought of one who has never shown him any kind¬ 
ness, who openly prefers the Captain Loigereau. 

“ Madame, forgive me ! I will try and deserve 
your goodness.” He prints a warm kiss on the 
slender hand, but he is gone before the widow an¬ 
swers. 

He goes on, heavy hearted, to the Place St. Etienne. 
It is late, the Place is in utter solitude. He is too full 
of tumult and anxious thought to light a cigar. 
The moon is fuller still than on the first night we 
saw Monsieur Rendu ; but she is hidden behind a 
mass of dark clouds. 

The young man paces up and down—up and 
down ; but his tumult does not calm. Presently the 
clouds drift, and the pure, bright moon shines down. 
But there is no comfort in her light ; he wishes the 


1S7 

clouds would come back ; he found a refuge in the 
darkness. 

Surely he hears a sob ! But the Place is empty ; 
no one could hide from the broad moonlight. Sud¬ 
denly Rendu remembers the double row of limes, 
all along the Place. He darts into it, and the sobs 
grow more distinct. But it is so dark that at first 
he does not make out a figure crouched on a bench, 
some way down the row of limes. 

CONCLUSION. 

Mimi does not return, and Monsieur Loigereau 
grows anxious, and he is not satisfied by Madame 
Bobineau’s assurance that Mimi has gone home 
tired. He resolves to go to her lodging and ascer¬ 
tain her safety. 

“ No ; Mademoiselle Lalonge has not been home 
since the morning,” says the little girl who opens 
the door to him. 

Loigereau’s face flushes scarlet; but he has not 
taken twenty of his rolling steps from the house 
when he meets Mimi herself, arm-in-arm with Mon¬ 
sieur Alphonse. 

The captain grows redder still, and begins some 
very angry words. He is not allowed to finish. 
Rendu grasps one hand, and Mimi clasps the other 
between her little soft fingers. 

“ Monsieur ! ” Rendu’s voice trembles with feel¬ 
ing ; “ forgive us—we beg your pardon, you have been 
hardly used. I have been a blind fool, and-” 

“And I, monsieur,” says the trembling girl’s voice, 
“ am much worse, for I only said I would marry you 
because madame vowed to send me to the Asyle-” 

The captain stares, but he behaves like a wise 
man. He forgives the young couple heartily ; bids 
them go home, and promises to make peace with the 
Bobineau and with Madame Merand. 

The first achievement was not very difficult ; and 
the good captain did not quit Madame Bobineau 
until she had named a day for the marriage of the 
young couple; but when he told his news to 
Madame Merand and saw the widow’s flashing eyes 
and quivering nostrils, Loigereau grew indignant. 

“ Madame, I have given up my hopes, why should 
you be less generous. Monsieur Rendu is not act¬ 
ually your fiance—would you retain a man who loves 
another ?” 

He draws closer, and looks seriously in the angry 
face. 

“ Chattering, meddling fool ! ” says the widow, 
“ take that; ” and she gives him a box on the ear, 
which sounds even out on the street. 

The captain puts one hand to his face and the 
other on his sword, his small eyes blaze, and then 
he smiles. 

“ Ma foi! madame, I thank you. I am consoled ; 
if a calm woman of thirty can so imitate a tiger-cat, 
what might not my little untrained shop-girl have 
done ? I have the honor, madame, to wish you 
adieu !” 













Treasury of Tales. 


188 


DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 

A GRANDFATHER’S STORY. 

FROM “ TEMPLE BAR.” 

A BOUT sixty years ago I was in Paris for the 
first time in my life. Bonaparte still lingered 
at St. Helena; and the adventurers, good, 
bad, and indifferent in character, who had served in 
his armies had not yet lost all hope of the return of 
their idol, and consequently had not yet thought it 
worth while to settle down into thorough peace and 
quietness. 

Young Paul Ferrand, whom I frequently met at 
the cafe, and who had served as a captain at Water¬ 
loo, was sure that the Little Corporal would come 
back again soon. “You have not yet beaten him,” 
he would tell me laughing. “You sent him co Elba, 
but he returned ; you have sent him to St Helena, 
and he will return again. We shall see.” 

Ferrand was an exceedingly nice fellow; and 
although he professed to cherish an unquenchable 
hatred for England and everything English, he had, 
by some means or other, become attached to Alice 
Rae, a young English lady of my acquaintance, and 
who had been living with her mother since the con¬ 
clusion of peace at Paris, not far from the abode of 
the ex-captain. And he was always very friendly 
with me too. He would, it is true, abuse my 
countrymen most unmercifully ; but he was always 
particularly good-natured ; and whenever he found 
himself saying a little too much, he would arrest 
himself and apologize so heartily, that I never could 
be angry Avith him. 

I was alone in the French capital, and had feAV 
friends there except Mrs. Rae, her daughter Alice, 
and Paul; and so it happened that I passed a good 
deal of mv time in the society of these three. The 
mother, a woman still in the prime of life, Avas a con¬ 
nection of mine by marriage, and that fact gave me a 
good excuse for offering my service as escort Avhen- 
ever she and her pretty daughter thought fit to go 
to the theater or the opera. At such times Paul 
always had a seat in the stalls ; and between the 
acts he Avould come up to my box, to the delight of 
Alice, who was in love Avith him, and to the no small 
satisfaction of Mrs. Rae, who herself had quite a 
maternal affection for the young Frenchman, and 
did not in the least discourage his attentions to her 
daughter. If there Avere no formal engagement be- 
tAveen the tAvo, it Avas at least perfectly understood 
by all parties that as soon as Paul should get an 
appointment, for which at the time he A\ r as a candi¬ 
date, he Avas to marry Alice ; and I, though only a 
feAV years her senior, Avas to give her away. 

One night the opera-house Avas crowded more 
than usual. A great singer Avas to appear, and a 
neAv Avork by a renowned composer Avas to be per¬ 
formed. But Paul Ferrand, sitting in the stall, 
seemed scarcely to listen to the music or to notice 


the acting ; and much more often were his eyes 
turned in the direction of my box than in that of 
the stage. Alice and her mother Avere Avith me ; 
and as the curtain fell at the conclusion of the first 
act, Paul came up to us. He Avas in high spirits, for 
he had heard that the minister had decided to give 
him the coveted post, and he expected to hear in a 
few days that his appointment had .been signed by 
the king. We congratulated him ; and as he left us to 
return to his seat, I Avhispered to him : “ You’ll be a 
happy man in a month or tAvo noAA r , Paul.” He 
smiled, and shut the door. 

We watched him as he threaded his Avay to his 
place. It Avas in the centre of the second toav from 
the orchestra, and he had left his opera-glasses on 
the chair, in order to preserve his right to it; but 
during his absence a tall, military-looking man had 
appropriated it, and had coolly put the glasses on 
one side. Paul approached the stranger Avith the 
utmost politeness, and I suppose, for naturally I 
could not hear, requested him to move. The inter¬ 
loper did not deign to ansAver, but sneeringly looked 
up at Ferrand, as though to ask him Avhat he meant 
by his intrusion. Paul pointed to the opera-glasses ; 
but the stranger neither replied nor moved, but con¬ 
tinued to appear as though he did not hear. 

I sa>v that matters Avere assuming a dangerous 
complexion, for in the neAv-comer I recognized Vic¬ 
tor Laroquiere, an ex-Bonapartist officer like Paul, a 
notorious bully, and one of the most celebrated 
duellists in France. But Avhat could I do ? I could 
only sit still, much against my will, and Avitness the 
inevitable consequences. I thought Alice Avould 
faint Avhen Laroquiere in the calmest Avay rose be¬ 
fore the crowded assemblage and struck Paul in the 
face with his glove ; but she recovered herself, and 
like a statue Avatched her lover pick up his opera- 
glasses, boAV to his insulter, and without a Avord, 
leave the building. There Avere some exclamations 
from the audience ; but the duellist again rose, and 
with a theatrical air gazed round, mockingly imitated 
Paul’s parting boAv, and resumed his seat. This Avas 
too much for poor Alice. She could not remain any 
longer ; she must go home ; and so, with some diffi¬ 
culty, I got her and her mother to my carriage, told 
the coachman to drive them home, and myself Avalked 
quickly to Paul’s lodgings. 

He had arrived before me, and Avas already Avrit- 
ing Avhen I entered his room. “ Of course,” he said, 
as he saAv me and came tOAvards me Avith both hands 
outstretched, “ you, my dear friend, will assist me. 
It is impossible to do anything but fight. Even 
Alice could not make me alter my conviction on 
that point, the insult Avas so public.” 

“ Suppose you leave the country ? ” I suggested. 

“ Then I should have to give up the appointment 
and Alice too. No, my dear felloAv, I must fight ; 
and you must arrange matters for me. If he shoots 
me, it cannot be helped ; if I shoot him, I shall have 
shot the biggest scoundrel in Paris. I beg you to 






Diamond Cut Diamond. 


189 


call upon Laroquiere to-night. I have already dis¬ 
covered his address. Here it is.” 

“ But must you fight ? It is suicide to go out with 
a professional duellist.” 

“ Ah,” he said, shaking his head, “ I am afraid it 
is suicide ; but I must fight ; so please don’t try and 
persuade me that I need not. I will fight, too, as 
soon as possible. You can arrange everything for 
to-morrow morning. I must have the matter over. 
In a day or two I might become a coward.” 

By his looks he implored me to go to Laroquiere ; 
and constituted as French society was at that time, 
I had no other course open to me than to do as he 
wished. 

“ If Monsieur comes from M. Paul Ferrand,” said 
a man-servant when I inquired whether I could see 
his master, “ M. Laroquiere has sent me to say that 
he has not yet left the opera. He has, however, 
sent this pencilled note, which I am to give to the 
gentleman who comes from M. Ferrand.” 

I tore open the missive. It contained two cards, 
one bearing the name of the duellist, and the second 
that of M. Fernand Delaraie, Rue Vivienne 18. 
Certainly it was an off-hand way of acquainting me 
with the name and whereabouts of Laroquiere’s 
second ; but as I wished to pick no quarrel, I 
walked on to the Rue Vivienne, and in a few min¬ 
utes was ushered into the presence of M. Delaraie 
himself. 

This worthy was a young man of about three- 
and-twenty, and dressed in the extreme of fashion. 
His ruffles were immaculate, and most symmetrically 
arranged ; his lace handkerchief was steeped in es¬ 
sences ; his gloves, which lay on the table—for he 
had only just returned, at Laroquiere’s request, from 
the opera—were small and delicate ; his fingers 
were covered with valuable rings ; and the bunch of 
gold seals depending from his fob was unusually 
heavy and brilliant. He did not strike me as ap¬ 
pearing particularly warlike ; but nevertheless, after 
formally saluting me, he at once touched upon the 
object of my visit ; and before I had been ten min¬ 
utes in his company, he had arranged to meet Fer¬ 
rand and myself at a certain spot, at an early hour 
next morning, and to bring Laroquiere with him. 

“I don’t think we shall need a surgeon,” he said 
to me quite affably at parting ; “ but if you please 
you can bring one. In his last affair my principal 
shot his man through the temples, and he died im¬ 
mediately. I sincerely hope, Monsieur, that your 
friend is equally clever.” 

“Confound the fellow ! ” I said to myself as I left 
the house and sought the residence of my own 
medical man. “I am afraid poor Ferrand is not 
such a consummate murderer as this Laroquiere.” 

After seeing the surgeon, to whom I briefly ex¬ 
plained matters, I called upon Mrs. Rae. She was 
doing her best to comfort her daughter, who was in 
the greatest possible distress. “Are they going to 
fight ? ” the latter asked. 


“ My dear Alice,” I said, “ they are. I have done 
my best to dissuade Paul; but he says, and I am 
obliged to agree, that he must fight. Let us hope 
for the best. He has a sure eye and a steady hand, 
and he has right on his side. The other man is a 
scoundrel.” 

“ You are to be with him ? ” said Mrs. Rae, look¬ 
ing as white as a sheet. 

“Yes ; they are to meet to-morrow morning, and 
by breakfast-time Alice’s suspense will be over. 
She must bear up.” 

“ You must prevent the duel,” sobbed the half- 
heart-broken girl. “ Cannot Paul let the insult 
pass ? But no ; it was so public.” 

“ You can only hope,” I said. “ I will see you in 
the morning ; but now I must go back to him, and 
see that he gets some sleep.” 

“Tell him,” cried Alice, “that if he is killed I 
shall die. Come here as soon as it is over. Come, 
even if he falls : you must tell me about it. I must 
hear everything.” She buried her face in her hands ; 
and I, escaping from the unhappy girl, hurried to 
Paul. 

He was still writing, and his hair was in disorder, 
and his face pale when lie turned toward me. “ I 
am no coward,” he said, “ but I am saying good-bye 
to her, for I shall die to-morrow.” 

“ My dear fellow,” I exclaimed, “you will shoot 
Laroquiere, and be married next month. You must 
finish your writing at once and go to bed. I will 
sleep here to-night, for I must see that you turn out 
in time to-morrow morning ; so be as quick as pos¬ 
sible.” 

He wrote for another half-hour, addressed the 
document to Alice Rae, placed a lock of his hair 
within it, and after sealing it up, gave it to me. 

“ Give that to her,” he said, “ if Laroquiere kills 
me outright—and I think he will. Still, if it were not 
for Alice, I declare I should be quite glad to meet 
him. Now for bed.” 

He undressed ; whilst I lay down on the sofa in 
the next room and lit a cigar, for I could not afford 
to sleep myself. Soon all was quiet, and I stole in 
to see Paul lying as quiet as a child with a smile on 
his face. Probably, nay assuredly, I passed a more 
uncomfortable night than he did. Only with the 
greatest possible difficulty could I keep awake ; and 
the hours seemed to linger forever. At last, how¬ 
ever, daylight dawned, and I called Ferrand, who 
woke refreshed and in comparatively good spirits. 
After a hurried breakfast we muffled ourselves up ; I 
placed a flask of brandy, some powder and bullets, 
and a brace of pistols in my pockets, and we sallied 
forth in the cold morning air. Scarcely any one 
was abroad, except a few sleepy watchmen, who, 
by their looks, guessed the purpose of our expedi¬ 
tion ; and through the silent streets we went for a 
mile or so, until we reached the meeting-place. 

Laroquiere and Delaraie were there before us, 
and my friend the surgeon arrived immediately 







Treasury of Tales. 


190 


afterwards in his carriage, which waited near at 
hand. The pistols were produced and loaded. 
Laroquiere chose one, and I gave the other to Paul; 
and then the two men took up positions at a dis¬ 
tance of twenty paces from each other, and waited 
for Delaraie to give the signal to fire. 

“ Stay ! ” cried the bully, as his second stepped 
back; “let the young fool listen to this. I am not 
trifling with him : I shall shoot him only where he 
wishes, for I am generous, parbleu ! ” 

“ If I cannot kill you,” said Paul quietly, “ I pre¬ 
fer to die.” 

“ Then I shoot him through the heart,” coolly 
observed Laroquiere. “ It will teach others not to 
challenge me.” 

There was something to me unspeakably horrible 
in the way in which these last words were pro¬ 
nounced. I shuddered, and looked at Paul. He 
smiled at me, and at the same instant Delaraie gave 
the signal. 

There was but one report, for Ferrand’s pistol 
flashed in the pan. The poor fellow turned round 
towards me with fixed eye and pale face, and with 
the name of Alice on his lips, fell dead. Laroquiere 
turned on his heel, and departed quickly in com¬ 
pany with Delaraie, while I aided the surgeon in his 
brief examination of Paul’s body. Surely enough, 
the bullet had passed through his heart. He must 
have died almost instantaneously, for he did not 
move after he fell, and the last smile with which he 
had looked at me was still upon his face. It was a 
melancholy business in every respect. I had to 
break the sad news to Alice and her mother ; and 
the two ladies were so terribly overcome, that I 
feared the shock would have some permanent effect 
upon their health. For my part, I was obliged to 
hurry to England as soon as possible ; and Laro¬ 
quiere, I heard, also got away, and remained out of 
France until the affair had blown over. 

I settled down in London, and, unable to forget 
my Parisian habits, usually dined at one of the then 
much frequented taverns in Fleet Street. The 
Cheshire Cheese , which was then in much the same 
state as it is now, was my favorite haunt; and there, 
as months passed by, I gradually picked up a few 
pleasant acquaintances, chief amongst whom was an 
extremely well-mannered young gentleman named 
Barton, a man of independent means, good family, 
and first-rate education. 

One day, after he had been dining with me, the 
conversation turned upon continental manners and 
particularly upon duelling. As an illustration of 


my abhorrence of the system, I told my companion 
about poor Paul’s death, a matter in which Barton 
appeared much interested. He asked me a good 
many questions about the parties concerned, and 
after expressing a remarkably strong opinion to the 
effect that Laroquiere was a blackguard, bade me 
good-night. I went home to my rooms in the 
Temple; and next day, on visiting the Cheshire 
Cheese, found no Barton. He had left word with 
one of the waiters that urgent business had called 
him away, but that he hoped to see me on his return. 
Weeks passed, and then months, and still Barton 
did not come back ; and I confess that I had begun 
to forget him altogether, when one evening he drop¬ 
ped in to dinner as though he had not been absent 
for more than a day or two. 

“ Where have you been ? ” I asked, after I had 
heartily shaken hands with him. 

“I have been to Paris,” he said. “On arriving 
there I found out a little more than you told me 
about Laroquiere, and when I had convinced 
myself that he was the thorough blackguard you 
painted him, I arranged for a series of lessons at a 
pistol-gallery. Every day for a month I went and 
shot for an hour or two, until I was so perfect as to 
be able to hit a small coin every time at a distance 
of twenty paces. After satisfying myself as to my 
proficiency, I took a box at the opera ; it may have 
been the same box that you used to have. Laro¬ 
quiere was pointed out to me. He sat in the stalls; 
and between the acts he left his seat in order to 
speak to a lady in another part of the house. I 
descended as quickly as possible and took his place. 
He returned, and asked me in an overbearing tone 
to move. I refused. He persisted. I struck him. 
He sent me a challenge, and we met upon the same 
spot, curiously enough, where he had killed your 
friend Ferrand. Before the signal was given, I said : 

“ ‘ M. Laroquiere, listen to me. I am not here to 
trifle with you : but I will be as generous with you 
as you were with Paul Ferrand. I will shoot 
you only where you wish.’ He turned deadly 
pale. 

“‘We will see,’ he said, ‘whether I shall not 
make you a second Ferrand ! ’ 

“ ‘ Then I will shoot you,’ I returned, ‘ as you 
shot him—through the heart. It will teach other 
bullies not to challenge me.’ Whether he was so 
upset as to be incapable of aiming or not, I cannot 
say ; but, my dear fellow, I shot him as dead as a 
dog, and avenged your friend, at the same time 
ridding Paris of its biggest villain.” 











The American Ghost. 


! 9 I 



THE AMERICAN GHOST. 

BY LUCRETIA P. HALE. 

WOULD like to tell the story as an old friend 
told it to me in her garrulous way. She tried 
to write it down herself, indeed, at my request, 
but I shall have to give it as she read it to me, inter¬ 
spersed with her own interjections that came up at 
the moment, and that are needed to explain what 
she told. 

I must begin, she said, with two young girls look¬ 
ing at each other, one evening, when we had all 
being sitting together, talking with those English 
ladies who had been visiting us, and they left the 
very next day quite disappointed that all the time 
they had been in the house they had heard no 
broad Yankee spoken, and my sister was quite put 
out about it, wondering that they should have ex¬ 
pected it at our house, or thought to hear it in Bos¬ 
ton. But they went on to say that, after all, the 
principal difference between us Americans and the 
English is that we have no faith in ghosts, or indeed 
that we have no ghosts to have faith in. Either be- 
.^se, if we have an old house we pull it down, or 
because our houses are all so new—and how could 
you expect a ghost on the Back Bay where the houses 
are only just built ? And so, indeed, there is not a 
house for a ghost to go to, or to stay in, if there 
happened to be one. 

Now in England, these ladies said, there is not a 
town but is old enough to have its traditions, and 
keep up its haunted house along with its old streets. 

“ I have not met one family ghost,” said one of 
these ladies, “ since I have been in America. And 
what is the worst, if there were one, nobody would 
believe in it. In England there’s not a respectable 
family but has its ghost attached to it,—perhaps the 
ghost is gone, indeed, but it has been there, and the 
servants know all about it, and the nurse-maids, and 
they brought us up to believe in it. To be sure it 
is not every one of the family that can see a ghost, 
perhaps not one in a generation, but we would all of 
us be much disappointed if there had not been a 
ghost seen in the family some time or other.” 

Then she went on to tell about one of her uncles. 
He was dead now, but he was one of that kind who 


had seen their family ghost—yes, more than once ; 
and she made our blood curdle and our flesh cold, 
telling us about it, for it was late at night, and some-' 
body had turned the gas down low, and there were 
only a few flickering embers in the fire round which 
we were sitting. 

“ But the noise ? ” asked a tall boy, breaking the 
silence that came after the story. He had been 
listening, with all the hairs, short as they were on 
his close-cut head, standing up on end. “ What was 
the noise, after all—did you find out ? Was it Rats ? ” 

“Just what I told you,” exclaimed the English 
lady, quite angry ; “ you expect to have an explana¬ 
tion of everything ! and find out why it was so ! It 
is enough to discourage any right-minded ghost! 
Of course, any one who has really seen a ghost does 
not think to question. Rats, indeed ! You don’t 
deserve to have any ghosts ! ” and she would not 
say another word on the subject. 

And the very next day these English ladies went 
back home to England, and I might have a great deal 
to tell about their letters, and what they thought 
about Americans, and what we thought about them, 
but that sort of thing comes into so many other 
stories there is no need for it here. 

But the two girls I was telling you of, sitting 
together on the sofa, who looked at each other that 
particular way, during this talk about ghosts—they 
had come from the country only the day before for 
the winter. We none of us knew them very well, 
and perhaps that is why they neither of them spoke, 
though they looked at each other as if they had 
something to say. 

But, though they said nothing down-stairs, they 
talked fast enough when they went up to their own 
room, and on this very subject. They were in the 
upper story of one of the houses in Beacon Street, by 
the side of the Athenseum, and they were looking 
across to the houses opposite. 

Now, they had picked out this particular room for 
their winter home, because the place might seem 
something like home, for they knew that their 
mother was born in the house opposite. Of course, 
not in one of those very houses, for though they may 
begin to look old and weather-beaten now-a-days 
to the rising generation, we can many of us re¬ 
member when they were new. And some of us can 


Copyright, 1883. 








































192 


Treasury of Tales . 


remember the house that was there before—a lonely- 
old house that stood back, back on a hill, on a line 
with the State House—almost the top of Beacon Hill 
of those days, with a slope in front, and a garden 
behind. And if you should pass through one of these 
houses standing there now, you might see in the back 
yard a remnant of this old Beacon Hill, sloping the 
other way, as it used to slope up from the end of 
Somerset Court that was, and that now is Ashburton 
Place, which has cut through this hill. And you can 
still see remaining in this back yard a bit of slope, 
and on it the same grasses growing, and blue suc¬ 
cory, if you look there in the spring, just such as we 
used to pick through the cracks in the boards on 
the bit of hill remaining at the end of Somerset 
Court in those days, long ago, when the mother of 
these girls lived in the old house. She left it when 
she was seven years old, for the house was pulled 
down ; but her mother, and all her aunts and an¬ 
cestors used to live there, and their great-grand¬ 
aunt, Dora, for whom one of these girls was named, 
must have visited there. 

I am not going to stop and tell all these stories, 
because I hate stories within stories, and always did. 
Pilpay’s Fables were always a disappointment to me 
when I was a child. I read all the fables, but I had 
to skip the between part. Of course I don’t include 
the Arabian Nights, because there’s no reason why 
one should ever stop reading on and on, in those 
stories, if only one had the leisure of the Arabs, 
smoking their nargiles, reclining on their Persian 
rugs, with their heads on foot-stools, in their gar¬ 
dens, beneath their rose-trees. 

But, I would like to tell about Dora’s mother, who 
was named Dora, too, after this same old great-grand¬ 
aunt, and how she used to tell of the days she 
played in the “ mall ” on Beacon Street when she 
was a school-girl—on the slope of Beacon Street— 
how there was a row of elms half-way down the 
bank, and a path worn along beneath the trees, mak¬ 
ing two grassy banks where there is now one slope 
from the street. And there was one large tree, whose 
roots came out above the earth, and across into the 
path, and she used to play there with the other 
school-girls,—and such baby houses as they made 
among the twisted roots—they could push into deep 
holes way under the tree, making secret passages, 
and more than one doll they lost there, though of 
course they were careful with their most choice 
dolls ; but they used to play as though the place were 
their own, and that nobody else would come there, 
and would leave their things, thinking to find them 
next day. But of course some other party of girls 
might come along that very afternoon, and carry 
away what they pleased, and when they came again 
everything would be gone, much to their surprise. 
They would take the loss as children take their losses, 
as they do their gains, as coming down upon them 
like breakfast, dinner or supper, not at any regular 
times, but just when the elders should choose. 


But there came a more serious loss one day. This 
Dora, I mean my Dora’s mother, had a queer old pin 
that came down to her from her great-grand-aunt 
Dora—a silver pin she called it, but it might have 
been lead, for it was no longer bright ; some curious 
carvings on it were worn down, and whatever might 
be considered its value now, when all old things 
are raked up, and a high price set on them, it did 
not then rank much above a common pin, except 
that it had belonged to great-grand-aunt Dora. It 
had a round, heavy head, and was odd-looking any¬ 
how. She had been using it to pin her favorite 
doll Janet’s shawl with ; and she knew she must 
have left it in the roots of the tree in a choice 
corner, called Janet’s closet, which they always kept 
shut up close, with grass wedged in. But when she 
went to look for it, it was not there, and the grass 
all gone, and bits of cracker and orange-peel cram¬ 
med into the closet, instead. It could not be found, 
and very foolish all her aunts and uncles called her, 
for leaving it there, for by this time her own mother 
was dead, who might have been more careful for 
aunt Dora’s pin. 

Well, a long time passed on, and Dora’s mother 
was living no longer in Boston, but in that old house 
in the country from which these two girls had come 
this very winter, near Byfield, I believe, with a 
slope down to some river under its windows. And 
she went one day to a sleigh-ride, or some other 
party, when they stopped somewhere for a dance, 
and she had a great many partners ; some of them 
she had never seen before, but there was one of 
these—there was one—and when he stood bowing 
before her, to ask if she would dance with him—that 
was, after she had been introduced—as he stood 
there, she could not but see he wore aunt Dora’s 
pin—that same round-headed pin, with its worn 
carvings—it pinned his cravat ! All confused as 
she went to dance, she could not keep her eyes off 
the pin, and as he could not help seeing how she 
looked at it, “ There’s an odd story about this pin ! ” 
he said ; and he went on to tell how, when he was a 
boy, he and the schoolboys used to go to play by a 
tree in the mall by the common—the Beacon Street 
mall—and how they made fortifications among the 
twisted roots of the great old tree, and how they had 
barracks and bastions, and how it was in their “ quar¬ 
ter-master’s secret closet,” one day, he found this 
queer pin. “ But that was Janet’s closet, my doll’s ; ” 
interrupted Dora’ smother—only she was not married 
then,—but of course did afterward marry Dora’s 
father, as he said there seemed no better way of re¬ 
storing the pin that Dora inherits to this very day. 

I ought not to have been so long telling this, except 
to show how it was that my Dora, this young Dora, 
felt a close connection with this old grand-aunt, and 
more so now, because she had just been going 
through a great sorrow that reminded her of great- 
grand-aunt Dora, and the story that was always told 
about her. 




The American Ghost. 


193 


You see the two girls were looking out upon the 
very place, as I said, where their mother and grand¬ 
mother had lived before them,—only so different now, 
that row of brick houses, not so especially new either, 
and when their mother was a child the old house 
stood back from the street, and you went up to it by 
a succession of steps—first a few steps, then a land¬ 
ing place, then more steps, something like the front 
of the State House, with grassy banks each side, and 
the door in the middle of the house, and perhaps a 
lilac, or some other bush, either side of the door. 
This was the way it looked then. But now they 
were sitting up even with the upper windows of the 
row of brick houses close opposite them. 

And Elsie, the older sister, said—she was the 
more cheerful one of the two : “ Of course grand¬ 
aunt Dora used to come and visit her relations when 
they lived in the old house here, but it was not her 
home.” 

“ No,” answered Dora, “ her home was in the 
part of Washington Street that used to be called 
Newbury Street, on this side of Essex Street.” 

“ But, Dora,” said Elsie, in a low tone, “ our 
mother never saw her there—grand-aunt Dora, I 
mean.” 

For the story of grand-aunt Dora was that, far 
back in the olden days, living up there in what was 
Newbury Street—she was all dressed one day to go 
to Commencement—so always the family story went. 
For in those days “ Commencement ” at Harvard 
was considered a great event, and all the young 
girls (and grand-aunt Dora was a young girl then) 
had their hair dressed for the occasion high up on 
their head, as was the fashion, and the hairdressers 
were engaged to come the day before always, be¬ 
cause they must go so early on Commencement day 
—no time for dressing beforehand, and because 
there were so many to have their hair dressed, and 
but one hairdresser of any great repute. And with 
.all the rest grand-aunt Dora had her hair powdered 
and dressed, and a red poppy stuck in on one side, 
just above the cushion that puffed up her hair, and so 
she sat up all night that she might not tumble it by 
lying down (and many another young lady was do¬ 
ing the same), in a high easy-chair by the window. 
The high-cushioned side of the chair (these two 
girls still owned it in the old country house) could 
partly support her head—and there she sat all night 
—and not all that night only, but ever after—night 
.after night. 

So the story always went, but it does not tell 
when or how she died, but there she was still 
sitting, all that passing generation said, night after 
night at the window. When the dash and the 
clash of the carriages and horse-cars in front of the 
Globe and Park theatres dies away, and quiet comes 
over the midnight, and morning approaches, doubt¬ 
less she might be seen in later d^ys still in the front 
window of one of the upper stories, with her pow- 
tdered hair, and the flower by the side of her head, 


waiting, still waiting, because the young lover that 
was to have taken her to Commencement—he never 
came. 

So the story was always told, with never a reason 
why “ he ” did not come. Perhaps he went to Cam¬ 
bridge with another girl—or when it was she faded 
away in the easy-chair as she sat there—we never 
knew. 

And so the tale was told, though there was one 
version, perhaps the true one, that the “ strange 
lady ” appeared only on Commencement morning; 
but the girls never knew if their mother, or her 
mother, had ever seen Aunt Dora sitting there, for 
the family had long ago given up the “ Newbury 
Street ” house. 

But the night before—the very first night they 
had come to Boston—Elsie was waked up by her 
sister’s restlessness, and she saw Dora get up in the 
middle of the night and go to the window, and draw 
the curtain—then, because Dora started and gave a 
little cry, Elsie got up too, and quietly stood by her 
side. 

There, in the opposite window, was a lady sitting, 
but in a dress of the olden time. A soft light fell 
across her figure, and they could plainly see how she 
wore, not the dress of the present day, but a ruff 
about her neck, and her hair drawn up in high pow¬ 
dered rolls, and a flower in the side turned towards 
them. She seemed to be leaning back in an old- 
fashioned chair with high sides, and with her hands 
crossed over each other in her lap—waiting—wait¬ 
ing. 

The two girls said nothing to each other. There 
was a noise in the street below. They looked down ; 
when they looked back, the lady was gone. They 
could see no more, and went silently to bed. This 
was the very night they arrived ; and all the next 
day, in the hurry of their first arrival, and seeing 
many people, they had not spoken to each other of 
it, perhaps had not thought much of it; but in the 
talk of the evening I have told you of, it had all 
come back. This was why they had looked at each 
other so, but had said nothing till now they were at 
the window again. But now Elsie went on : 

“ I do think, Dora, that must have been Aunt Dora 
we saw last night. Poor thing ! I suppose the racket 
they make at the theatres frightened her away; and 
that opposite row must be about the height that 
the chamber story of the, old house would have been, 
only it is all farther front, but perhaps that makes no 
difference to ghosts.” 

“ Oh, don’t joke about it,” exclaimed Dora, whis¬ 
pering. “ Do you know I trust it is she indeed, grand¬ 
aunt Dora, and that she came purposely to me, 
to me because it is all so much the same—my fate is 
so like hers. Oh, Elsie, I think it was truly she.” 

Elsie wanted to laugh, for they always used to 
laugh a little over grand-aunt Dora’s story, but she 
knew what her sister meant and what her real sorrow 
was. 







i 9 4 


Treasury of Tales. 


Only two months before Dora had sat waiting, yes, 
waiting—just that way,—in the window of their old 
country home, where they had lived all their lives so 
happily—with her hat on, ready for a drive, laughing 
and joking with Elsie. 

And then—and then,— he had not come. She sat 
waiting, then wondering, took off her hat, put it on 
again, but sat there all the afternoon, then looked 
for some message, but none ever came. Richard did 
not come—he never came. She had heard of him in 
Boston, at the West ; he was going to be married, 
somebody said. And how it made her cheeks red¬ 
den, and how it pained her to the heart to think she 
had waited ! 

Since then, sad events had befallen. They were 
forced to leave the dear old home, and for the sad¬ 
dest of causes. Their only brother, much older than 
they, who should have cared for them, had wasted 
their little property,—it seemed the old country 
house must be sold, and they must come to Boston, 
and “do something.” They were very fortunate, so 
they thought, for Elsie found a place in the Public 
Library, only a temporary place, but she was so 
quick and ready we felt they could never get along 
without her when once they had learned her value. 
For they came to the house where I was living, and 
that is how I learned to know them, being a con¬ 
nection, but never having met them before. With 
a little bit of their earnings Dora was to take lessons 
in singing, for with such a voice as she had she might 
command a place in any choir, if only it had more 
cultivation. 

So the two were talking together, far into the 
night, with hushed voices, sitting by the window, 
when both started. Again the same light appeared 
as on the night before—and again the same figure 
at the opposite window, and the light seemed to 
gather about it, like the radiance that glows in some 
old pictures of saints. They sat silent for some 
minutes, till Elsie whispered, “They said, you know, 
those English ladies, that if two saw—it—together, 
if there were two that saw it, it really was—a 
ghost ! ” 

“ And do you remember,” Dora said, scarcely 
above her breath, “ how they said they got attached 
to their ghosts, and would hate to have them go 
away, and that it seems natural to have them—a sort 
of protection ? and I almost feel the same at seeing 
her now, only, Elsie, must it be my fate, mine—to sit 
waiting, waiting that way ? Must I grow like that ? 
See, she seems no longer young, as she must have 
been when she died, or did she fade away when she 
did die ? She looks like a rose that has been put 
away in a book—withered and dry—the color all 
gone from that scarlet poppy they told us of, and her 
hands crossed so quietly, looking off, waiting still. 
Do you think she shows herself there to encourage 
me, because she knows my sorrow ? She makes no 
sign ; she sits there, sits there. Perhaps always has 
been sitting there these long years, as you say, be¬ 


cause she has been disturbed from the old place. 
But must she sit there still ? How dreadful to wait 
and wait all this life long, and then wait on and on, 
and on for how long, for generations and genera¬ 
tions ! ” 

“ Oh, don’t go on so,” cried Elsie, breaking down, 
and bursting into tears, as she had never done be¬ 
fore, she was always so strong. Dora leaned over to 
kiss and comfort her, for her sister was kneeling by 
her side, and when the two turned to look back all 
was dark opposite—no light, no figure in the window. 

. “We are in a bad state,” said Dora ; “we must go 
to bed.” 

And the next morning when they got up, even El¬ 
sie felt gloomy, and hated to leave her sister early 
as she must, she looked so sad. But Dora would 
not let her think of staying ; she was to go to her les¬ 
son herself, and her practice always cheered her up. 

But afterwards it was such a comforting day. The 
postman in the afternoon brought a long letter ta 
Dora, that she was long in reading, and Elsie had 
unexpected visitors at the Library. Dora’s letter had 
been travelling round for two or three days, had been 
to the country post-office and been returned. Such 
a long letter, and it might just as well have been 
shorter, for all that Dora cared for in the letter was 
the news that Richard was coming—might be there, 
so she caculated from the date, that very afternoon ! 
She had forgotten with this news all the agony of 
the last two months, and would have never remem¬ 
bered it at this moment, if it had lasted for years, 
and never would have asked an explanation, nor 
wanted one. Some time or other they would laugh 
it all over together. He had missed his train that 
day, it seemed, two months ago, and there was no 
later train to connect. It was just such an absurd 
accident as that had kept him ! But then he fool¬ 
ishly sent a telegram to explain his delay, and that 
he could not come the next day. It was foolish, for 
there was no telegraph office at the little branch sta¬ 
tion, and telegrams had to go to the junction, where 
nobody knew them, for they never used the tele¬ 
graph. How foolish indeed ! 

All the rest was very confused, and perhaps she 
never rightly understood it. How that very after¬ 
noon of the day he missed the train, he, Richard, was 
summoned out West, on the death of an uncle. And 
how he did not write because he met her brother 
down in the depths of despair, and ready to kill him¬ 
self with repentance and despondency, everything 
gone wrong. It was either in Montana or Arizona, 
Dora always mixed up the Western States. And then 
Richard’s own affairs were changed, because the 
uncle had left him money or mines, or something, 
and he didn’t want to write to Dora till he could 
write certainly, and explain and plan all things for 
their brother, for them, and mostly for Dora and 
himself, and w T ould she see him as soon as he came ?' 

That question was easily answered, for after read¬ 
ing the letter over and over—for there he was, and 






The Mysterious Sketch. 


195 


their brother with him ; and they had picked up El¬ 
sie at the Library ; they had to wait for her, for she 
was way up on the top of some steps looking for 14- 
90-22, or some such, and when she came down had 
to wait and advise some boys on their way home 
from school what books they had better take out 
and find these books for them. She would not have 
cared after she had once seen them, Richard and 
her brother, and knew it was all right, but she wanted 
to send them to Dora. But they waited till her hours 
were over, and she could come too. And such a' 
long happy talk they had together in the evening ! 

The next morning, before they went down to 
breakfast, the two sisters stood at the window, look¬ 
ing across to the opposite houses. 

A housemaid stood in the window there, with a 
whisk in her hand, and a duster over her arm. She 
was brushing away on the sill of the window—chairs 
and furniture pushed back, a rug hanging from the 
other window, where the blinds were wide open. 

“ What cobwebs she is brushing away ! ” said 
Elsie ; “ do you know I think there must be some 
electric light below that gave that strange light on 
the window, and made us fancy what we saw.” 

“ No, sister,” said Dora, taking Elsie by the arm. 
“ Let me tell you—last night I could not sleep— 
naturally—but I could only think of her in all my 
joy—and late in the night I got up and went to the 
window again and pulled the curtain-” 

“ She was there again ? ” asked Elsie. 

“ She sat there so quietly, just as before,” an¬ 
swered Dora, “ but presently she slowly turned— 
you know we have not seen her move before—and 
she looked across at me—and how the face changed ! 
—all that anxious look gone—and a smile came— 
for she saw me, and she seemed ready to speak, and 
I thought she had something to say to me, and I did 
not want to lose her words—and I opened the win¬ 
dow, as if I could hear what she would say, but when 
I put out my head there was dampness in the air, a 
rain was falling between, and all was darkness there ! 
I left the window open a little that I might be sure 
it was no dream, and I had really stood here. And 
you know you spoke of the damp air in the morning.” 

“Yes,” said Elsie, “and I knew I shut it the last 
thing—but do you know we were so happy that last 
night I forgot all about Aunt Dora.” 

“ I think she will not come again,” said Dora. “ I 
think perhaps she only came to console me—perhaps 
her waiting is really over—she came only for me.” 

“ No,” she cannot come again,” exclaimed Elsie, 
“ for see all those children trooping in—and a car¬ 
riage at the door, and a new family come to the 
rooms. And there is the nursemaid—it is to be a 
nursery—with the gay clatter of children-” 

Dora was called away by Richard’s voice, as Elsie 
went on : “ No more room for thee, poor old ghost! 
Poor Aunt Dora ! ” 

That was what I found her saying, and.she told 
me the rest. 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH. 

BY ERCKMANN—CHATRIAN. 

I. 

O PPOSITE the chapel of St. Sebald, at Nurem¬ 
berg, at the corner of the street of the Tra- 
bants, stands a little hostelry, narrow and 
high, the gable indented in steps, the panes dusty, 
the roof surmounted by a plaster Virgin. In this 
spot I passed the saddest days of my life. 

I had gone to Nuremberg to study the old Ger¬ 
man masters, but as I had not two cents to rub 
against each other, I had to take portraits. And 
such portraits ! Fat gossips with cat on knee, aider- 
men in wigs, burgomasters in three-cocked hats, the 
whole lit up with ochre and vermilion by the tubeful. 

From oils I went down to crayons and from 
crayons to the crudest outline portraits. 

There is nothing so miserable as to have perpetu¬ 
ally a dun of a landlord with compressed lips, a 
shrill voice and an impudent air, who comes and 
tells you every day : “ Oh, yes, you’ll pay me soon, 
sir ! Do you know how large your bill is ? No, that 
does not bother you. You eat, drink and sleep quite 
at ease. The Lord gives food to the little sparrows. 
Your bill, sir, amounts to two hundred florins and 
six kreutzer. Hardly worth talking about !” 

People who have never heard this ditty sung can 
form no idea of it. Love of art, imagination, holy 
enthusiasm for the beautiful, wilt at the breath of 
such a rogue. You become awkward, timid; all 
your energy is lost, as well as the feeling of personal 
dignity, and you take off your hat at a respectful 
distance to Burgomaster Schneegans. 

One night, not having a cent, as usual, and threat¬ 
ened with prison by the worthy Mr. Rap, I resolved 
to commit bankruptcy by cutting my throat. With 
this agreeable thought, sitting on my trundle-bed, 
opposite the window, I gave myself up to a thousand 
philosophical reflections, more or less enjoyable. 

“ What is man ? ” said I to myself ; “ an omnivorous 
animal; his jaws, provided with canine teeth, incisors 
and molars, prove this sufficiently. The canines are 
made to tear meat; the incisors to eat fruit; the 
molars to masticate, crush and triturate animal and 
vegetable substances, agreeable to the senses of taste 
and smell. But when there is nothing to masticate, 
this existence of ours is meaningless ; it is a fifth 
wheel to Nature’s coach.” 

Such were my reflections. I durst not open my 
razor for fear that the invincible force of my logic 
should inspire me to make an end of the matter. 
After having discussed fate and fortune, I blew out 
my candle and put off the rest till to-morrow. 

This abominable Rap had completely demoralized 
me. As far as art went, I saw nothing but the most 
wretchedly crude outline portraits, and my sole de¬ 
sire was to have some money in order to free my¬ 
self from his odious presence. This night, however, 

Translation Copyrighted, i88j. 










196 


Treasury 


a singular revolution took place in me. I awoke 
about one o’clock. I relit my lamp, and wrapping 
myself up in an old gray dressing-gown, I threw on 
my paper a rapid sketch in the Dutch style—some¬ 
thing strange, something bizarre , which had no rela¬ 
tion to my usual conceptions. 

Imagine a court-yard, gloomy, boxed in by high 
crumbling walls. In these walls are hooks seven or 
eight feet above the ground. At the first sight, you 
guess that it is a slaughter house. 

To the left was a trellice of laths ; you perceive, 
through it, an ox cut into quarters, hung from the 
roof by enormous pulleys. Large pools of blood 
stream over the flagstones, and run down to unite in 
a gutter full of shapeless fragments. 

The light comes from above, between the chim¬ 
neys. The chimney pots stand clear cut in a cor¬ 
ner of the sky as large as one’s hand, and the roofs 
of the neighboring houses raise a strong scaffold- 
work of shadows from story to story. 

At the far end of this vile hole was a shed ; be¬ 
neath the shed a woodpile ; on the woodpile some 
ladders, some bundles of straw, some coils of rope, a 
hen-coop, and an old rabbit-hutch past service. 

How could these heterogeneous details be present¬ 
ed to my imagination ? I know not; I had no anal¬ 
ogous reminiscences, and yet, each stroke of the 
pencil, though inspired by the imagination, was real 
and live. Nothing was lacking. 

But at the right, one corner of the sketch remained 
blank—I knew not how to fill it. There some¬ 
thing was stirring, was moving; all at once I saw a 
foot, a foot sole upwards, clear from the ground. In 
spite of this improbable position, I followed my in¬ 
spiration without paying any attention to my own 
thoughts. This foot was joined to a leg, over which 
there soon floated the bottom of a dress. In brief; 
an old woman, tanned, deformed, dishevelled, grad¬ 
ually appeared, doubled over the edge of a well and 
struggling against a hand which was squeezing her 
throat. 

It was a scene of murder that I had been sketch¬ 
ing. The pencil fell from my hand. 

This woman in her desperate attitude, doubled 
over the coping of the well, her face contracted with 
terror, her two shrivelled hands on the arm of the 
murderer, horrified me. I durst not look at her. 
But the man, the person with the arm, him I did not 
see. It was impossible for me to finish him. 

“ I am tired,” I said to myself, my brow bathed 
with perspiration ; “ I have only this figure to do ; I 
will finish to-morrow—that will be easy.” 

And I went to bed again, quite frightened by my 
vision. Five minutes afterwards I was in a deep 
sleep. 

Next day, I was up at day-light. I had just dressed 
myself, and was preparing to resume the interrupted 
work, when two little knocks sounded at the door. 

“ Come in !” 

The door opened. A tall, thin, oldish man dressed 


of Tales. 

in black, appeared on the threshold. The physiog¬ 
nomy of this man, his close-set eyes, his large nose, 
like an eagle’s beak, surmounted by a wide bony fore¬ 
head, gave him a severe aspect. He saluted me 
gravely. 

“ M. Christian Venius, the painter ?” he said. 

“It is I, sir.” 

He bowed again, adding: 

“The Baron Frederick Van Spreckdal.” 

The appearance, in my wretched den, of the rich 
amateur Van Spreckdal, judge of the criminal court, 
made a vivid impression on me. I could not refrain 
from casting a furtive glance on my old mouldy 
furniture, my damp tapestries and my dusty floor. I 
felt myself humiliated by such squalor, but Van 
Spreckdal seemed to pay no attention to these de¬ 
tails, and seating himself before my little table re¬ 
sumed : 

“Master Venius, I have come to-” 

But at the same instant his eyes were arrested by 
the unfinished sketch—he did not end his sentence. I 
was sitting on the edge of my bed and the sudden 
attention which this personage accorded to one of 
my productions, made my heart beat in a strange 
manner. 

In a minute Van Spreckdal raised his head. 

“Are you the author of this sketch?” he said, 
with eager look. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ What is the price of it ? ” 

“ I do not sell my sketches. It is the design for 
a picture.” 

“ Ah ! ” said he, lifting the paper with the tips of 
his long yellow fingers. 

He drew an eyeglass from his vest and began to 
study the sketch in silence. 

The sun was then shining obliquely into the gar¬ 
ret. Van Spreckdal did not utter a word. His large 
nose took the shape of a beak, his heavy eyebrows 
contracted, and his protruding chin made a thou¬ 
sand little wrinkles in his long thin cheeks. The 
silence was so profound that I heard distinctly the 
plaintive buzzing of a fly caught in a spider’s web. 

“Well, as to the size of this picture, Mr. Venius ?” 
he said, without looking at me. 

“ Three feet by four.” 

“ The price ? ” 

“ Fifty ducats.” 

Van Spreckdal laid the sketch on the table and 
drew from his pocket a long green silk purse. 

“ Fifty ducats,” said he, “here they are.” 

I was thunderstruck, dazzled. 

The baron rose, saluted me, and I heard his big 
cane, with the ivory knob, sounding on each step 
right down to the bottom of the stairs. Then, awak¬ 
ing from my stupor, I remembered all at once that I 
had not thanked him, and I flew down the five 
flights like lightning, but on arriving at the thres¬ 
hold, I looked in vain, right and left: the street was 
empty. 








The Mysterious Sketch. 


197 


Well, thought I, this is strange ! And I ran up the 
stairs quite out of breath. 

II. 

The surprising manner in which Van Spreckdal 
had just appeared threw me into ecstacy. “ Yester¬ 
day,” I said, looking at the pile of ducats glittering 
in the sun, “ yesterday I formed the culpable design 
of cutting my throat, for a few wretched florins, and 
now to-day fortune falls to me from the clouds. 
Decidedly I did well not to open my razor, and if 
ever the temptation to make an end of myself re¬ 
turns, I will take care to put the business off till the 
morrow.” 

After these judicious reflections I sat me down to 
finish the sketch ; four strokes of the pencil and the 
affair was done. But here an incomprehensible dis¬ 
appointment awaited me. These four strokes of the 
pencil it was impossible for me to make. I had 
lost the thread of my inspiration ; the mysterious 
personage did not evolve himself from the limbo of 
my brain. It was in vain to try to catch his fleeting 
image, he no more agreed with the rest of the de¬ 
sign than a figure of Raphael in a pot-house by Ten¬ 
iers. The perspiration stood on me in drops. 

At the most critical moment, Rap opened the 
door without knocking, according to his praiseworthy 
custom ; his eyes riveted themselves on my pile of 
ducats and with a yelping voice he cried : 

“Eh ! eh ! I have caught you at it. You’ll tell 
me again, Mr. Painter, you have no money-” 

And his crooked fingers came forward with that 
nervous trembling which the sight of gold always 
produces on greedy souls. 

I remained stupefied for some seconds. 

The recollection of all the insults which this fel¬ 
low had inflicted on me, his covetous look, his im¬ 
pudent smile, all exasperated me. At a single bound 
I seized him and pushing him backwards with both 
hands out of the room I banged the door in his 
face. 

Outside, however, the old miser shrilly cried, 

“ My money ! thief ! my money ! ” 

The lodgers rushed out of their rooms and asked : 

“ What is the matter there ? What is going on ? ” 

I opened the door abruptly, and giving Mr. Rap 
a kick which sent him rolling down twenty steps : 

“ This is going on !” I cried, beside myself. 

I was pleased with my performance and rubbed 
my hands together. This adventure had put me 
in good spirits, I resumed my work and was about 
finishing the sketch when an unusual noise struck 
my ears. 

Hearing the ring of muskets on the pavement of 
the street, I looked out of my window, and I saw 
three gendarmes with cocked hats drawn up before 
the door. 

“ This ruffian of a Rap must have broken some 
limb ! ” I said in alarm. 

Now, reader, note the strange whimsicality of hu¬ 


man nature. I who wished to cut my throat the 
evening before shuddered to the very marrow of my 
bones at the thought that I might be hung if Rap 
was dead. 

The staircase was filled with confused sounds— 
heavy steps, clanking weapons, short words. 

Suddenly they tried to open my door. It was 
bolted. 

Then there was a general shout, “ In the name of 
the law—open ! ” 

I rose trembling, my limbs quivering. 

“ Open ! ” resumed the same voice. 

I had the idea of escaping by the roof ; but I 
had scarcely put my head out of the little dormer- 
window than I recoiled, quite dizzy. 

I saw in a flash all the windows below, with their 
shining panes, their flower-pots, their bird-cages. 
Lower, the balcony ; lower still, the lamp ; lower 
still, the signboard of the wine shop, the Tonnelet 
Rouge , with its hooks and clamps ; and then at last 
the three glittering bayonets, which only awaited 
my fall to spit me from the soles of my feet to the 
nape of my neck. On the roof of the house opposite 
a great red cat, in ambush behind a chimney, was 
watching a flock of sparrows piping and fighting 
in the spout. 

It is impossible to imagine to what clearness, 
what force, and what rapidity of perception the eye 
of man can attain when it is stimulated by fear. 

At the third summons—“ Open, or we will break 
in ! ”—seeing flight was impossible, I advanced to the 
door tottering and drew back the bolt. 

Two fists at once seized the collar of my coat. A 
little squat fellow, smelling of drink, said : 

“ I arrest you ! ” 

He wore a bottle-green overcoat buttoned up to 
the chin, and a stove-pipe hat; he had long, brown 
whiskers, rings on all his fingers, and his name was 
Passauf. 

He was the chief of police, and behind him were 
five of his “bull-dogs.” 

“ What do you want ? ” I asked Passauf. 

“ Come down ! ” he cried roughly, making a sign 
to one of his men to lay hold on me. 

This fellow dragged me off more dead than alive, 
while the others turned my room topsy-turvy. 

I went down stairs, my hair hanging over my face, 
and stumbling at every step. 

I was flung into a hack between two stout young 
fellows, who kindly let me see the ends of two clubs 
hung to their wrists by straps of leather. Then the 
hack started. 

I heard the steps of all the gamins of the town 
running after us. 

“ What have I done, then ? ” I asked one of my 
custodians. 

He looked at the other with an odd smile and 
said : 

“ Hans, he asks what he has done ! ” 

This smile froze my blood. Soon a deep shadow 






Treasury of Tales . 


198 


covered the vehicle, and the tramp of the horses 
echoed under a vault. We entered the Raspelhaus. 

Here one may say— 

Into this cave 

How one comes in I see quite well, 

How one gets out I cannot tell. 

All is not rose-colored in this world : from the 
claws of Rap I fell into a dungeon whence very 
few poor devils have had the chance of escaping. 

Large, gloomy court-yards, windows in rows like 
those of a hospital ; not a tuft of grass, not a spray 
of ivy, not a weathercock in sight. Such was my 
new lodging. It was enough to make one tear one’s 
hair out by handfuls. 

To begin with, the policemen and the jailer took 
me into the guard-room. 

The jailer, as far as I remember, was called Kaspar 
Schltissel. With his gray woolen cap, his pipe be¬ 
tween his teeth, and his bunch of keys at his girdle, 
he produced on me the effect of the Owl-god of the 
Caribs. He had its large, round, yellow eyes, its 
beak, and a neck buried in his shoulders. 

Schliissel quietly locked me in, as one locks up old 
shoes in a closet, while thinking of something else; 
while I, with my hands crossed behind me and my 
head stooping, remained more than ten minutes 
on the same spot. At the end of this time I made 
the following reflection : 

“ Rap when falling cried out, ‘ He is killing me ! ’ 
but did not say who. I will say that it was my neigh¬ 
bor, the old spectacle-seller ; he will be hung in my 
place.” 

This notion lightened my heart and I breathed a 
long sigh. Then I looked at my prison. It had 
just been newly whitewashed, and its walls as yet 
presented no marks, save in one corner a gibbet 
roughly drawn by my predecessor. The light came 
from a bull’s-eye window placed nine or ten feet 
high. The furniture consisted of a bundle of straw 
and a bucket. 

I sat down on the straw, my hands clasped round 
my knees, in a state of inconceivable prostration. 
I could scarcely see clear ; but, suddenly thinking 
that Rap before dying might have named my name, 
I felt a creeping in my limbs, and I started up cough¬ 
ing, as if the hempen cravat was already squeez¬ 
ing my throat. 

At almost the same moment I heard Schliissel com¬ 
ing along the corridor. He opened the cell and told 
me to follow him. He was still attended by his 
two clubbers, so I stepped out resolutely. 

We traversed long galleries lighted at intervals 
by a few interior windows. I saw behind some bars 
the famous Jic-Jack who was. to be executed to¬ 
morrow. He had a strait-jacket on and was singing 
with a hoarse voice : 

“ I am the king of these mountains.” 

On seeing me he cried : 

“ Hello ! comrade, I’ll keep a place for you on 
my right.” 


The two policemen and the Owl-god looked at 
each other smiling, while the gooseflesh crept down 
my back. 

III. 

Schliissel pushed me into a lofty hall, very dark and 
furnished with benches in the form of a semicircle. 
The look of this deserted hall, its two lofty barred 
windows, its crucifix of old dark oak—the arms ex¬ 
tended, the head sadly drooping on the shoulder— 
inspired me with I know not what religious dread in 
accord with my actual situation. 

All my ideas of false accusations disappeared ; 
my lips moved, murmuring a prayer. 

Fora long time I had never said a prayer ; but 
misfortune leads us always to thoughts of submis¬ 
sion. Man is so small ! 

Opposite me on an elevated seat sat two persons 
turning their backs to the light, thus leaving their 
faces in shade. However, I recognized Van Spreck- 
dal by his aquiline profile, caught from an oblique 
reflection of the window pane. The other person was 
fat ; he had full, puffy cheeks, short hands, and 
wore a judge’s robe, as did Van Spreckdal. 

Below sat the clerk, Conrad. He was writing on 
a low table, tickling the tip of his ear with the 
end of his quill pen. On my arrival he stopped to 
look at me with a curious air. 

I was made to sit down, and Van Spreckdal, rais¬ 
ing his voice, said to me : 

“ Christian Venius, where did you get this sketch ? ” 

He showed me my last night’s sketch, which he 
had in his hand. It was passed down to me. After 
having examined it, I replied : 

“ I am the author of it.” 

There was a pretty long silence. The clerk Conrad 
w T rote down my answer: I heard his pen running 
over the paper and I thought “ What means the 
question just put to me? This has nothing to do 
with the kick I gave Rap.” 

“You are the author?” resumed Van SpreckdaL 
“ What is the subject ?” 

“It is a fancy subject.” 

“ You have not copied the details any where ? ” 

“ No, sir ; they are all from imagination.” 

“Prisoner Christian,” said the judge in a severe 
tone, “ I beg of you to reflect. Do not tell false¬ 
hoods.” 

I flushed scarlet and cried in a high-pitched 
voice : 

“I have spoken the truth.” 

“Write, clerk,” said Van Spreckdal. 

The pen moved again. 

“ And this woman,” pursued the judge, “ who is 
being murdered by the edge of a well—she too 
is from imagination ? ” 

“ Beyond doubt.” 

“You have never seen her?” 

“ Never.” 

Van Spreckdal rose as if insulted ; then reseating 





The Mysterious Sketch. 


199 


himself, he appeared to consult in a low voice with 
his colleague. 

These two black profiles, clear-cut against the 
luminous background of the window; the three 
men erect behind me ; the silence of the hall—all 
made me shudder. 

il What do they want with me ? what have I done 
then ? ” I murmured. 

All at once Van Spreckdal said to my guards : 

“ Take the prisoner back to the carriage. We shall 
go to the Metzerstrasse.” 

Then, addressing himself to me : 

“ Christian Venius,” he cried, “ you are following a 
deplorable course. Recollect yourself and think 
that if the justice of man is inflexible, there remains 
for you the mercy of God. You may merit it by 
avowing your crime.” 

These words stunned me like the blow of a ham¬ 
mer ; I threw myself backward with arms out¬ 
stretched, crying : 

“ Ah, what a fearful dream ! ” and I fainted. 

When I came to myself, the carriage was rolling 
slowly along the street; another one went before us. 
The two policemen were still there. One of them, 
during the journey, offered a pinch of snuff to his 
comrade ; mechanically I stretched out my fingers 
to the snuff-box ; he drew it back quickly. 

The blush of shame rose to my face, and I turned 
my head to hide my emotion. 

“ If you put your head out of the window,” said the 
man with the snuff box, “ we shall be forced to clap 
on the handcuffs.” 

“ May the devil choke the infernal scoundrel ! ” I 
thought; but as the carriage stopped, one of them 
got out, while the other held me by the collar ; then, 
seeing his comrade ready to receive me, he pushed 
me rudely out. 

These infinite precautions to make sure of me 
did not presage anything in my favor ; but I was 
far from foreseeing all the gravity of the accusation 
which hung over my head, when a frightful circum¬ 
stance at last opened my eyes and threw me into 
despair. 

I was pushed into a low alley, with broken, uneven 
flags ; along the wall there ran a yellow, greasy ooze, 
exhaling a fetid odor. I walked in the midst of 
darkness, two men behind me. Farther off appeared 
the dim light of an interior court. 

As I advanced terror prostrated me more and 
more. It was not a natural feeling; it was a poig¬ 
nant anxiety, as unnatural as a nightmare. I recoiled 
instinctively at each step. 

“Come on there,” cried one of the police, placing 
his hand on my shoulder, “ Come along ! ” 

But what was my alarm when, at the end of the 
corridor, I saw the court-yard I had sketched the 
night before, with its walls and hooks, its piles of 
old iron, its hen-coop and its rabbit-hutch. Not a 
window, large or small, high or low, not a dirty pane, 
not a single detail had been omitted. 


I stopped thunderstruck by this strange revelation. 

Near the well stood the two judges, Van Spreck¬ 
dal and Richter. At their feet lay the old woman, 
turned on her back,—her long gray hair scattered— 
her face livid—her eyes unnaturally open- —and her 
tongue caught between her teeth. 

It was a horrible spectacle ! 

“Well,” said Van Spreckdal in a solemn accent, 
“what have you to say ?” 

I made no answer. 

“ Do you confess having thrown this woman, 
Theresa Becker, into this well, after having_strangled 
her to rob her of her money ? ” 

“ No,” I cried. “ No ! I do not know the woman ; 

I have never seen her. God help me ! ” 

“That is enough,” he replied in a dry voice. 

And without adding a word, he went out quickly 
with his colleague. 

The police then thought it their duty to handcuff 
me. I was taken back to the Raspelhaus in a state of 
profound stupor. I had not sense enough to think ; 
my very conscience was troubled : I asked myself 
if I had not murdered the old woman ! 

In the eyes of my guards I was condemned. 

I will not narrate my emotions during the night 
in the Raspelhaus, when, sitting on my bundle of 
straw, the dormer-window opposite me and the 
gibbet in perspective, I heard the watchman cry in 
the silence, “ Sleep, people of Nuremberg, God 
watches over you. One o’clock—Two o’clock— 
Three o’clock! ” 

Any one may form for himself the idea of such a 
night. It is all very well to say it is better to be 
hung innocent than guilty. For the soul, yes ; but 
for the body, it makes no difference : on the con¬ 
trary, it kicks against it; it curses fate ; it seeks 
to escape, well knowing that its part on the stage of 
life ends with the rope. Add, too, that it regrets 
not having enjoyed life enough, of having listened to 
the soul that preached to it abstinence. 

“ Ah, if I had but known ! ” says it, “ you would 
not have led me in the least with your big words, 
your fine phrases, and magnificent sentences ! You 
would not have lured me with your fine promises ! 
I would have had some good times which will never 
come back any more ! It is all over. You used to 
tell me ‘Conquer your passions.’ Well, I have con¬ 
quered them ! Much good to me ! They are going 
to hang me, and you, by-and-by, will be called a 
sublime soul, a stoical soul, a martyr to the mistakes 
of justice. There will not be even a question as to 
me! ” 

Such were the sad reflections of my poor body. 

Day broke ; at first pale, indecisive, it lit up with 
vague gleams the bull’s-eye window and cross bars ; 
then it shone on the wall at the end. Outside, the 
street grew animated ; it was a market day ; it was a 
Friday. I heard passing the wagons of vegetables 
and the honest countryfolk laden with their baskets. 
The chickens in their coops clucked as they went 






200 


Treasury of Tales. 


by, and the butterwomen were chattering together. 
The market opposite was opened ; they were prepar¬ 
ing the stalls. 

At last it was broad day, and the vast number of 
the increasing crowd of purchasers who assembled, 
basket on arm, coming, going, disputing and bar¬ 
gaining, told me that it was eight o’clock in the 
morning. 

With the light, confidence increased a little in my 
heart, some of my dark ideas disappeared. I felt a 
desire to see what was going on outside. 

Other prisoners, before me, had raised themselves 
up to the bull’s-eye ; they had dug out holes in the 
wall to climb up more easily. I clambered up in 
my turn ; and, when seated in the curved sill, my 
back bent, my head stooped, I could see the crowd, 
with its life and movement, tears in streams coursed 
down my cheeks. I thought no more of suicide. I 
felt a most extraordinary longing to live and breathe. 

“Ah,” I said to myself, “to live is to be happy ! 
Let them set me to drag a barrow, let them fasten a 
ball to my leg ! What matter, provided I live ! ” 

The old market house with its roof like an extin¬ 
guisher poised on heavy pillars, presented then a su¬ 
perb view. The old women, sitting opposite their 
hampers of vegetables, their coops of fowls, their bas¬ 
kets of eggs ; behind them the Jew old-clothes-men, 
with faces the color of old box-wood, the bare-armed 
butchers chopping the meat on their stalls ; the 
countrymen in large slouch hats on the back of their 
heads, calm and grave, their hands supported behind 
their backs on their sticks of holly, and quietly 
smoking their pipes. Then the noisy bustle of 
the crowd—the voices yelping, screaming, grave, 
high, abrupt—the expressive gestures—the unex¬ 
pected attitudes which betray at a distance the 
course of the discussion and paint so well the char¬ 
acter of the individual : in brief, all this took me 
captive, and in spite of my sad plight, I felt myself 
happy at being again in the world. 

Now, while I was thus looking out, a man, a 
butcher, passed, his back bent, carrying an enor¬ 
mous quarter of beef on his shoulders. His arms 
were bare, his elbows raised, his head held down ; his 
floating hair hid his face from me, and, yet, at the 
first glance, I trembled. 

“ ’Tis he ! ” I said to myself. 

All my blood flowed back to my heart. I de¬ 
scended into the cell, shuddering to the very tips of 
my nails, feeling my jaws quiver, paleness spread¬ 
ing over my face, and stammering with a stifled 
voice : 

“ ’Tis he ! He is there—there—and I am going 
to die to expiate his crime. Oh God ! What’s to be 
done ! What’s to be done ! ” 

A sudden idea, an inspiration from heaven, flashed 
across my mind. I carried my hand to my coat 
pocket!—my crayon case was there ! 

Then, rushing to the wall I began to trace the 
scene of the murder with inconceivable energy. 


No more uncertainties ! No more groping about! 
I knew the man. I saw him. He stood before me. 

At ten o’clock the jailer entered my cell. His 
owlish impassibility gave place to admiration. 

“ Is it possible ? ” he cried, erect on the thres¬ 
hold. 

“ Go, find my judges,” said I, pursuing my work 
with an ever-increasing excitement. 

Schlussel replied : 

“They are waiting for you in the court-room.” 

“I want to make some revelations,” I cried, put¬ 
ting the last touch to the mysterious personage. 

He was alive ; he was frightful to see. His face, 
foreshortened on the wall, stood out against the white 
background with prodigiqus force. 

The jailer went out. 

Some minutes afterwards the two judges appeared. 
They stood stupefied. 

With my hand extended, and trembling in every 
limb, I said to them : 

“ Behold the murderer !” 

Van Spreckdal, after some moments of silence, 
asked me : 

“His name ?” 

“ I do not know it ; but he is, at this instant, in the 
market—he is cutting some meat in the third stall to 
the left, entering from the street of the Trabants.” 

“What do you think about it ?” he said, leaning 
towards his colleague. 

“ Let the man be sought for,” replied the other in 
a grave tone. 

Several policemen, remaining in the corridor, 
obeyed this order. The judges remained standing, 
not taking their eyes from the sketch. I crouched 
on my straw with my head between my knees, as if 
lifeless. 

Presently steps echoed from afar in the vaulted 
passages. Those who have not waited for the hour 
of deliverance, and counted the moments—then long 
as centuries—those who have not felt the poignant 
emotions of waiting, of terror, of hope, and of doubt 
—can but ill conceive the internal tremors that I ex¬ 
perienced at this moment. I could have distinguish¬ 
ed the steps of the murderer, walking in the midst of 
his guards, among a thousand others. They drew 
near. The judges themselves appeared moved. I 
had raised my head, and with my heart compressed 
as in an iron hand, I fixed my looks on the closed 
door. It opened. The man entered. His cheeks 
were distended with blood ; his large jaws, drawn 
tightly together, made the muscles stand out up to 
his ears, and his little eyes, restless and tawny like 
those of the wolf, glittered under his thick reddish- 
yellow eyebrows. 

Van Spreckdal in silence pointed out to him the 
sketch. 

Then this full-blooded man, with the huge shoul¬ 
ders, after looking at it, grew livid, and, uttering a 
yell which froze us with terror, he flung wide his 
enormous arms, and made a bound backward to 




How to Make Home Happy. 


201 


throw down his guards. There was a frightful struggle 
in the corridor ; nothing was heard but the gasping 
desperation of the butcher, low curses, short phrases, 
and the feet of the policemen lifted from the ground 
falling back on the flags. 

This lasted fully a minute. 

Then the murderer was brought back with his 
head down, his eyes bloodshot, his hands tied behind 
his back. He stared again at the picture of the 
murder—seemed to reflect, and then in a low voice, 
as if talking to himself, said : 

“ Who could have seen me at midnight ? ” 

I was saved ! ! ! 

* * * Many years have elapsed since this terrible 
adventure. Thank God I no longer am forced to 
paint my crude likenesses, nor even portraits of 
burgomasters. By means of work and perseverance, 
I have conquered my place in the world, and I gain 
an honorable livelihood by producing works of art, 
the only end which, as I think, the true artist 
should seek to attain. But the remembrance of 
this sketch of a night scene has always remained in 
my mind. Sometimes in the midst of work, my 
thoughts carry me back to it. Then I lay down my 
palette and dream for whole hours. 

How is it possible that a crime committed by a 
man I did not know, and in a house I had never 
seen, should have been reproduced by my pencil, 
even down to the slightest details ? 

Is it mere chance ? No ; and besides, what is 
chance, after all, but the effect of a cause beyond 
our ken. 

Was Schiller in the right, when he said, “ The im¬ 
mortal soul partakes not in the weaknesses of mat¬ 
ter ; during the sleep of the body, she spreads out 
her radiant wings and goes, God knows whither ! 
What she does then—no man can say—but inspira¬ 
tion, at times, betrays the secret of her mighty pil¬ 
grimages.” 

Who knows ? Nature in her realities is more auda¬ 
cious than the imagination of man in his wildest 
flights of fancy. 


* HOW TO MAKE HOME HAPPY. 

A DUO LOGUE. 

BY MARK LEMON. 

SCENE —A Breakfast Room in a comfortable house in a 
tolerably aristocratic suburb. Mr. Naggleby {alone) 
is reading the Times, until it shall please MRS. 
Naggleby to appear. 

Mr. N. I don’t think the paper is printed so 
clearly as usual, or else the words are not so well 
selected as they might be. My eyes get dizzy over 
the lines, and I don’t seem to take in the meaning 
easily. 

[E?iter Mrs. Naggleby in a morfiing wrapper. 
Airs. N. ('with affected surprise ). Dear me. You 
down ! 


Mr. JV. {coldly). I have been down half an hour, 
and as it is now ten o’clock, I should like my break¬ 
fast when quite convenient. 

Mrs. N. {at the breakfast things). You must have 
such a good appetite for breakfast. 

Air. N. If I haven’t, it’s not for want of waiting. 

Mrs. N. I should have hurried, but I thought that 
when a gentleman comes home at three in the morn¬ 
ing, none the better for what he has been taking, he 
is glad to lie and sleep off its effects. 

Air. N. You are talking ridiculous nonsense. 
You know neither when I came home nor how. I 
had my latch-key, and went to my room without 
disturbing you. 

Mrs. N. I counted all the hours, Henry, and I 
heard you come in, and the frightful language you 
used to your boot because it would not come off in 
a moment. 

Mr. N. As I had my easy dress-shoes on, that 
shows your power of invention. 

Mirs. N. {repulsed for a second, but charging again). 
A pretty state of things when a married man, and 
the father of a family, is obliged to have a bed in 
his dressing-room that he may creep home at all 
hours like a good-for-nothing bachelor in chambers. 

Mr. N. I should like my breakfast, Julia, when 
quite convenient. 

Mrs. N. You can’t have the coffee till the coffee’s 
gone through, I suppose. If you are in such a hurry 
to be out in the morning, you should come home 
sooner at night. 

Mr. N. I presume that I am the best judge of 
what hours to keep. 

Mrs. N. Oh, stay out till daylight if you like— 
indeed, you generally do—and it’s no business of 
mine. 

Mr. N. {weakly). I have not been out of the 
house after twelve o’clock for a month, as you know, 
except when you have kept me out at some inf—at 
some party or at the opera. If you have no respect 
for me, you might have some for truth. 

Airs. JV. Parties and operas indeed ! It's very 
little I see of those sort of things. 

[Servant britlgs various articles and retires. 

Air. N. Say that sort of things, and don’t tell 
stories. 

Mrs. JV. You need not use coarse language, I 
think, and the servant in the room. 

Air. JV. She wasn’t in the room. 

Mrs. JV. She was. {Pushing cup towards him.) 
Now then, there’s breakfast, if you are in such a 
hurry for it. 

[Mr. N. reads and eats, but makes no very remark¬ 
able progress with either opcratioti. Mrs. N. 
watches him. 

Airs. JV. Don’t push the bacon away in that ab¬ 
surd manner ; because it’s beautiful. If people lived 
in a regular and wholesome way, they would be able 
to enjoy their breakfasts. Dr. Smirker says that it’s 





202 


Treasury of Tales . 


the surest sign of good sense to keep the palate in 
order. 

Mr. N. There’s a surer sign of good sense, and 
that is to discharge Dr. Smirker ; so be good enough 
to tell that humbug that his bill is already quite long 
enough, and he needn’t come twaddling here any 
more. 

Mrs. N. Heartless as you are, you can’t have 
looked at the children’s faces and talk in that way. 
To be sure I don’t wonder that you are not anxious 
to see those innocent little things, and reflect what 
an example you are setting them. 

Mr. N. (surprised into an ironic laugh). Ha ! ha ! 
Example to four girls, the eldest not ten. 

Mrs. JV\ (with motherly dignity and foresight). Ex¬ 
ample ; yes. Careless though you are, I suppose you 
would like those girls to marry better persons than 
yourself, and that you don’t wish them brought up 
to think that habits of late hours and intoxication are 
the qualities of a gentleman. 

Mr. N. (savagely). Julia, be kind enough to re¬ 
strain your imagination. I was as collected when I 
came in last night as I am now, and you have never 
in your life seen me otherwise, except the one night 
when your brother arrived from China. 

Mrs. N. Ah ! don’t speak of that. The recollec¬ 
tion will haunt me to my dying day. 

Mr. N. Dying fiddlestick ! We certainly were 
very joyful, and a little tipsy. But you never saw 
it before or afterwards. 

Mrs. N. Because you are artful enough either to 
keep out of the house when it happens, or to steal 
up to your dressing-room like a cat, and let nobody 
know. But it’s no business of mine—ruin your 
health your own way. 

Mr. N. Nonsense. (Tries to read .)—What a row 
those children are making ! Why are they not in 
the garden or the schoolroom ? 

Mrs. JV. That’s right, hunt and drive ’em out of 
the house as if they were hateful pests to you. If 
you felt rightly, you would be glad to hear them in 
such spirits : when children make a noise it’s a proof 
they are as they ought to be. 

Mr. JV. Ah ! Does Dr. Smirker say that too ? 
Then listen to that row and give him the sack. 

Mrs. JV. (rather driven in, but instantly assailing on 
the weak part of the enemy's line). The sack ! Is 
that vulgarity the way to talk of a professional man 
and a gentleman ? But as mamma says, when a hus¬ 
band forgets what’s o’clock, he forgets every thing 
else. 

Mr. N. (bitterly). The old lady knows what’s 
o’clock as well as most people. I had yesterday to 
pay for that wine that was sent her in by mistake, 
and not returned by her for the same reason. 

Mrs. JV. Well, a dozen of cheap port does not cost 
much,—such as is quite good enough for women. 
If it had been the sort of wine you drink at the club, 
at a guinea a bottle, it would be something to make 
a fuss about. 


Mr. JV. Another wicked story. 

Mrs. JV. Oh, you choose to say so ; but Dr. 
Smirker told me that that was the price of the wine' 
they keep at the clubs. 

Mr. JV. But the mischief-making ass had no right 
to say that I drink it. I never drank wine at that 
price or anything like it in all my life. 

Mrs. JV. If you must drink more than is good for 
you, I should think it might be better to drink good 
wine than bad, which not only makes you silly at 
night, but stupid in the morning. 

Mr. JV. People may be both silly and stupid with¬ 
out the help of any wine at all, my dear. 

(Proud of this last hit, Mr. N. gives elaborate atten¬ 
tion to the paper; Mrs. N. is going out of the room 
m a rage, but recollects that Mr. N. has previously 
taken 7nean advafitage of such demonstratiojis to 
leave the house , but not a cheque. 

Afrs. JV. I wonder whether W T alter Claridge ever 
used such expressions as that to his wife. 

Mr. JV. It is matter of indifference to me what 
Mr. Claridge may or may not do, but I am in¬ 
clined to think that he does not reprove Mrs. Clar¬ 
idge. 

Mrs. JV. No, because he remembers that he is a 
gentleman. 

Mr. JV. Or, because she is too much in the habit 
of being a lady to need to remember that she is one. 

Mrs. JV. (almost at boiling point). I dare say that 
if Walter Claridge is ever so unfortunate as to 
have a headache from his own misconduct, he does 
not revenge himself by insulting his wife at her own 
table. 

Mr. JV. (calmly). I have no idea where he insults 
her, my dear. You had better ask her for any in¬ 
formation you want, as you are always at her house. 

Mrs. JV. It is untrue. I have not been in Philli- 
more Crescent for ten days. 

Mr. JV. No, because she has been unwell, and 
you could only have been useful to her, without 
being amused. Sweet are the uses of feminine 
friendship ! 

Afrs. JV. I dare say it is as good as the friendship 
that keeps men out of their houses at a club till 
three in the morning, and then sends them home in 
a state they ought to be ashamed of. And I shall 
go to Louisa’s as often as I please. 

Mr. JV. Pray, do, my dear. I suppose when they 
are tired of you, they will let you know, as they did 
the other day, when you were told Not at Home, 
because Mrs. De Clamber was there, and Mrs. 
Claridge had no notion of your knowing her swell 
friends. 

Mrs. JV. It was a mistake of the servant’s. And 
if it wasn’t, how mean of you, believing so, to go and 
dine at the Blue Posts with Walter Claridge next 
day ! 

Afr. JV. Perhaps it was to show my power of 
Christian forgiveness, my dear ; perhaps it was in 






Widow Townsend's First Love. 


203 


gratitude to the Claridges for keeping you out of 
acquaintances above your sphere. 

Mrs. N. {slowly). Yes, you are right. They are 
above my sphere — now. They would not have been 
if I had listened to my friends a few years ago. 

Mr. N. You are very good to say a few, dear. 
It shows that you have not felt them to be a good 
many, though dates may say they are—or I may. 

Mrs. N. (breaking out strong). You are capable 
of saying any thing that is rude and vulgar, and the 
next time you come home as you did last night, be 
good enough to breakfast by yourself. [Rises. 

Mr. JV. As I came home last night, Julia, I was, 
I repeat, as collected as I am now. The proof is, 
and as you are going up-stairs you will be able to 
judge for yourself, that I came quietly into your 
room, and as you were asleep, I put the opera-box 
you asked me for under the large green toilette- 
bottle to the right of the glass. The clock struck 
one as I did it. 

Mrs. JV. (;mollifying ). Oh, you story! But did 
you ? 

Mr. JV. Go and see. 

Mrs. JV. And which Opera ? 

Mr. JV. Covent Garden. 

Mrs. JV. And you know I wanted to hear Picco- 
lomini. However, you can get that for Saturday 
night; can’t you ? 

Mr. JV. Humph. 

Mrs. JV. Ah, you are a sad, bad boy ! But, how¬ 
ever, I suppose I must overlook it. Let me give 
you some hot coffee : you have been dawdling over 
that until it is cold, but if people will stay out till 

four o’clock in the morning- 

[Curtain falls on the Truce. 


WIDOW TOWNSEND’S FIRST LOVE. 

A TALE OF THE “EASTERN SHORE.” 

HE fire crackled cheerfully on the broad hearth 
of an old-fashioned fireplace in an old-fash¬ 
ioned public house in an old-fashioned vil¬ 
lage, down in that part of the Old Dominion called 
the “ Eastern Shore.” A cat and three kittens basked 
in the warmth, and a decrepit yellow dog, lying 
full in the reflection of the blaze, wrinkled his black 
nose approvingly, as he turned his hind feet where 
his fore feet had been. Over the chimney hung sev¬ 
eral fine hams and pieces of dried beef. Apples 
were festooned along the ceiling, and other signs of 
plenty and good cheer were scattered profusely 
about. There were plants, too, on the window 
ledges, horse-shoe geraniums, and dew-plants, and a 
monthly rose, just budding, to say nothing of pots 
of violets that perfumed the whole place whenever 
they took it into their purple heads to bloom. The 
floor was carefully swept, the chairs had not a speck 
of dust upon leg or round, the long settle near the 
fireplace shone as if it had been just varnished, and 


the eight-day clock in the corner had had its white 
face newly washed, and seemed determined to tick 
the louder for it. 

Two arm-chairs were drawn up at a cosey distance 
from the hearth and each other ; a candle, a news¬ 
paper, a pair of spectacles, a dish of red-cheeked 
apples, and a pitcher of cider, filled a little table be¬ 
tween them. In one of these chairs sat a comforta¬ 
ble-looking woman about forty-five, with cheeks as 
red as the apples, and eyes as dark and bright as 
they had ever been, resting her elbow on the table 
and her head upon her hand, and looking thought¬ 
fully into the fire. 

This was Widow Townsend, “ relict” of Mr. Levi 
Townsend, who had been mouldering into dust in 
the neighboring churchyard for seven years and 
more. She was thinking of her dead husband, pos¬ 
sibly because all her work being done, and the servant 
gone to bed, the sight of his empty chair at the 
other side of the table, and the silence of the room, 
made her a little lonely. 

“ Seven years,” so the widow’s reverie ran ; “ it 
seems as if it were more than fifty, and yet I don’t 
look so very old neither. Perhaps it’s not having 
any children to bother my life out, as other people 
have. They may say what they like—children are 
more plague than profit, that’s my opinion. Look 
at my sister Jerusha, with her six boys. She’s worn 
to a shadow, and I am sure they have done it, 
though she never will own it.” 

The widow took an apple from the dish and be¬ 
gan to peel it. 

“How fond Mr. Townsend used to be of these 
apples ! He never’ll eat any more of them, poor 
fellow, for I don’t suppose they have apples where 
he has gone to. Heigho ! I remember very well 
how I used to throw apple peel over my head when 
I was a girl to see who I was going to marry.” 

Mrs. Townsend stopped short and blushed, for in 
those days she did not know Mr. T., and was always 
looking eagerly to see if the peel had formed a 
capital S. Her meditations took a new turn. 

“ How handsome Sam Payson was, and how much 
I used to care about him ! I wonder what has be¬ 
come of him ! Jerusha says he went away from our 
village just after I did, and no one has ever heard 
of him since. What a silly thing that quarrel was ! 
If it had not been for that-” 

Here came a long pause, during which the widow 
looked very steadfastly at the empty arm-chair of 
Levi Townsend, deceased. Her fingers played care¬ 
lessly with the apple-peel ; she drew it safely towards 
her, and looked around the room. 

“ Upon my word, it is very ridiculous, and I don’t 
know what the neighbors would say if they saw 
me.” 

Still the plump fingers drew the red peel nearer. 

“ But then they can’t see me, that’s a comfort; and 
the cat and old Bose never will know what it means. 
Of course I don’t believe any thing about it.” 









204 


Treasury of Tales. 


The peel hung gracefully from her hand. 

“ But still, I should like to try ; it would seem 
like old times, and-” 

Over her head it went, and curled up quietly on 
the floor at a little distance. Old Bose, who always 
slept with one eye open, saw it fall, and marched de¬ 
liberately up to smell it. 

“ Bose—Bose—don’t touch ! ” cried his mistress, 
and bending over it with a beating heart, she turned 
as red as fire. There was as handsome a capital 
S as any one could wish to see. 

A great knock came suddenly at the door. Bose 
growled, and the widow screamed, and snatched up 
the apple-peel. 

“ It’s Mr. T.—it’s his spirit come back again, be¬ 
cause I tried that silly trick,” she thought fearfully 
to herself. 

Another knock—louder than the first, and a man’s 
voice exclaimed,- 

“ Hello—the house ! ” 

“ Who is it ? ” asked the widow, somewhat relieved 
to find that the departed Levi was still safe in his 
grave on the hill-side. 

“ A stranger,” said the voice. 

“ What do you want ? ” 

“ To get a lodging here for the night.” 

The widow deliberated. 

“ Can’t you go on ? There’s a house half a mile 
farther, if you keep to the right-hand side of the 
road, and turn to the left after you get by-” 

“ It’s raining cats and dogs, and I’m very delicate,” 
said the stranger, coughing. “ I’m wet to the skin : 
don’t you think you can accommodate me ?—I don’t 
mind sleeping on the floor.” 

“ Raining, is it ? I didn’t know that,” and the 
kind-hearted little woman unbarred the door very 
quickly. “ Come in, whoever you may be ; I only 
asked you to go on because I am a lone woman, 
with only one servant in the house.” 

The stranger entered, shaking himself like a New¬ 
foundland dog upon the step, and scattering a little 
shower of drops over his hostess and her nicely 
swept floor. 

“ Ah, that looks comfortable after a man has been 
out for hours in a storm,” he said, as he caught sight 
of the fire ; and striding along towards the hearth, 
followed by Bose, who sniffed suspiciously at his 
heels, he stationed himself in the arm-chair— Mr. 
Townsends arm-chair! which had been kept “sa¬ 
cred to his memory ” for seven years. The widow 
was horrified, but her guest looked so weary and 
worn out that she could not ask him to move, but 
busied herself in stirring up the blaze that he might 
the sooner dry his dripping clothes. 

A new thought struck her : Mr. T. had worn a 
comfortable dressing-gown during his illness, which 
still hung in the closet at her right. She could not 
let this poor man catch his death, by sitting in that wet 
coat. If he was in Mr. Townsend’s chair, why should 
he not be in Mr. Townsend’s wrapper? She went 


nimbly to the closet, took it down, fished out a pair 
of slippers from a boot-rack below, and brought them 
to him. 

“ I think you had better take off your coat and 
boots—you will have the rheumatic fever, or some¬ 
thing like it, if you don’t. Here are some things 
for you to wear while they are drying. And you 
must be hungry, too ; I will go into the pantry and 
get you something to eat.” 

She bustled away, “on hospitable thoughts in¬ 
tent,” and the stranger made the exchange with a 
quizzical smile playing around his lips. He was a 
tall, well-formed man, -with a bold but handsome face, 
sun-burned and heavily bearded, and looking any¬ 
thing but “ delicate,” though his blue eyes glanced 
out from under a forehead as white as snow. He 
looked around the kitchen with a mischievous air, 
and stretched out his feet decorated with the defunct 
Boniface’s slippers. 

“Upon my word, this is stepping into the old 
man’s shoes with a vengeance ! And what a hearty, 
good-humored looking woman she is ! Kind as a 
kitten,” and he leaned forward and stroked the cat 
and her brood, and then patted old Bose upon the 
head. The widow, bringing in sundry good things, 
looked pleased at his attention to her dumb friends. 

“ It’s a wonder Bose does not growl; he generally 
does if strangers touch him. Dear me, how stupid ! ” 

The last remark was neither addressed to the 
stranger nor to the dog, but to herself. She had 
forgotten that the little stand was not empty, and 
there was no room on it for the things she held. 

“Oh, I’ll manage it,” said her guest, gathering up 
paper, candle, apples, and spectacles (it was not 
without a little pang that she saw them in his hand, 
for they had been her husband’s, and were placed 
each night, like the arm-chair, beside her) and de¬ 
positing them on the settle. 

“ Give me the table cloth, ma’am, I can spread it 
as well as any woman ; I’ve learned that, along with 
scores of other things, in my wanderings. Now let 
me relieve you of those dishes, they are far too 
heavy for those hands”—the widow blushed ; “ and 
now please sit down with me, or I cannot eat a mor¬ 
sel.” 

“ I had supper long ago, but really I think I can 
take something more,” said Mrs. Townsend, draw¬ 
ing her chair nearer to the table. 

“ Of course you can, my dear lady ; in this cold 
fall weather people ought to eat twice as much as 
they do in warm. Let me give you a piece of this 
ham, your own curing, I dare say.” 

“ Yes ; my poor husband was very fond of it. He 
used to say that no one understood curing ham and 
drying beef better than I.” 

“ He was a most sensible man, I am sure. I drink 
your health, ma’am, in this cider.” 

He took a long draught v and set down his glass. 

“ It is like nectar.” 

The widow was feeding Bose and the cat (who 








Widow Townsend's First Love. 


205 


thought they were entitled to a share of every meal 
eaten in the house), and did not quite hear what he 
said. 

“ Fine dog, ma’am, and a very pretty cat.” 

“They were my husband’s favorites,” and a sigh 
followed the answer. 

“ Ah, your husband must have been a very happy 
man.” 

The blue eyes looked at her so long, that she grew 
flurried. 

“ Is there anything more I can get for you, sir ? ” 
she asked, at last. 

“ Nothing, thank you, I have finished.” 

She rose to clear the things away. He assisted 
her, and somehow their hands had a queer knack of 
touching as they carried the dishes to the pantry 
shelves. Coming back to the kitchen, she put the 
apples and cider in their old places, and brought out 
a clean pipe and a box of tobacco from an arched 
recess near the chimney. 

“ My husband always said he could not sleep after 
eating supper late unless he smoked,” she said. 
“ Perhaps you would like to try it.” 

“ Not if it is to drive you away,” he answered, for 
she had her candle in her hand. 

“Oh, no ; I do not object to smoke at all.” She 
put the candle down ; some faint suggestion about 
“ propriety ” troubled her, but she glanced at the 
old clock, and felt reassured. It was only half past 
nine. 

The stranger pushed the stand back after the pipe 
was lit, and drew her easy-chair a little nearer the 
fire, and his own. 

“ Come, sit down,” he said, pleadingly ; “ it’s not 
late, and when a man has been knocking about in 
California and all sorts of places, for a score of 
years, he is glad enough to get into a berth like 
this, and to have a pretty woman to speak to once 
again.” 

“ California ! Have you been in California ? ” she 
exclaimed, dropping into the chair at once. Un¬ 
consciously, she had long cherished the idea that 
Sam Payson, the lover of her youth, with whom she 
had so foolishly quarrelled, had pitched his tent, 
after many wanderings, in that far-off land. Her 
heart warmed to one who, with something of Sam’s 
looks and ways about him, had also been sojourning 
in that country, and who very possibly had met him 
—perhaps had known him intimately ! At that 
thought her heart beat quick, and she looked very 
graciously at the bearded stranger, who, wrapped in 
Mr. Townsend’s dressing-gown, wearing Mr. Towns¬ 
end’s slippers, and sitting in Mr. Townsend’s chair, 
beside Mr. Townsend’s wife, smoked Mr. Towns¬ 
end’s pipe with such an air of feeling most thor¬ 
oughly and comfortably at home ! 

“ Yes, ma’am, I’ve been in California for the last 
six years. And before that I went quite round the 
world in a whaling ship ! ” 

“ Good gracious ! ” 


The stranger sent a puff of smoke curling grace¬ 
fully over his head. 

“ It’s very strange, my dear lady, how often you 
see one thing as you go wandering about the world 
after that fashion.” 

“ And what is that ? ” 

“ Men, without house or home above their heads, 
roving here and there, and turning up in all sorts of 
odd places ; caring very little for life as a general 
thing, and making fortunes just to fling them away 
again, and all for one reason. You don’t ask me 
what that is ? No doubt you know already very 
well.” 

“I think not, sir.” 

“ Because ,a woman has jilted them ! ” 

Here was a long pause, and Mr. Townsend’s pipe 
emitted short puffs with surprising rapidity. A 
guilty conscience needs no accuser, and the widow’s 
cheek was dyed with blushes as she thought of the 
absent Sam. 

“ I wonder how women manage when they get 
served in the same way,” said the stranger, musing¬ 
ly ; “you never meet them roaming up and down in 
that style.” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Townsend, with some spirit, “ if 
a woman is in trouble she must stay at home and 
bear it, the best way she can. And there’s more 
women bearing such things than we know of, I dare 
say.” 

“ Like enough. We never know whose hand gets 
pinched in a trap unless they scream. And women 
are too shy or too sensible—which you choose—for 
that.” 

“ Did you ever in all your wanderings, meet any 
one by the name of Samuel Payson ? ” asked the 
widow, unconcernedly. 

The stranger looked towards her ; she was rum¬ 
maging the table-drawer for her knitting work, and 
did not notice him. When it was found, and the 
needles in motion, he answered her. 

“ Payson—Sam Payson ? Why, he was my most 
intimate friend ! Do you know him ? ” 

“ A little—that is, I used to, when I was a girl. 
Where did you meet him ? ” 

“ He went with me on the whaling voyage I told 
you of, and afterwards to California. We had a 
tent together, and some other fellows with us, and 
we worked the same claim for more than six months.” 

“ I suppose he was quite well ? ” 

“ Strong as an ox.” 

“ And—and happy ? ” pursued the widow, bending 
closer over her knitting. 

“ Hum—the less said about that the better, per¬ 
haps. But he seemed to enjoy life after a fashion 
of his own. And he got rich out there, or rather, I 
will say, well off.” 

Mrs. Townsend did not pay much attention to 
that part of the story. Evidently she had not fin¬ 
ished asking questions, but she was puzzled about 
her next one. At last she brought it out beautifully : 






206 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Was his wife with him in California ? ” 

The stranger looked at her with twinkling eyes. 

“ His wife, ma’am ! Why, bless you, he has not 
got any wife.” 

“ Oh, I thought—I mean I heard ”—here the little 
widow remembered the fate of Ananias and Sap- 
phira, and stopped short before she told such a tre¬ 
mendous fib. 

“ Whatever you heard of his marrying was all non¬ 
sense, I can assure you. I knew him well, and he 
had no thoughts of the kind about him. Some of 
the boys used to tease him about it, but he soon 
made them stop.” 

“How?” 

“ He just told them frankly that the only woman 
he ever loved had jilted him years before, and mar¬ 
ried another man. After that no one ever mentioned 
the subject to him again, except me.” 

Mrs. Townsend laid her kitting aside, and looked 
thoughtfully into the fire. 

“ He was another specimen of the class of men I 
was speaking of. I have seen him face death a score 
of times as quietly as I face the fire. ‘ It matters 
very little what takes me off,’ he used to say ; ‘ I’ve 
nothing to live for, and there’s no one that will shed 
a tear for me when I am gone.’ It’s a sad thought 
for a man to have, isn’t it ? ” ' 

Mrs. Townsend sighed as she said she thought it 
was. 

“ But did he ever tell you the name of the woman 
who jilted him ? ” 

“ I know her first name.” 

“ What was it ? ” 

“ Maria.” 

The plump little widow almost started out of her 
chair, the name was spoken so exactly as Sam would 
have said it. 

“ Did you know her, too ? ” he asked looking 
keenly at her. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Intimately ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Where is she now ? Still happy with her hus¬ 
band, I suppose, and never giving a thought to the 
poor fellow she drove out into the world ? ” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Townsend, shading her face with 
her hand, and speaking unsteadily ; “ no, her hus¬ 
band is dead.” 

“ Ah ! but still she never thinks of Sam.” 

There was a dead silence. 

“ Does she ? ” 

“ How can I tell ? ” 

“ Are you still friends ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then you ought to know, and you do. Tell me.” 
“ I’m sure I don’t know why I should. But if I 
do, you must promise me, on your honor, never to 
tell him, if you ever meet him again.” 

“ Madam, what you say to me never shall be re¬ 
peated to any mortal man, upon my honor.’ 


“Well, then, she does remember him.” 

“ But how ? ” 

“ As kindly, I think, as he could wish.” 

“ I am glad to hear it, for his sake. You and I are 
the friends of both parties ; we can rejoice with each 
other.” 

He drew his chair much nearer hers, and took her 
hand. One moment the widow resisted, but it was 
a magnetic touch, the rosy palm lay quietly in his, 
and the dark beard bent so low that it nearly touched 
her shoulder. It did not matter much. Was he not 
Samuel’s dear friend ? If he was not the rose, had 
he not dwelt very near it, for a long, long time ? 

“ It was a foolish quarrel that parted them,” said 
the stranger, softly. 

“ Did he tell you about it ? ” 

“Yes, on board the whaler.” 

“ Did he blame her much ? ” 

“ Not so much as himself. He said that his jeal¬ 
ousy and ill-temper drove her to break off the match ; 
but he thought sometimes if he had only gone back 
and spoken kindly to her, she would have married 
him after all.” 

“ I am sure she would,” said the widow piteously. 
“ She has owned it to me more than a thousand 
times.” 

“ She was not happy, then, with another.” 

“ Mr.—that is to say, her husband—was very good 
and kind,” said the little woman, thinking of the 
lonely grave out on the hill-side rather penitently, 
“ and they lived very pleasantly together. There 
never was a harsh word between them.” 

“ Still—might she not have been happier with 
Sam ? Be honest, now, and say just what you 
think.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Bravo ! that is what I wanted to come at. And 
now I have a secret to tell you, and you must break 
it to her.” 

Mrs. Townsend looked rather scared. 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ I want you to go and see her, wherever she may 
be, and say to her, ‘ Maria,’—what makes you start 
so ? ” 

“ Nothing ; only you speak so like some one I 
used to know, once in awhile.” 

“ Do I ? Well, take the rest of the message Tell 
her that Sam loved her through the whole ; that, 
when he heard she was free, he began to work hard 
at making a fortune. He has got it; and he is 
coming to share it with her, if she will let him. Will 
you tell her this ? ” 

The widow did not answer. She had freed her 
hand from his, and covered her face with it. By 
and by she looked up again—he was waiting pa¬ 
tiently. 

« Well ? ” 

“ I will tell her.” 

He rose from his seat, and walked up and down 
the room. Then he came back, and, leaning on the: 






Love and Lawn Tennis. 


20 7 


mantel-piece, stroked the yellow hide of Bose with 
his slipper. 

“ Make her quite understand that he wants her 
for his wife. She may live where she likes, and how 
she likes, only it must be with him.” 

“ I will tell her.” 

“ Say he has grown old, but not cold ; that he 
loves her now perhaps better than he did twenty 
years ago ; that he has been faithful to her all 
through his life, and that he will be faithful till he 
dies-” 

The Californian broke off suddenly. The widow 
•answered still, “I will tell her.” 

“ And what do you think she will say ? ” he asked, 
in an altered tone. 

“ What can she say but— Come ! ” 

“ Hurrah ! ” 

The stranger caught her out of her chair as if she 
had been a child, and kissed her. 

“ Don’t—oh, don’t ! ” she cried out. “ I am Sam’s 
Maria ! ” 

“Well—I am Maria’s Sam ! ” 

Off went the dark wig and the black whiskers— 
there smiled the dear face she had never forgotten ! 
I leave you to imagine the tableau ; even the cat 
got up to look, and Bose sat on his stump of a tail, 
and wondered if he was on his heels or his head. 
The widow gave one little scream, and then she- 

But, stop ! Quiet people like you and me, dear 
reader, who have got over all these follies, and can 
do nothing but turn up our noses at them, have no 
business here. I will only add that two hearts were 
very happy, that Bose concluded after a while that 
all was right, and so laid down to sleep again, and 
that one week afterwards there was a wedding at 
the house that made the neighbors stare. The widow 
had married her First Love ! 


LOVE AND LAWN TENNIS. 

A CONFESSION IN TWO CHAPTERS. 

BY FINDLAY MUIRHEAD. 

CHAPTER I. 

A WEEK ago to-day I was married to the charm- 
ingest, prettiest, and dearest girl in Britain, 
and to-night I am the most miserable man 
within the four seas. My wife and I are both 
perfectly well, no relative has died, I haven’t lost 
any money, and yet I am wretched. I have been 
found out by my wifej and at present she is crying 
her pretty blue eyes out up stairs, while I am alter¬ 
nately cursing my weakness and anathematizing my 
fortune down here. I cannot help thinking that I 
have a sort of an excuse if Tossy would only listen 
to me ; and I set down here the whole history of 
our misfortune in the mournful hope that she may 
consent to read this, although she may not be willing 
to hear me speak. 


One night last summer I closed the volume that 
had been delighting me with the talk of the famous 
eighteenth-century men and women, and as I lay 
back in my chair in the dusk I seemed to hear the 
voices still speaking. I heard the deep tones of the 
political prophets, the eager arguments of the phi¬ 
losophers and the theologians, and the light jests of 
the careless wits. I heard the softer tones of female 
voices and the merry tinkle of feminine laughter ; 
and as I heard them a vast longing came upon me. 
If the ghosts of bygone conversations still had such 
delights for me, should I not feel a vivider joy when 
the words came from hearts that were yet beating, 
when the gay jest and sparkling wit flashed from 
busy brains not yet the spoil of the grave ; when 
the airy laughter and bright smiles illumined lips 
that were still rosy with life ? I had dwelt too long 
.in the printed world ; I was becoming stiff and 
straitened between the boards of my books. Now I 
should mingle with my fellow-men ; now take part 
in the conversations that perhaps would engage the 
attention of some peaceful student like myself in the 
future. 

I had lived pretty much alone in the world, so fai 
as contemporaries went. Parents or brethren I had 
never known ; but my father had left me to the care 
of his brother, and the latter had discharged the 
trust by having me educated at a private school in 
England, allowing me to take a leisurely degree at 
Oxford, and finally leaving me his fortune, which he 
had acquired in some original way connected with 
ginger. I had seen him once or twice, but for the 
greater part of his life he resided at Calcutta. I had 
always been of a retiring disposition ; and the pos¬ 
session of a comfortable fortune, which was managed 
by my uncle’s lawyers, only placed it in my power to 
gratify my taste for quiet reading and study. I had 
my name entered at one of the Inns of Court, and 
had eaten my dinners ; but I had no intention of 
practising at the bar. I should have said that my 
name is Theodore Lancey. It is very curious to 
look back upon my former life now. I seem to have 
been almost a hermit. 

I had, and still have, a friend named Fitzjames. 
He is quite young, never having been out of the 
nineteenth century ; but, in certain respects, I have 
found that he is considerably older than I am. Fitz¬ 
james prides himself upon being a young man who 
knows about things—if not a young man of the 
world, then nothing. It seemed to me that an indi¬ 
vidual with a special knowledge of the kind he 
claimed to possess would be of more use to me than 
priests to Herodotus. He would be the very man 
to introduce me to my fellow-beings. I accordingly 
told him of my wishes. “ So you’ve come to air at 
last,” he said; “well, I’m glad to hear it, and I’ll 
show you round all right. What you’ve got to do 
first is to learn the name of the ruling sovereign, and 
the dates of the Reform Bill and the Ballot Act. 
I’m going to run up north to the Strathblane Hydro- 







208 


Treasury of Tales. 


«* 

patliic Establishment, and if you like you can come 
with me. These affairs are all the go nowadays, and 
you’ll see lots of character there, and we can take a 
run round Scotland afterward.” 

Quite innocent of knowing what hydropathic es¬ 
tablishments were, I consented, and in about a week 
after my resolution I found myself in the Strath- 
blane Hydropathic Establishment. We arrived late 
in the afternoon, shortly before dinner, and Fitz- 
james conducted me, after a hasty toilet, to the draw¬ 
ing room of the house. The room, which was very 
large, was very full, and to my excited eyes seemed 
at first full only of ladies. I subsided quietly into 
a corner behind a book, while Fitzjames disappeared 
elsewhere. I felt very much abashed by my intru¬ 
sion into this large company where everybody seemed 
to know some one else ; and I began to feel the first 
twinges of that unmerciful nervousness into which the 
presence of ladies throws the unaccustomed swain. 

As I peeped through my spectacles, taking notes 
of the social customs of the day, as I persuaded 
myself, I felt how helpless I should be if turned 
adrift in such, a place alone. “ Ah,” thought I, “ if 
the old ladies only took snuff and carried canes ; 
and if the young ladies only wore high-waisted short 
gowns and high combs, I should feel more at home, 
and should be able to address them with a highflown 
compliment and a low bow.” The company was 
certainly heterogeneous. Elderly ladies who bore 
the water-mark of spinsterhood abounded ; kindly 
looking matrons were there ; old gentlemen who 
looked as if only the near prospect of dinner kept 
them from going to sleep ; fresh, bright young ladies ; 
and slim young fellows that reminded me of the 
foppish Alcibiades. 

Fitzjames I presently descried conversing, nay 
even chatting, at his ease and comfortably, with what 
seemed to be a delightful family-party of ladies. 
“ For,” as he afterwards explained, “ that’s the way 
one has to do here, you know ; you’re a fool if you’re 
stiff.” I thought (parenthetically) that it was the 
way I should like to do everywhere, if I only got 
the chance of such pleasant companions. And, after 
all, I discovered that Fitzjames was an old acquaint¬ 
ance of these same ladies, and indeed I am firmly 
convinced that their presence had something to do 
with Fitzjames’s choice of his first stopping-place in 
Scotland. 

The summons of the gong was responded to by a 
general stampede of the occupants of the drawing¬ 
room, and I was swept along with the rest to the 
dining-hall. A compassionate waitress piloted me 
co the seat apportioned me at the table, and almost 
immediately Fitzjames dropped into the chair be¬ 
side me. Dinner at a hydropathic establishment is 
always a serious matter, and those who are know¬ 
ing seem to devote all their attention to it for the 
time. Our neighbors were not interesting, and our 
vis-a-vis seemed to be too much engrossed to repay 
advances. 


It was during dinner that Fitzjames told me that 
he had met some friends of his, the two Miss Dela- 
vels and their aunt Miss Scott, who were spending 
a short time in Scotland. We could descry the 
ladies at the other end of the long table at which 
we sat ; and I thought Fitzjames was a lucky fellow 
to stumble upon such charming acquaintances so 
soon. He offered to introduce me to them after 
dinner, but when that time came I was so overpow¬ 
ered—it is a humiliating confession—with bashful¬ 
ness that I couldn’t summon up courage to enter 
the drawing-room, but kept uncomfortably vibrating 
betwixt the billiard-room and the reading-room, 
which seemed entirely surrendered to the male sex. 
Fitzjames did not appear to have noticed my be¬ 
havior, for he made no allusion to it ; he probably 
forgot my existence. 

The next morning, after enjoying the more spe¬ 
cially hydropathic features of the place, I strolled 
into the reading-room to glance over the newspapers 
before breakfast. There were two or three ladies 
similarly waiting, and shortly afterwards I noticed 
Fitzjames’s friends, the Delavels, enter the room. I 
don’t think they saw me, for my face was hidden 
behind a newspaper ; but my attention was attracted 
by the sound of my own name—Lancey. It was 
the younger and more piquant-looking of the sisters, 
and the one whom secretly I feared the more, who 
spoke. I dare say a bolder man than I, similarly 
situated, would have simply plucked aside the paper, 
and so warned them of his presence. But I was star¬ 
tled by the mention of my own name, and felt my¬ 
self crimsoning in the most ridiculous manner. I 
had no desire to hear what was said about me ; I 
claim that for myself. If I could have melted into 
thin air, I should have gone out of earshot at once ; 
but to discover myself boldly, knowing that I should 
thereby draw upon myself the eyes and interest of 
these two girls, was more than I had nerve to do. 
It was pitiful weakness, I admit; but what then ? 
I was a stranger to my century. 

The conversation was not loud, but I couldn’t 
help catching stray phrases : “ Isn’t it jolly ?—the 
famous T. Lancey, you know—in the papers—well- 
known player—saw his name in the book—and Mr. 
Fitzjames says—splendid games at tennis—intro¬ 
duce him to-day.” I smiled a little to myself ; they 
had made a mistake. If there really were a “ fa¬ 
mous T. Lancey,” I certainly was not he ; but I 
should like very much to know what Fitzjames had 
said. The breakfast gong interrupted my medita¬ 
tions ; and as the young ladies left the room before 
I did, I was not discovered. 

After breakfast Fitzjames conducted me to “ see 
the place,” which was his pleasant way of express¬ 
ing going to find the Misses Delavel, in order to 
fulfil an engagement to play lawn-tennis with them. 
Before we found them I had told him what I had 
overheard, and he seemed to see in it an immense 
joke. “ Why,” said he, “ I do believe they are con- 





Love and Lawn Tennis. 


209 


founding you with Tom Lancey, of the Bayswater 
Tennis Club ; a tremendous don at tennis ; cham¬ 
pion, and all that. That’s awfully good. These 
girls are just mad about tennis ; and Miss Lilian, the 
young one, thinks, I verily believe, that a man’s 
not worth looking at unless he can play tennis.” 

“ But,” said I, “ / can’t play tennis ; I’ve only 
seen it once, and I never had a bat in my hand. 
You must put them right before you introduce me.” 
I am now sure that had I not happened to stumble 
over a stone I should have seen a sparkle of deviltry 
in Fitzjames’s eyes as he replied— 

“ Oh, that doesn’t much matter. Wouldn’t it be 
rather fun to pretend you are Tom Lancey, just a 
little bit? Miss Tossy (that’s Lilian’s pet name) 
will be awfully nice to you at first; and of course 
we’ll not be able to carry the joke very far. Besides, 
they made the mistake first.” I positively shuddered 
at the idea of being mixed up in a jest to be played 
off upon young ladies ; but Fitzjames wouldn’t listen 
to me, and boisterously laughed all my objections to 
scorn. He said it would make the introduction ever 
so much easier, and, assuring me that he would see 
me through it, reduced me to a miserable acqui¬ 
escence. I plaintively reminded him that I didn’t 
know a single technical term in the game. But he 
assured me that didn’t matter. 

“ All you’ve got to do is not to make any jokes 
about ‘ deuce,’ or ‘ love ’; you mustn’t say anything 
amusing about ‘ being in court ’; you must avoid 
all literary allusions to ‘ love that hath us in the 
net ’; or ‘ they also serve who only stand and wait ’; 
and forget, if possible, the Prince of Wales’s motto ; 
and on no account mention the ‘ coign of vantage.’ 
Further, you must say racquet and not bat. If you 
trespass any of these rules, your reputation as an old 
player is gone.” 

This was very awful. I didn’t see that it was at 
all probable that I should ever be tempted to say 
any of the things Fitzjames mentioned ; but I fore¬ 
saw a very unhappy predicament for myself. 

I had not much time for thought, however. We 
had reached the tennis-lawn, and Fitzjames at once 
introduced me to Miss Scott and her nieces. For¬ 
tunately for me they had their set made up by 
another young fellow, and I had nothing to do with 
the game beyond expressing my opinion that it was 
simply charming and splendidly healthy. I pleaded 
“ letters ” as an excuse to leave the ground almost at 
once, but a promise was extorted from me to return 
before luncheon. I hurried to the house, dashed off a 
short note to somebody in order to discharge my con¬ 
science, and anxiously plunged into the depths of 
“ Laws of Lawn Tennis,” which I had seen in the 
reading-room. I understood no very great quantity 
of what I read, but I was determined to master some 
of it, and I did. 

There were several people in the room, and as I 
entered I caught a suppressed whisper of “ the great 
tennis-player,” that drove the blood to my cheeks. 


Every one seemed to have fallen a victim to the 
same mistake, for an old gentleman, seeing me with 
the “ Laws,” said something about “ congenial litera¬ 
ture.” I was becoming seriously concerned and 
wished passionately that I hadn’t consented to 
countenance the jest, even for a moment. I longed 
for .courage enough to disclaim the honor of being 
“ T. Lancey, the great tennis-player ” ; but I did not 
know how to begin ; while the idea of plunging, the 
first thing, into explanations with unknown ladies 
positively blanched my cheeks. 

I was then innocent enough to believe that I must 
keep my promises ; so after waiting within doors as 
long as I decently could, I returned to the lawn. A 
new set was going on, and the younger Miss Delavel 
was resting on one of the chairs under the trees. 
She signified, in that wonderful tacit way that ladies 
have, that I was to go to speak with her ; and despite 
my shyness, I felt not altogether unwilling. She 
began the conversation by expressing her sorrow 
that I was so late, as another set had been begun 
and might not be finished before luncheon ; and she 
was just on the point of launching into a discussion 
upon tennis, when her aunt called her to go with her 
into the house. “ I shall be back in plenty of time 
for our set, Mr. Lancey,” she exclaimed as she 
went. This in reply, I presume, to a look of dis¬ 
appointment, which, however, had no reference to 
the future set. 

I remained and looked at the game. It was un¬ 
doubtedly a buxom exercise. Talk of Nausicaa and 
her maidens playing ball ! There was no such deb- 
onnair grace there as I now beheld before me. Of 
all the exercises of the human form divine, lawn- 
tennis is the most beautiful. The trim costumes, the 
coquettish hats, and the saucy shoes in which it is 
necessary for ladies to play tend splendidly to set 
off the lithe grace of every attitude into which the 
young forms bend. And when the cheeks are deli¬ 
cately flushed with the exercise, the eyes bright with 
eagerness, and perhaps a stray curl danced from its 
strait confinement, what more enchanting picture 
could be desired ? I was delighted ; I forgot my 
unhappy plight. I longed for Greek vases, on which 
to depict the free grace and the flowing curves of 
the lithe forms ; Greek vases alone were suitable for 
such a relief. 

The set was keenly contested and long, and Miss 
Lilian Delavel had returned some time before it was 
finished. I found, to my intense surprise, that I got 
on fairly well in conversation with her. I didn’t 
miss the powder and patches of last century so much 
as I expected, and indeed had mainly to signify my 
assent to all her rhapsodies about lawn-tennis. She 
seemed to be very enthusiastic on that point. 

“ I am very glad you can play, Mr. Lancey; 
people who can’t are so stupid, don’t you think ? 
I’m sure I should never like any one who couldn’t 
play, so you see, Mr. Lancey, you are fortunate in 
being able.” 





2 10 


Treasury of Tales. 


This was too much. “ I assure you, Miss Delavel, 
I really cannot-" 

“ Now, Mr. Lancey, please don’t. Mr. Fitzjames 
told us you would probably pretend not to know 
much about it. But I know all about it; I’ve seen 
your name in the papers scores of times.” 

“ But really, I protest, Miss Delavel; I haven’t-” 

Here I was interrupted by the arrival of the 
players, who apologized for having played so long, 
and advised us to lose no time in beginning. 

Fitzjames said he would give me his racquet; he 
had an engagement. I believe it was merely to smoke 
a cigarette and to avoid playing with the trio. But 
a substitute was speedily found in young Miss Mac- 
Brier. I was in anything but a comfortable frame 
of mind ; I felt convinced I should do something 
absurd, and that my false reputation would take 
away all excuse for it. I was glad, in a dim sort of 
way, that Miss Lilian was to be my partner against 
Miss Delavel and Miss MacBrier. 

“We play in this court, Mr. Lancey,” said Miss 
Lilian. “ Oh, do you always hold your racquet like 
that ? ” 

“ Well, no,” I answered guiltily, and somewhat 
taken aback. “ I—I usually hold it like this.” I 
should have said that I never held a racquet in any 
way before, but I was startled. 

“ Because, you know,” she continued, “ some crack 
players do play with the curve downward.” 

“ But, good heavens ! you don’t really sup¬ 
pose-” 

“ I dare say we’ll teach you, Mr. Lancey ”—this 
with a roguish smile and a shake of the head. 
“ Minnie is going to serve ; shall I take first ?” 

“ Certainly, just as you please ; but where am I to 
go?” 

“ Why, there, of course, Mr. Lancey ; don’t be ri¬ 
diculous.” 

I had no intention of being more ridiculous than 
I could help, but I felt distinctly uncomfortable. 
Fitzjames must have been indulging in a consid¬ 
erable latitude of statement about me, and the 
young ladies seemed determined to remain in their 
first error. It was a disagreeable predicament. As 
I stood glaring through my spectacles at the trim 
figures beyond the net, I have no doubt they were 
just as gracefully animated as they had been in the 
previous set, but now I only saw that they looked as 
if they knew perfectly well what to do with their rac¬ 
quets, and that Miss Minnie Delavel was on the 
point of sending a ball. I was infinitely relieved to 
find that my partner was to “ take,” as she put it; 
and I breathed a mental prayer that I might not 
have much to do. 

The first ball seemed to fly with horrid velocity, 
and I looked with apprehension at my partner. It 
stopped, however, in the net. The next serve came 
over all right, not so swift, and Miss Lilian sent it 
easily back ; and for two or three flights, I was 
thankful to note, the ball didn’t come near me. I 


felt that my safety was only for a moment, and sure 
enough my time came. I saw the ball shoot from 
Miss MacBrier’s racquet, and fly straight toward me. 
In that awful moment I thought a great deal ; not 
of my sins, but of the humiliation that was about to 
come upon me before the unusually large company 
of spectators that had suddenly assembled. I shut 
my eyes, and to quote Spenser, “ let drive ” at the 
ball. I certainly hit it ; for with the concussion my 
racquet was half turned in my hand. 

“ Well played, Mr. Lancey,” cried my partner, 
“ that was splendidly placed ; and how ever did you 
get such a screw on ? ” 

Miss Delavel had failed to send back the ball, 
which I had apparently sent over the net; and it 
seemed, we had scored fifteen to love. 

How pleasant it was to be praised by Miss Tossy! 
How contemptible it was to be praised undeservedly! 
O that I had boldly avowed that it was a chance, a 
happy accident, and that I had no credit for the 
shot! Had Miss Tossy been a man I should have 

done so ; but to a lady -! Alas ! I merely 

smiled a smile that was meant to be deprecatory, but 
only succeeded, I am afraid, in being sickly, and 
answered— 

“ Not at all, Miss Delavel; I am sure you could 
have done ever so much better.” But Miss Tossy 
only shook her racquet at me from her own court, 
and said : “ And you said you didn’t play ! ” 

“ But I protest-” I got no further, for Miss 

Minnie was on the eve of sending a serve to me. 
May the heavens be praised ! both that and the next 
serve went into the net, and the game stood love- 
thirty. 

“You see,” said my partner, “ Minnie was trying 
to give you an extra-difficult service.” Oh, base¬ 
ness of deceit again ! I tried to look as though I 
were quite ready for the most puzzling serve in 
Minnie’s repertoire. What madness ! In what cen¬ 
tury had I left my brains ? I knew I should never 
hit another ball, and yet I weakly sought to gain a 
temporary credit in Miss Tossy’s eyes. 

The next serve my partner missed, and we were 
fifteen-thirty. It was again my turn. I tried to be 
resigned, but I was horribly agitated. Miss Minnie 
had determined to try me with what I afterward 
learned is called a “lob.” The ball rose slowiy in 
the air, describing a lofty parabolic arch. It seemed 
actually to hang in the air. I could hear my heart 
beating, for I felt that a supreme moment had come. 
I must either hit that ball or live forever an impos¬ 
tor in the eyes of the nicest girl I had ever seen. I 
drew my breath quickly ; I felt alternately hot and 
cold ; a sort of mist rose over my spectacles. As the 
ball fell I smote desperately at it, with an energy 
that I was far too agitated to control. 

A shout of laughter from the spectators brought 
me to myself with a jerk. Whither the ball had 
gone I did not know ; but, from the direction in 
which the people were all looking, it seemed to have 










Love and Lawn Tennis. 


2 I I 


flown into a shrubbery about one hundred yards 
behind our opponents. Miss Tossy turned to me : 

“ Why, Mr. Lancey, are you always so severe 
upon lob faults ? It’s too bad of you taking such 
a swipe. Fault, Minnie ! ” 

“ Gracious powers,” thought I, “ they think I 
meant to put it out of court.” I thought they were 
laughing at me, but it seems my play was a legitimate 
joke. I cannot help it now ; I must be a tennis- 
player whether I will or not. I am like Autolycus in 
the Winter s Tale ; “If I have a mind to be honest, 
I see Fortune would not suffer me.” Thanks to For¬ 
tune, the next serve to me was into the net again, and 
we had forty to our opponents’ fifteen. Miss Tossy, 
however, again failed in returning the serve to her, 
and we stood thirty-forty. 

I was almost completely callous when I knew 
that I was to “ take ” again. I should probably 
find some escape. I seemed to be a favorite of 
the gods ; and though I should probably die young 
on that account, what mattered it, so long as I 
maintained my position as a man of skill in the eyes 
of Miss Delavel ? The ball came whizzing over, 
struck the ground near my feet, and bounced away 
I should say about a foot below my racquet. 

“ What a shoot, Minnie ! ” cried my partner. “ I 
see you weren’t prepared for that naughty girl’s 
shoot, Mr. Lancey. You were too confident.” 

I didn’t understand.then what a shoot was, but I saw 
that somehow my miss had not seriously damaged 
my reputation as a player. 

“ That’s deuce,” called out Miss Delavel. 

“ I beg your pardon ? ” said I, involuntarily. 

“ It’s deuce ; we were thirty-forty, you know, and 
we scored this time.” 

I was relieved ; it was a technical term, and indeed 
Fitzjames had warned me of it. 

“ Play, Tossy !” said Miss Delavel; and the ball 
came skimming over the net. Tossy did play it, 
and back it went into the left corner of Miss Mac- 
Brier’s court. The latter was taken by surprise ; she 
had not expected to have the return, and with a 
little shriek she dived wildly at the ball. 

“ Well taken, Miss MacBrier ; but I am afraid 
it’s out,” cried Fitzjames, who had recently reap¬ 
peared on the scene, while the ball came flying over 
my head. • I was resolved now', and sprang desper¬ 
ately upwards, brandishing my racquet at the ball. 
I missed. 

“ Oh, Mr. Lancey, I thought you were going to 
hit it, and it was out of court,” said my partner. 

Saved again ! it was little short of miraculous. If 
1 had hit the ball I should have done wrong, appar¬ 
ently ; and goodness knows I had done my best to 
hit it. Well, it was my fate to deceive. I couldn’t 
help it, I was doomed to be “ T. Lancey, the great 
tennis-player ;” so I said as confidently as I could, 
“ Of course it was, Miss Delavel; there was no fear 
of my hitting it.” 

In one sense the answer was true enough ; but for 


the sense it conveyed to my partner-O that Miss 

Tossy had said and done to me what Macbeth said 
and did to the soldier who told him of the approach 
of Birnam Wood ! 

“ That’s vantage to us,” she cried ; “ I do believe 
we’ll win. Go on, Minnie.” Minnie did go on, 
and I w r as not surprised that my feeble poke re¬ 
sulted in returning the ball just between our adver¬ 
saries, w'ho each left it alone, under the impression 
that the other was about to take it. 

“That makes game,” remarked Miss Tossy. 
“ Thank you very much ; you played aw'fully well, 
in spite of a strange racquet.” 

I merely bowed. I felt a glow of shame upon 
my cheek ; and even that, I bitterly thought, would 
be attributed to my exertions and not to its true 
cause, thanks to my miserable good luck. Just at 
that moment the luncheon-bell rang; and from 
henceforth forever, thanks be to the stern punctu¬ 
ality of hydropathic establishments, and to the un¬ 
affected appetite which every one has at luncheon 
time in these places, I w'as reprieved. We w r ere 
all apparently disappointed that our set had come 
to a premature conclusion ; but, as the ladies were 
going to drive that afternoon, it was agreed that we 
should finish it on Monday forenoon, the next day 
being Sunday. I assured the young ladies that it 
would give me much pleasure. Wretch that I was, 
that very moment I had sworn to myself to devise 
excuses to avoid ever playing again. 

CHAPTER II. 

There is a constant process of change going on 
in the positions that the guests occupy at table in 
hydropathic establishments. The fresh comers are 
usually placed the bottom of one side of one of the 
long tables in the dining-hall, and gradually, as 
guests of longer standing depart, and as they begin 
to feel what Dr. Chalmers might have designated 
the propulsive force of a new arrival, they work their 
way to the top, round it, and by degrees make their 
way down the other side, to the bottom again. 
Thence they are transferred to another of the long 
tables and repeat the process, until they reach the 
ultimate limit at the doctor’s right hand. It thus 
happens that while one’s neighbors, right-hand and 
left, are always the same till one or other leaves the 
house, those who are opposite are different every 
day. 

On this eventful day, therefore, it came to pass 
that Fitzjames and I, who were on our way up the 
first side of the table, found ourselves at luncheon 
directly opposite Miss Scott and her two charming 
nieces, who were on their way down the second side. 
I hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry, for the 
shadow of deceit that hung over me blighted all the 
pleasure I might have taken in the conversation of 
a bright young girl. Of course lawn-tennis was one 
of the first topics, and I was on the rack lest I should 
betray myself. Fitzjames, however, came to my 






212 


Treasury of I ales. 


rescue and managed to turn the talk in other direc¬ 
tions, though he assured me afterwards that it was 
as good as a comedy to see me fencing with Miss 
Tossy. The same interposition protected me at din¬ 
ner-time ; and as all the young people adjourned in 
the evening to dance in the recreation-room, the 
subject of tennis was shelved. I took care to have no 
mistake made about my dancing ; and emphatically 
avowed my inability. However, Miss Tossy, who 
seemed to be as enthusiastic about dancing as about 
tennis, insisted upon teaching me a new and not 
very difficult polka-step in the hall ; and afterwards, 
when we tried it in the dancing-room, I got on won¬ 
derfully. 

The next day was Sunday, and I breathed more 
freely. The girls, who had very delightful little 
notions about Sunday behavior, preferred not even 
to talk about tennis, and so I was free from one 
fear. Fitzjames and I went to church with them, 
and on the way thither Miss Tossy, Miss Scott, and 
I had quite an interesting conversation about the 
religion of the ancient Peruvians. Perhaps I had 
more than my share of the talk ; but neither of the 
ladies would say they were tired, and Miss Scott es¬ 
pecially thanked me for my improving information, 
which, she was good enough to say, was so different 
from the Sunday conversation of other young men. 

After luncheon we sat in the garden under the 
trees near the tennis-lawn. I felt delightfully tri¬ 
umphant as I looked at the last ; like a debtor not 
liable to arrest on Sunday. Miss Tossy noticed my 
glance, and, with a merry little laugh, cried, “ No, 
Mr. Lancey, you mustn’t! I know you are dying 
for a game, but remember w r hat day it is ! ” Ah, if 
she only knew ! Again, miserable hypocrite, I had 
to affect grief for what filled me with unspeakable 
satisfaction. We had a delightful afternoon. Gentle 
Miss Scott and her two pretty nieces proved a most 
sympathetic audience for stories from the mytholo¬ 
gies of different countries, which Miss Scott allowed 
to be quite suitable for Sunday, as being connected 
with religion. How I came to speak of such a sub¬ 
ject I don’t know ; but I felt astonishingly fluent 
and unconstrained, and even Fitzjames, who lay on 
the grass with his pipe a little to leeward, remarked 
that I was “ in it ” that afternoon. If “ it ” meant a 
highly comfortable frame of mind, I certainly was. 
I completely forgot lawn-tennis and all connected 
with it ; for me there was no to-morrow with inevit¬ 
able exposure. Oh, that every day were Sunday ! 

I need not have feared. The ladies had come to 
the end of their stay at Strathblane, and were going 
to take a brief tour through the Highlands before 
meeting their father, Colonel Delavel, at Edinburgh 
on the following Saturday. Curiously enough, Fitz¬ 
james had discovered that we were going by exactly 
the same route, and had persuaded Miss Scott, who 
was a little nervous about travelling without an es¬ 
cort, that it would be for every one’s advantage to 
allow us to join and assist her party. We were to 


start the next forenoon before lunch, “ but,” said 
Miss Tossy, “ I think we’ll be able to finish our set 
before we start ; don’t you hope so, Mr. Lancey ? ” 

If the guilt of silently assenting be less black than 
that of verbally expressing concurrence, I am en¬ 
titled to the slight advantage. I saw myself plung¬ 
ing deeper and deeper in the mire. I longed to tell 
Miss Tossy all, but dared not. Coward, I lulled my 
conscience with sophistries. What need to open her 
eyes now ? A short week and we should part, prob¬ 
ably never to meet again ; then why cloud the hap¬ 
piness of that week ? She had said she could never 
like any one who couldn’t play tennis; it was too much 
to resign all chance of Miss Tossy’s smiles and good 
opinion. How I envied that other T. Lancey! 
Would I were he, and a justifiable hero in Miss 
Tossy’s eyes. 

On Monday morning I awoke in low spirits. I 
sprang up, and oh, joy, I was on fortune’s cap the 
very button ! It was raining heavily. Blessed cli¬ 
mate of Scotland ! there would be no tennis. But 
the trial of wearing a dismal countenance to hide a 
joyful heart was almost as bad, and even now I can¬ 
not think of that morning’s greetings without feeling 
my cheeks burn with shame. 

The rain continued all the morning, but shortly 
after we got into the train the sun struggled through 
the clouds, and we had a fine afternoon and evening. 
We had quite a considerable tour marked out for 
our week, and never shall I forget these delightful 
days. Fitzjames was a splendidly capable man to 
travel with, and managed everything, while to me, as 
a “ book-man,” w~as intrusted the duty of exhuming 
the interesting items from the fat green guide-book 
for the general benefit. I don’t suppose guide-books 
usually move any sentimental regards in the hearts 
of their possessors, still less when they are heavy 
and fat; but I cherish an affection for that guide¬ 
book that is undying, and never see its corpulent 
form without feeling as though I beheld an old 
friend. I felt less nervous than ever, and Miss 
Scott, Miss Tossy, and I got through an enormous 
quantity of talk. Thanks to the incidents of travel 
and to Miss Scott’s presence, lawn-tennis did not 
often come upon the tapis, but, when it did, it gave 
me a twinge as though my conscience had tooth¬ 
ache. 

Saturday duly found us in Edinburgh. I had 
been somewhat nervous about the Colonel. Miss 
Tossy had assured me mor^ than once that 
“ Papa would be very pleased to see me, and thank 
me for all my trouble.” But there is always a lurk¬ 
ing uncertainty about young ladies’ papas. Colonel 
Delavel, who was waiting for us in the Royal Hotel, 
was not one of your truculent old fellows, with 
bloodshot eyes and loud voices, but was as quiet 
and retiring as was consistent with an erect martial 
figure and a heavy white moustache. He received 
me very kindly. 

“Very glad to see you, Mr. Lancey. You’ve 




Love and Lawn Tennis. 


213 


been looking after these two young baggages, I hear. 
I hope you got on better than I do.” I assured him 
it was a great pleasure, etc. 

“ By the way,” he went on, “ I wonder whether 
you are any relation to old Jeremy Lancey in Calcut¬ 
ta, ‘Ginger Jeremy ’ we used to call him.” 

“Yes, Colonel, he was my uncle.” 

“What! you’re old Ginger’s nephew! I’m de¬ 
lighted to see you. Why, you must be young 

Theodore Lancey, that got all-My dear boy, shake 

hands again.” 

This was all right; this was a charming sort of 
“papa.” Before the arrival of Fitzjames, who had 
walked from the Waverly Station, we were on the 
best of terms. The Colonel insisted on our taking 
rooms at the Royal ; indeed, he secured rooms for 
us himself before we could make any objections, 
which neither of us had the remotest intention 
of doing. We stayed in Edinburgh three or four 
days, enjoying peerless weather, and charmed with 
that most beautiful of cities. The Colonel was in 
great spirits and trotted round with us to all the 
lions. Miss Scott seemed to consider her responsi¬ 
bility as extinguished by the Colonel’s presence, and 
she generally remained with him while we younger 
four indefatigably ascended all the stairs and steps 
and steep paths that led to anything to be seen. 
Fitzjames, with an admirable consistency, generally 
led the way with Miss Delavel, while Miss Tossy 
naturally fell to my lot. I gradually grew less and 
less nervous and tongue-tied in her society, and of¬ 
ten found myself talking to her with the utmost 
sang-froid , and even exchanging mild jests with 
her. 

But it was not all pleasure. I was too deeply in¬ 
volved in iniquity to escape punishment, and every 
time lawn-tennis was mentioned I felt as though I 
had received a stab. I avoided the subject as much 
as possible in conversation, and yet sat up at night 
reading all the available literature on the game, for 
which I wrote to my bookseller in London. I 
gradually acquired a tolerable theoretical acquaint¬ 
ance with the terms of the game, but I was always 
in agonies of alarm lest I should make some utter 
and irretrievably ludicrous blunder when I ventured 
to speak on the subject. May my worst enemy 
never be in such torture ! But I was still fortune’s 
favorite, and even my reluctance to speak on the 
subject was regarded as peculiar delicacy on the 
part of “ T. Lancey, the great player,” in not wish¬ 
ing to bore papa or Aunt Margaret with a selfish 
topic. With the Colonel I was in high favor, and he 
found me an unobtrusive listener to all his old 
stories, in not a few of which “Jeremy Ginger” 
was a figure. 

When we left Edinburgh, the Colonel to take his 
girls down to his place in Herts, and Fitzjames and 
I to further travel, I received a most cordial invitation 
to visit the Delavels immediately on my return 
south. For a moment as I looked at Tossy’s blue 


eyes and pouting lips I leaned to assent, but when 
she exclaimed, “ Do come, Mr. Lancey, and we’ll 
have some splendid games of tennis,” I shuddered 
at my danger and made my excuses as well as I could. 
I though that Tossy looked disappointed, and, had 
not all the others been present, I believe I should 
have flung myself on her mercy and revealed all. 
The Colonel insisted, however, on my promising to 
visit them at Christmas, and I consented. There 
could not, surely, be any tennis at Christmas time. 

I did not relapse into the bygone centuries when 
I returned to London. I had found my contempo¬ 
raries so very pleasant that I resolved to take up my 
permanent abode in the nineteenth century, and 
revisit my former haunts only occasionally. Fitz¬ 
james gave me much help in bringing myself down 
to date, and indeed I began to like him more than I 
had ever done before. He knew the Delavels. and 
was always willing to talk about them, and it is a 
great assistance to friendship when two feltaws like 
to talk about the same people. He used sometimes 
to rally me about my tennis, and cry that it wasn’t 
fair of me finding my way into ladies’ favor under 
false colors. I never could summon up courage to 
tell* him how serious a matter it was to me, and by- 
and-by he forgot all about it. 

I practised tennis very diligently, for though I 
knew, of course, that I could not continue under my 
present character, as a champion, still Miss Tossy 
had said she didn’t think she could like any one who 
couldn’t play, and I resolved to emerge from that 
category at all hazards. I joined a suburban club, 
and several times I went to see the real T. Lancey 
play ; and when I saw what Miss Tossy had thought 
me able to perform I almost swooned. The glaring 
difference was too frightful. 

Christmas week came at last, and with it a cordial 
note from the Colonel, repeating his invitation. The 
note ended with a regret that there would be no 
tennis, unless I insisted upon playing in the snow, 
but he dared say they would be able to make me 
forget my passion for a week or so, with other 
amusements. 

Bumaloe Hall was a fine old country-house re¬ 
christened by the Colonel. It was attached to a 
small estate, and contained all the devices for secur¬ 
ing comfort that an old colonial could imagine. The 
house was filled with Christmas guests, and, as I 
expected, Fitzjames was one of these. I received a 
hearty welcome ; the Colonel was kindness itself, 
and the young ladies were, if possible, prettier than 
ever. Lilian, I thought, looked especially bewitch¬ 
ing, and I imagined I perceived just the faintest 
little blush on her cheeks as she shook hands with 
me. 

The blackness of my deceit loomed darker and 
darker in my mind’s eye the longer I thought of the 
Delavels’ kindness, and I resolved to discharge my 
conscience as soon as possible and take the conse¬ 
quences. I felt that I could make my confession 






214 • 


Treasury of Tales. 


only to Miss Tossy; with the others my tennis 
character had not been so prominent. I arrived in 
the afternoon two days after Christmas, and in the 
evening there was to be a ball at Bumaloe Hall. 
Fitzjames, among his other good offices, had im¬ 
pressed upon me the necessity of learning to dance 
if I were going to remain in this century, and while 
we were waiting for the guests from outside, I found 
that my step exactly suited Miss Tossy’s. She would 
not give me many dances, and I was forced to con¬ 
tent myself with two waltzes and “ the Lancers,” for 
“ squares ” were not entirely banished from the 
Bumaloe programme. 

My two waltzes w T ith Miss Tossy were simply deli¬ 
cious ; but at “ the Lancers ” we found w T e were an 
odd couple, all the sets being completed. I was not 
very sorry, and we strolled into the conservatory to 
escape from the heat of the dancing-room. We 
talked of our travels in Scotland and of all the little 
incidents that had made them so pleasant. Tossy 
innocently remarked, “ Isn’t it curious, Mr. Lancey, 
that we have never contrived to finish that set at 
tennis. I do so long to see you play properly, you 
know. You have been playing a good deal in Lon¬ 
don, haven’t you ? ” 

I thanked my stars that to this question I could 
truthfully answer “Yes”; there were not many 
questions about tennis that I could answer truth¬ 
fully. “Yes, I’ve heard a good deal about you. 
Bab Fraser told me all about that tournament, and 
how splendidly you beat Mr. Martin.” This was 
becoming awful. I had seen that tournament, and 
I had seen the real Lancey defeat Martin, a feat that 
I w T as hopelessly incapable of. The error must be 
cleared up now, at once. I should seize the oppor¬ 
tunity ; that conservatory should be the scene of my 
confession. But, alas ! as I began, my cursed ner¬ 
vousness came upon me like a flood. “ Miss Tossy, 
Miss Delavel, I should like—I mean, I must say 
something about that tennis. I’m not—that is— 
you mistake what-” 

I had stammered thus far when I was interrupted 
by the sudden appearance of Miss Delavel and Fitz¬ 
james. The former looked exceedingly rosy, while 
the latter walked coolly up to Tossy, kissed her, and 
said, “Well, sister Tossy, may I take a brother’s 
privilege ? ” For an instant the girls looked at each 
other, and then Tossy rushed at her sister, crying, 
“ Oh, Minnie, I’m so glad ! ” There wasn’t time for 
any domestic felicitations, however, for “the Lan¬ 
cers ” had come to an end, and the dancers began 
to make their way into the conservatory. 

I was as glad as any one at the news of Fitzjames’s 
engagement to Miss Delavel, but I could not help 
washing that he had chosen another time for declar¬ 
ing himself. As it was, after desperately screwing 
up my courage, I had been interrupted in disburden¬ 
ing my conscience ; and who could tell when I should 
have another opportunity of speaking to Miss Tossy 
alone ? For the next few days I was in utter agony. 


Fortunately, none of the people in the house had 
ever seen the real Lancey, and they accepted me as 
the genuine article. They put intricate questions to 
me about tennis, and it was a constant strain upon 
me to avoid committing myself to anything. I 
haven’t the least doubt, however, that many of my 
opinions have since then raised serious dissensions 
in various local clubs ; but, after all, these commo¬ 
tions could be nothing compared to the troubles 
within my own bosom. I used to steal away from 
the merry groups whenever the talk threatened to 
approach lawn-tennis, and when escape was impos¬ 
sible I was impelled by the grim dread of exposure 
to force aside my shyness and nervousness, and try 
to lead the conversation into other channels. Fitz¬ 
james v r as struck with the change. 

“ I say, old fellow,” he said to me, “you are com¬ 
ing it strong. I never heard you talk so much in 
my life before ; and v r here in the name of Joe Mil¬ 
ler, do you get those extraordinary stories of yours ? ” 

But I didn’t tell him that, under the driving pressure, 
when memory failed, invention had to provide the 
anecdote that was to stave off lawn-tennis. When 
the pressure was removed, I was more nervous than 
ever, and had several brief tete-a-tetcs with Miss Tossy 
without venturing to approach the subject. For some 
reason Miss Delavel’s engagement was not generally 
published ; and the fact that 1 had been admitted 
to a family secret only made my concealment the 
more heinous, while it gave me sometimes an op¬ 
portunity for conversation with Miss Tossy, for Fitz¬ 
james used to exert his ingenuity to bring about cir¬ 
cumstances in which he and I might accidentally be 
told off to look after the sisters. That once done, 
the internal arrangements of our square party were 
stereotyped. 

On one of these occasions we had been skating, 
and were returning from the pond by the path 
through the w r oods. Miss Tossy, apropos of a letter 
she had received, asked me some questions about 
tennis, and then, without waiting for a reply, went 
on, “ Oh, by the w T ay, Mr. Lancey, you w'ere going 
to tell me something about lawn-tennis the other 
night, in the conservatory, you remember ? ” 

To have a pretty young lady remember for three 
days what he had said to her is a compliment fitted 
to turn any average young man’s head. And seeing 
that the pretty young lady in this case was looking 
specially bewitching in some sort of fur arrangement, 
that there was no one else in sight, and that I had, 
to return to London in a couple of days, what won¬ 
der that I forgot all about my .good resolutions, and, 
neglecting this magnificent opening for my confes¬ 
sion, stammered out: 

“ I remember, Miss Delavel ; but before that—I 
mean I have something else, Miss Lilian—wouldn’t 
you like to be like your sister—that is—oh, Tossy, I 
have loved you ever since I saw you at Strathblane! 
Will you be my wife ? ” 

If any one wishes to see a beautiful girl look her 






Love and Lawn Tennis. 


2I 5 


very best, let him get her to consent to be his wife 
in the frosty light of a winter sunset; for I vow I 
never saw Tossy looking more lovely than when she 
shyly promised to share my life. I am not going to 
attempt to reduce to the painful distinctness of gram¬ 
matical sentences the conversation that ensued, and 
that made us both miss afternoon tea. For some all 
too brief moments I was the happiest of men. But 
there was still the lurking adder to sting me in my 
joy. Nestling her soft cheek against my coat, Tossy 
murmured : “ And I’m so proud of your lawn-tennis 
too ; I really think it was that that made me like 
you first.” 

“What, Tossy, like?” 

“ Yes,” said Tossy, mutinously ; “ it was ‘ like,’ for 
I didn’t love you till long after, sir ; but I don’t be¬ 
lieve I should ever have cared for you if you hadn’t 
been such a good player.” 

A cold shudder passed over me as I listened. 
Good Heavens ! what had I brought upon myself ! 
I quailed before the revelation that must ensue. 
Had I a right to clasp that form in my arms in such 
deceit ? Yet, how could I mar the sweetness of “ our ” 
first moments with any horrible confession ? How I 
cursed my weakness, my folly, my deceit! And yet, 
had I not won a wife ? 

A man who has just been accepted is generally 
bold enough to face a raging lion, much less a gen¬ 
tlemanly “ papa.” And before the glory of my after¬ 
noon’s walk died away in me, I had an interview 
with the Colonel. He guessed my object and helped 
me out a good deal, and seemed as relieved and as 
satisfied as I was when the interview w T as over. I 
only wish all men found “ the papas ” as agreeable. 
I arranged, of course, to stay a few days longer than 
I had originally intended ; and though my con¬ 
science often interrupted my peace, Tossy and I had 
a variety of other subjects than tennis to talk about. 
The Colonel was to return to India in April, and 
after much persuasion and argument it was agreed 
he should see both daughters provided with a special 
protector before he sailed. We were to be married 
on April 16. 

The interval passed, I suppose, at the rate of one 
day every twenty-four hours ; and as I had naturally 
a good deal to do, including the bringing out of my 
book on “ Comparative Mythology,” it passed with 
tolerable rapidity. The Colonel came up to London 
to look after his affairs, but his town-house had no 
tennis-lawn ; and by continued good luck I escaped 
having to reveal my duplicity. For I had doggedly 
argued myself into the determination to keep silence 
on the point for the present. It would be exceed¬ 
ingly bad taste to obtrude such disagreeable matter 
on the few weeks yet left before our marriage. Be¬ 
sides, it would be so much easier after we were 
married ; there should be no difficulty in confessing 
to the wife of one’s bosom. 

Time passed on. The 16th of April arrived, and 
we were married, just a week ago to-day. We have 


to content ourselves with a very short honeymoon, 
for we must return to see the Colonel before he 
sails for India. Tossy wished to visit Edinburgh 
again, and here in Edinburgh we arrived two days 
ago. What misery it would have spared me if only 
the last visit to Edinburgh had seen me in my true 
colors ; it was reserved for this occasion to unmask 
me ! This evening, after dining at six, I went out 
to post a note from Tossy to her father, while she 
stayed behind to look at the London papers which 
had just arrived. When I returned she greeted me 
with a curious little laugh, and exclaimed : “ Isn’t 
this funny, Theo ? Here’s quite a long account of 
a tennis-match played yesterday by Mr. T. Lancey 
against Mr. Martin. They don’t seem to know that 
T. Lancey w r as quite otherwise engaged.” 

I saw at once that Nemesis had run me down. 
The time for explanation had come, and, instead of 
having the advantage of making a voluntary confes¬ 
sion, I was driven to it ; and Tossy would never be¬ 
lieve that I had intended to confess. I suppose my 
horror must have appeared in my face, for Tossy 
looked quite frightened. 

“ What is the matter, Theo—it’s just a mistake, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ I can explain it,” said I, in a hollow voice. “ I 
am not that T. Lancey.” 

“ Then there are two great players of that name ? 
How odd ! ” 

“*No, Tossy, you have been mistaken about me 
all the time. I’m not a tennis-player at all.” 

“ Oh, Theo, what do you mean ? I saw you play¬ 
ing myself.” 

“ I never had a racquet in my hand before.” And 
desperation aiding me, I related to Tossy in a few 
words the whole miserable history, not sparing my¬ 
self. Poor Tossy looked at first incredulous and 
almost amused, but then her expression changed, 
and she buried her face in her handkerchief. When 
I had finished I was too humiliated to plead for my¬ 
self ; but when I attempted to take Tossy’s hand, 
she drew it away, and, turning her back upon me, 
said : 

“ So, then, you have been deceiving us all this 
time, and you can’t play one bit ? And I was so 
proud of your being such a good player, and wrote 
to evei'ybody, and-” 

Here a sob interrupted poor Tossy, but she 
recovered herself, and went on, still with face 
averted : 

“ I think it was horrible of you to marry me like 
that under false pretences ; and papa wall be very 
angry ; and I don’t believe now that I’m really mar¬ 
ried to you at all ; I—I thought you were quite dif¬ 
ferent.” 

Here Tossy fairly broke down, and ran from the 
room with her handkerchief before her eyes. I had 
been unable to say a word for myself ; I was too 
wretched. I followed Tossy up stairs, but she had 
locked the door of her room, and told me to go 








2 I 6 


Treasury of Tales . 


away and not speak to her, which I was sorrowfully 
constrained to do, for a man cannot well expostulate 
with his wife from the public corridor of a hotel. 
I could only return in misery to our sitting-room. 

Is this, then, the issue of Fitzjames’s hateful joke ? 
Have I wrecked my life’s happiness for that ? Would 
Tossy ever love me again ? Or would she insist on 
living apart from me ? Are all my dreams of sweet 
home life with my dainty little wife merely idle dreams 
and nothing more ? I feel crushed, and yet cannot 
repine at the severity of my sentence. A week mar¬ 
ried, and I am sitting here thus, and Tossy in tears 
up stairs ! 

I could write no more, but laying down my pen, 
and hiding my face in my hands, thought bitterly of 
the loss of our happiness. As I sat thus the door 
opened, a light little figure entered the room, two 
soft white arms stole round my neck before I could 
turn, and Tossy was in my arms, laughing and kiss¬ 
ing me by turns, and looking as bright and saucy 
and merry as ever. 

“You dear old goose,” she said, with an inter¬ 
ruption , “ did you really think that I didn’t know all 
about that before ? I knew perfectly well all about your 
trying to pass off as a great tennis-player. Fitzjames 
told us. And the idea of thinking that I would care 
for any one simply because he could play tennis ! 
Oh, you stupid old dear ! And you deserved to be 
punished for never confessing, though I could hardly 
help laughing at your doleful tale, poor old man, and 
had to run away. But I’m sorry you took it so much 
to heart, and now I shall reward you. You may kiss 
me if you like ! ” 


THE GENTLEMAN IN THE PLUM- 
COLORED COAT. 

BY DUTTON COOK. 

PART I. 

Y aunt was the centre of an aureola of good 
report. She was rumored to be rich. I 
was strenuously bidden never to forget this 
fact, and to be accordingly unremitting in my atten¬ 
tion to her. 

“ A widow and without a family,” exclaimed all 
my well-wishers ; “ what is she to do with her money 
if she does not leave it to her most respectful and 
respectable of nephews ? ” 

My aunt lived in the old bow-windowed house, 
No. 6, in Abigail Place, Masham Square, W. C. 

She was an elderly lady, tall and thin, with large 
gaunt features and light gray eyes, stony and star¬ 
ing in effect. Something of a yellow tone prevailed 
in her general aspect, from her pale sallow complex¬ 
ion and her persistence in wearing, no matter the 
season of the year, an Indian shawl of a tawny saf¬ 
fron color. Her long, thin hands were always 
clothed with black lace mittens, through the inter¬ 


stices of which various jewelled rings sparkled ha¬ 
zily. Stiff ringlets of a dead black hue were coiled 
upon each side of her forehead, and confined in a 
manner that fostered suspicion as to their genuine¬ 
ness by a black velvet band from which a large gar¬ 
net set in dull gold dangled on her forehead. 

My aunt’s occupations were few. She seldom 
stirred out of the house, but generally sat all the day 
through on a large sofa by the fire in her front par¬ 
lor, with her tawny mantle on her shoulders, her 
jewel on her forehead—a strange combination of the 
turban and the nightcap on her head—employed in 
knitting with her thin, black-mittened hands, and 
with wooden needles of vast calibre, very strong and 
coarse comforters, the wool-ball in an enclosed bas¬ 
ket at her feet rolling and leaping about as the work 
required it, unwinding like a desperately active rat in 
a wire cage. Occasionally, too, she executed another 
species of work which rendered it necessary that she 
should insert her foot in a stirrup and go bowing 
and jogging on as though she were engaged in eques¬ 
trian exercise of a prolonged and energetic char¬ 
acter. 

The destination of my aunt’s work no one ever 
knew. As soon as one comforter was completed an¬ 
other was commenced, and by a curious inconsist¬ 
ency, the hotter the weather the more zealously my 
aunt seemed to employ herself in the manufacture 
of extra strong and thick comforters. Occasionally 
she left her seat to move to the window, and nega¬ 
tive by severe shakings of her head the petitions of 
pertinacious beggars or obstinate organ-men. And 
now and then she indulged herself in a promenade 
up and down her small sitting-room, always walking 
very upright and joining her hands behind her in 
quite a quarter-deck-commanding-officer sort of way. 
But her love of exercise was not strong, and she was 
more frequently to be found sitting on the sofa by 
the fire, knitting to the musical purring of a fat 
black and white cat with a pink nose, the very feline 
incarnation of luxurious content and selfish enjoy¬ 
ment. 

My aunt had a favorite and confidential servant 
named Willis, who had lived with her for about 
thirty years ; and, probably from this cause and from 
being invested and attired in many articles weeded 
from my aunt’s wardrobe, had acquired no inconsid¬ 
erable resemblance to her. She was some years 
younger and stouter, and more active ; but she also 
wore hair of dense blackness, festooned on her fore¬ 
head, though unbound by a jewelled fillet. She also 
assumed at times much of my aunt’s rigid and se¬ 
vere expression ; wore on her head a fabric of wire 
and muslin, in which some type of Orientalism was 
traceable, and which she called a “turbot,” and re¬ 
joiced in black mittens on her hands, though of a 
less open and heavier material. 

Her respect for my aunt amounted to veneration. 
Her care and attention were unremitting ; and my 
aunt rewarded the fidelity of her companion by ad- 







The Gentleman in the Plum-Colored Coat. 


mitting her to closer terms of intimacy and friend¬ 
ship than are usual between mistress and servant. 
Her regard for my aunt, Willis also, though in a less 
degree, extended to her relatives. I know that I 
often received at her hands an amount of homage 
.that was almost embarrassing. 

It was a peculiarity shared by my aunt and Willis 
to clothe me with a youthfulness which was really 
inappropriate. My aunt invariably addressed me as 
H child,” and Willis always preferred to give me 
the prefix of “ master ” in lieu of the more mature 
u mister,” to which my years very fairly entitled me. 

“ Willis, take the child’s hat,” said my aunt, when- 
•ever I called to pay my respects and inquire after 
her health. She never rose from her seat, but al¬ 
ways nodded her head in a severely kind way, and 
held out a thin, cold finger for me to shake. 

“ I hope you’re quite well, Master-? ” inquired 

Willis, in a friendly, patronizing way. It was won¬ 
derful with what a school-boy feeling I became pos¬ 
sessed. It always seemed as likely as not that they 
would on some occasion invite me to spin a top, or 
would produce a rocking-horse for my delectation, 
or promise me a feast of sugared bread and butter if 
I would recite, without missing a word, “ The boy 
stood on the burning.‘deck,” or “ My name is Nor- 
vai.” I know my aunt maintained a habit of fur¬ 
tively “ tipping ” me with bright silver coins long 
after I was eight-and-twenty years of age. 

“ How you do grow, Master-,” Willis would 

go on, good-naturedly ; “ quite out of all knowl¬ 
edge.” 

If she meant old she was tolerably correct, but if, 
as I believe, she alluded to my height, it was a sin¬ 
gular observation, since for many a long day no 
inch had been added to my stature. 

I generally called upon my aunt in the evening. 

Our conversation was not very well sustained. It 
seldom comprised more than a discussion on the 
weather, my aunt always maintaining that the seasons 
had quite changed since she was my age, with occa¬ 
sional digressions as to the progress of my aunt’s 
knitting achievements, and the state of health of 
the black and white cat with the pink nose. 

At eight o’clock my aunt always put away her 
work, folded her hands before her, placed her feet 
upon the fender,—she had a fire nearly all the year 
round,—and sat quite still for nearly half an hour. 
She was not asleep, but she kept her eyes fixed on 
the clock over the mantelpiece. 

My aunt watched the clock until it chirped the 
half-hour : she then rang the bell. 

“ Tea, Willis.” 

Soon after Willis entered with a large urn, some¬ 
thing of the funeral form seen in cemeteries, and 
with large rings at the side by which to carry it: it 
only wanted a weeping willow over it to complete 
an admirable sign for a mourning shop. The tea¬ 
pot was a large china vessel, with a remarkable sort 
of basket suspended from its spout for filtering pur- 


21 7 

poses. My aunt poured hot water into the pot with 
great solemnity. 

I know I always,—I suppose for want of better 
occupation,—watched the operation with consider¬ 
able interest. 

I counted the number of spoonfuls of tea put into 
thp pot: one for my aunt, I thought,—one for me, 
—one for the pot,—and one—who was the fourth 
for ? 

I always wondered, for she always put four in ; 
and then I always noticed that three cups had been 
brought up—two of a neat, ordinary pattern for my 
aunt and myself, and a third of much more elabo¬ 
rate design, richly gilded, and pictured over with 
glowing rosebuds and festoons of green vine-leaves 
and golden grapes. 

Who was this cup for ? The process of brewing 
the tea was one of some duration. My aunt turned 
her eyes to the clock at every pause in the proceed¬ 
ing. It was nine o’clock by the time tea was ready 
for outpouring. As the clock struck my aunt rang 
the bell again. 

“ Well, Willis ? ” my aunt said, inquiringly. Willis 
wore a vague, mysterious look. 

“ It’s nine and past,” she said. 

“ Yes ! ” My aunt heaved a deep sigh. 

“He’ll hardly be here now,” Willis continued. 

“ No.” My aunt looked very sad indeed. Willis 
shook her head strangely and solemnly. 

“ He must know by this time,” said my aunt. 

“ Of course he does,” Willis answered/' unless-” 

“ Unless what ? ” My aunt looked up eagerly. 

“Unless he’s gone to the north-east.” Willis 
spoke in a low voice. 

“ Or to the south-east.” My aunt bowed her 
head in a mournful way. 

“ Ay, or to the north-west,” Willis went on. 

“ Or to the south-west.” My aunt hid her face in 
her handkerchief. The minute-hand was stealing on 
to the quarter-past. My aunt roused herself. 

“ I should never forgive myself, if he were to 
come dnd find us unprepared for him.” 

Willis seemed to think the consequences of such 
a contingency would be utterly terrible. 

“ You had better go to the corner, Willis, and look 
out.” 

“ Certainly.” 

And Willis left the room, and I could hear her go 
out into the street. My aunt did not speak or 
move, or take the slightest notice of my presence : 
she kept her gaze fixed to the clock. In a few 
minutes Willis returned. My aunt turned towards 
her anxiously, but the expression on Willis’ coun¬ 
tenance seemed to be a sufficient answer. 

“ He’ll not come now,” said my aunt. 

“ I think not.” 

“ And the night’s fine ? ” 

“Very fine.” 

“ Not too cold ? ” 

“ No, not too cold.” 








2 I 8 


Treasury 

“ I’m glad of that. Thank you, Willis : that will 
do, Willis. Put coal on, Willis. Elder wine at ten 
o’clock, Willis.” 

And then my aunt poured out the tea. 

What did this mean ? 

The same formula went on each time I paid my 
evening visit to my aunt. The same interchange of 
looks and words ; the same question and reply ; the 
same doubts about the north and south-east, the 
north and south-west; the same going out into the 
street; the same gazing at the clock ; the same re¬ 
turn alone of Willis, and observations upon the 
weather. What did it all mean ? This was my 
aunt’s mystery. In vain I sought some explanation 
of the enigma ; in vain I tried to dissipate the clouds 
about it by some reasonable solution ; in vain I 
put the case to my friends and besought their views 
in regard to it. I was only recommended to boldly 
inquire of my aunt. I was a long time before I 
could make up my mind to adopt this course. At 
length human patience could survive it no longer. 

“ Whom do you expect, aunt ? ” I boldly broke 
out with one evening, after a more than usually 
provoking performance of the mystery. 

“ Hush, Master-” cried Willis, with a fright¬ 

ened gesture. 

“ Children shouldn’t ask questions,” said my aunt, 
grimly, and with a petrified look about her eyes. 
She was seriously offended : she did not speak to 
me again that evening. At ten o’clock she took her 
usual refreshment of a glass of hot, inky-looking 
elder wine, and a stick of dry toast, and then was 
led away to bed by Willis. 

I never dared to repeat the inquiry. People said 
my aunt was mad—“ had a loose slate,” was the ex¬ 
pression, and satisfied themselves with that expla¬ 
nation ; but it never satisfied me. That some fixed 
notion absorbed her, that her whole faculties were 
concentrated upon one particular idea, seemed likely. 
Yet this, “though it lacked form a little, was not 
like madness.” 

PART II. 

To reach the root of an old tree one must dig 
down very deep. 

To arrive at the commencement of my aunt’s 
mystery, I have to turn back a good many pages 
of Time’s chronicles. 

I have to revert to days when Lawrence was 
painting glittering - eyed, carmine-lipped, satin¬ 
skinned women, when Canova was chiselling flores- 
cent compromises between the antique nymph and 
the modern flirt; when Byron was dropping at in¬ 
tervals his red-hot shells of poems upon amazed 
London. 

It is not with London that I have to deal, how¬ 
ever, but with the classic city founded by Bladud, 
Son of Lud Hudibras, Eighth King of the Britons— 
with Bath, of hot-spring and pump-room fame, shin¬ 
ing fair and clean amid its hills, like a lump of white 
sugar in a green cup. 


of Tales. 

There is quite a blazing forest of wax-candles in 
the assembly room, rapidly filling with a most dis¬ 
tinguished company. The clatter of dance-music 
rings through the elegant salon , making the very 
glass beads of the chandeliers jump and click them¬ 
selves together. The master of the ceremonies is 
in the extremest agonies of his office. He shuffles 
and deals out the company like a conjuror with his 
cards, never once loses sight of the more eligible, or 
trumps, and winning all sorts of odd tricks by his 
adroitness and sleight of hand. 

I desire to point out a young lady making her 
debut at this ball. She is tall and slight, not un¬ 
graceful. She is not beautiful, but attractive from 
her amiable, subdued, rather shy expression. Her 
attire is in the mode of the day ; the dress scanty in 
quantity, and peculiar in form—“gored, ” I believe 
to be the correct term for the breadths of a dress cut 
narrower at the top than at the bottom of the skirt. 
Globular puffs of muslin form the sleeves of the 
frock, and white kid gloves, almost as long as stock¬ 
ings, enclose her arms. She carries a very small 
fan, and wears a short waist, girded by a bright- 
colored sash, tied in a bow at the back, and flowing 
off into streaners, like a duplex blue-peter floating 
from the fore. Her head appears to be regarded 
rather as a foundation for further height than as 
the capital of the human figure. There is quite a 
square half-foot of tortoise-shell erected on her 
crown, and from this arise elaborate plaits of hair, 
bunches of ribbon, and garlands of very small daisies. 
Cataracts of small, crisp curls gush on to her tem¬ 
ples, long gold drops depend from her ears, and 
strings of coral beads set off the white of her neck. 
The dress is short enough to display amply very 
neat feet and ankles, in open-work net stockings and 
white satin sandals ingeniously tied with many 
cross-foldings. The effect of such a costume in a 
modern ball-room would be, perhaps, a little start¬ 
ling : at the period I refer to it was most modestly 
en regie. 

She was timid and shy: it was her first ball.. 
From a quiet country-house in the most retired part 
of Somersetshire she had been transplanted into the 
festive city of Bath, and she found the air a little 
overcharged and feverish, a little over-scented with 
pomade, a little deficient in freshness altogether. 
And a great difficulty was startling her mind, as it 
was disturbing the discriminations of very many re¬ 
spectable people in those days—for it was a serious, 
earnest, vital question : accordingly as the young 
lady made answer was her fate to be decided, she 
was to be either banned as a prude, or launched as 
a coquette. 

And this was the question. Was waltzing proper ? 
There was no escape from giving a reply. The 
thing must be classified under one or other of those 
very English divisions—it was “ proper,” or it was 
“ shocking ! ” 

The young lady was much moved by this 





The Gentleman in the Plum-Colored Coat. 


219 


question. She had fairly walked into the Rubicon, 1 
but could not make up her mind whether she should 
cross over or walk back again. She had learned 
the step, but then she had only performed the dance 
with other young ladies, fair, shy, and trembling like 
herself. She had not yielded her waist to the arm 
of the male waltzer. Should she now submit ? 

The question could be no longer begged, for the 
stupendous master of the ceremonies was approach¬ 
ing and leading towards her a gentleman, evidently 
a dancer, and the orchestra had struck up that de¬ 
funct air “ Lieber Augustin,” one of the first waltzes 
imported. 

The gentleman in the care of the master of the 
ceremonies was an average specimen of his class. 
He was as good-looking, according to the modern 
views, as his costume would permit him to be. 

“ Knees and silks ” were becoming the peculiar 
properties of the professions and of old gentlemen. 
Pantaloons were the intermediate step to the trou¬ 
sers of to-day. Necks were worn long and muslined 
and buckramed to a point that seemed to put life 
in peril. The bow of the neck-tie was a thing on 
which to stake a reputation—to accomplish, and then 
die. Waists were short, and heavy watch-chains hung 
from the fob-pockets, weighted with bunches of mas¬ 
sive seals and keys. Pumps were the fashion, with 
ribbed silk stockings. A luxuriant foliage of frill¬ 
ing flourished upon the bosom, and violet-hued 
waistcoats were worn with false collars of suppositi¬ 
tious other waistcoats appearing above the genuine. 

The gentleman I am referring to wore a bright 
green silk “vest,” crowned by a collar of red and 
then a collar of white. His coat was long, narrow, 
and pointed at the tails,—very tight in its sleeves, 
very rolling in its collar, very much puffed up on 
the shoulders. It was decorated with gilt basket- 
buttons, and its color was plum—a vivid and fruity 
plum. 

The lady, speechless and trembling, hardly know¬ 
ing what she did, yielded to the entreaties of the 
master of the ceremonies, to the polite application 
of the gentleman. In a sort of unconscious way she 
stood up to join in the dance. The gentleman ap¬ 
preciating her trouble and diffidence, considerately 
zoned her waist with his arm in a firm, decided man¬ 
ner, and they started off on their revolving exploit. 
They succeeded, for they were both excellent dan¬ 
cers. The room paused to witness their wonderful 
circling career. There was a loud buzz of “ admir¬ 
able ! ” Only a few severe ladies, with strong prej¬ 
udices in favor of the “ Gavotte,” “ Sir Roger,” and 
“The Tank,” growled out lowly, but intensely, 
“ Shocking ! ” The master of the ceremonies con¬ 
descended to congratulate the dancers on their tri¬ 
umph. Such a thing was almost without precedent. 

Between the lady and the gentleman, however, little 
conversation passed, for dancing and talking are not 
altogether compatible. Once he asked her if she 
would take some negus ; once he admired her fan ; 


once he inquired if she didn’t think the room hot; 
and when they parted for the evening he muttered 
an incomplete sentence, something about his regret 
that an acquaintance so delightfully begun should 
cease so suddenly, and that if the devotion of a 

life-; but here a lurch in the crush-room snapped 

the 6ense of the observation, and parted the lady and 
gentleman. He jerked out, “ Too bad, ’pon honor ! ” 
put his quizzing-glass to his eye, and went to look 
out for some more supper,—for romance only defers, 
it does not satiate the appetite. 

The lady went home, and in due time sank back 
into her retired country life. She always thought 
of her evening in the Bath ball-room as one of the 
most important events in her life ; she often dreamt 
of her partner the gentleman in the plum-colored 
coat; she was never tired of talking of him. Often 
she dwelt upon the delights of her first waltz ; often 
she looked in subsequent ball-rooms for that ex¬ 
quisite partner in the plum-colored coat. She made 
all sorts of inquiries about him ; sought to ascertain 
his name—his place of abode—but not successfully. 
She was unable to fix upon him any more definite 
title than that of the gentleman in the plum-colored 
coat. 

After a lapse of some years the young lady was 
sought in marriage, and duly led to the altar by a 
gentleman returned from the East Indies with the 
reputation of being “ a nabob.” Her heart was not 
greatly in the business ; but with that of course no- 
bpdy had anything to do. 

The nabob was not of a very amiable disposition, 
and did not treat his wife too tenderly ; he was a 
violent, turgid, cruel man, with no thought but for 
himself. The kindest action he ever performed to¬ 
wards his poor, frightened wife was when, thirty-five 
years after his marriage, he made her his widow, and 
was interred with extraordinary pomp in the vaults 
of Marylebone Church. 

The widow bore her bereavement like King Clau¬ 
dius, “with wisest sorrow;” she sold off a great 
deal of her large, cumbrous furniture, and with the 
rest, and a faithful old servant who had been with 
her almost from her marriage, and who, as the 
reader will have inferred, bore the name of Willis, 
settled down in a quiet and respectable street known 
as Abigail Place, Masham Square, W. C. 

PART III. 

One day I had seen the formula of the mystery 
for the last time. My poor old aunt, in a quiet, 
painless illness, had passed away. Willis was in 
very great distress. 

“ Ah ! Master-, she was the kindest, truest, 

goodest mistress that ever was.” Willis sobbed pit¬ 
eously. “ I shall never find such another ; never— 
never ! Poor soul, it’s a comfort to think that she 
didn’t want for nothing. It’s a consolation to re¬ 
flect on, that is. Her wants weren’t many, but she 
had them all supplied.” 







220 


Treasury of Tales. 


A thought occurred to me. 

“ Not all,” I said. 

Willis looked up inquiringly through her tears. 

“ He didn’t come.” 

Willis started and turned quite pale. 

“ O Master-! how did you know anything 

about it ? ” 

“ I know all,” I said. 

It was a shameful artifice. I assumed a myste¬ 
rious, solemn, and meaning air that quite imposed 
upon Willis, and led her on to forgetting her sor¬ 
rows in conversation. Gradually the narrative of 
the Bath ball-room came from her. On the particu¬ 
lars gathered from Willis I have founded that portion 
of my story. 

As the reader has no doubt conjectured, the lady 
who waltzed with the gentleman in the plum-colored 
coat was my aunt. 

“ Ah, Master-, ” Willis went on, shaking her 

head to and fro, pathetically, “ my poor mistress had 
a sad time of it. Her late husband was a hard, 
hard man. He’d been accustomed to such slave¬ 
driving ways in the Ingies, he couldn’t treat a sim¬ 
ple English lady properly. My poor mistress was 
often very sad and wretched about him, and sat 
alone, and thought and cried over her young days 
and how quiet and happy they were, and often she 
talked of the ball at Bath, and her dancing, and her 
partner there. 

“ And then five years after my master died she 
had a long, long illness, and her head was a goqd 
bit troubled ; and when she recovered, which wasn’t 
for ever so long, she got to rambling back to her 
young times more than ever, and her memory was 
touched like, and she could only recollect the things 
which happened quite far back. Then she would be 
always talking of the Bath gentleman, and she got 
it fixed in her mind that she should meet him again 
even yet ; and that now she was free again he 
would make her an offer of his hand, in pledge of 
the devotion of a life, and they would be married 
and happy at last. She got to be forever talking of 
this, and wanting to make fresh inquiries, and try 
and find him out. At last old Mrs. Luff came here 
one day to do some charing work, and she was full 
of a wise-woman living next door to her in Brooker’s 
Buildings.” 

“ A what ? ” 

“ A wise-woman—a good woman some calls them 
—who knew everything, could do all sorts of con¬ 
juring tricks, tell you all you’d done, bless you, in the 
whole course of your life, and predict the future by 
looking in tea-cups and spreading out packs of 
cards. Well, my mistress heard of this, and at last 
made up her mind to see the woman and try if she 
could tell her where the gentleman was to be 
found. 

“Well, they had long consultations, and my mis¬ 
tress gave the woman all sorts of things to work 
the spells with, as she called it;—now it was cold 


meat, now it was gowns, now stout, now bonnets, 
and now it was one of every coin of the realm, to be 
left on the door-step at the full moon and to be 
gone by the morning—took by the spirits, she said. 
Well, at last she gave her prediction. It was about 
time, for it had cost ever so much money. She 
said that my mistress and the gentleman would be 
sure to meet again, and would be happy ; that the 
gentleman was travelling, but the stars wouldn’t 
quite tell her where ; that he must be written to, 
and that as it stood to reason he must be either in 
the north, south, east, or west, four letters must be 
sent so addressed, and one would be sure to reach 
him.” 

“ And my aunt wrote ? ” 

“ Yes, Master-; she wrote four letters : they 

were all alike. She kept a copy of what she wrote ; 
I know where to find it—I’ll show it to you.” 

She produced a sheet of note-paper, written upon 
in my aunt’s cramped, irregular writing. The 
letters ran thus : 

“ Dear Sir, —Many years ago, you may remember 
meeting the present writer at a ball at Bath. I wore a 
lace frock over white silk, with a blue sash. You were 
dressed in a green waistcoat, and a plum-colored coat. 
I have been married, but my husband is dead, and I am 
now free again. Pray come and see me. There is noth¬ 
ing now to prevent our union. 

“ Your affectionate / 

“Sarah Arabella. 

“ P. S.—I address this from the house with the bow- 
window. Recollect this, please, as there are four num¬ 
ber sixes.” 

There was no date, nor was the address given, 
and my aunt had apparently only signed her Chris¬ 
tian names. 

“ How were the letters directed ? ” 

“ Simply ‘ To the Gentlemen in the Plum-colored 
Coat, North, South, East, West.’ ” 

“Well?” 

“ Well, we were to post the letters at the most 
distant post-offices we could find. My mistress 
hired a fly and went round posting her letters. 
One was put in at Camberwell, one at Islington, one 
at Kensington, and one in Whitechapel. The wise- 
woman was told of this, and said we had done quite 
right. My mistress then gave her her sable boa and 
muff, and she then predicted that the gentleman 
would arrive in a very few days, and that he would 
appear precisely at tea-time, at nine o’clock.” 

“ He didn’t come ? ” 

“ He didn’t, indeed, Master-! But my mis¬ 

tress was always expecting him. When after a few 
weeks she got tired a little, she sent again to the 
wise-woman to try and learn more about him. But 
the woman had left the neighborhood suddenly, and 
we couldn’t find out where she had moved to. 
Then we had a great talking over of the matter 
and my mistress wouldn’t give up that he would 
come yet, but was only frightened about his having 









221 


The Rock of Quiot. 


gone to the north-east or north-west or to the south¬ 
east or south-west and so not got the letters. So she 
expected him, and made tea for him, and waited, 
and sent me out to look for him every night, poor 
thing, right up to her death last Tuesday.” 

“ And did you expect him, Willis ? ” 

“ Well, Master-, what with the wise-woman 

and my mistress and the incessant talking about 
him and the perpetual wondering whether and when 
he’d come, I got to think of it at last as all true 
and likely, and to actually believe that he would 
come. Ah ! it is a sad business to think that she 
should have died and not seen him again, after all ! 
Poor soul ! poor soul ! ” 

And Willis gave way again to her tears. 

My aunt’s mystery was explained. 

Her mind, never very strong, in the last years of 
her life still further weakened by wear, and shat¬ 
tered and crazed by grief and illness, had strayed 
back to the one happy passage in her rather dull 
and doleful life, and clung to it with a tenacity 
which only death could relax. The desire to meet 
again her first waltz partner had swelled and ripened 
into a confirmed monomania. 

I never read in the newspapers of a fortune-teller 
taken up for swindling, but I think of the wise- 
woman who preyed upon my aunt, and trust that 
the worthy magistrate will deal out the law with the 
utmost rigor. I never see a stout old gentleman, 
curly in wig and hat-rim, tight in his girths, and 
with a general savor of the regency buck about him, 
decking the window of a St. James’ Street club, or 
taking very cautious promenades in Pall Mall, but 
I ask myself whether it is possible he could have 
been the gentleman who wore the plum-colored coat 
and waltzed with my aunt at the Bath ball in 1812. 


THE FJOCK OF QUIOT. 

BY EUGENE BLAIRAT. 

I. 

ENOUILLET is a fisherman. He lives a 
hundred yards from Roquemaure, at the spot 
where the canal rejoins the Rhone. He occu¬ 
pies, and has done so for sixty years, a large black 
house, an old inn, whose badly-made doors the 
winds of winter shake, and which, by night, shows, 
clear cut against the black sky, its moss-covered 
roof and its little tower full of owls. 

In early morning, in summer, when the sun sends 
over Mount Ventoux its rays to waken the plain 
with their caresses, and when in the deep silence of 
the woods the matin songs of the birds alone rise 
up, then the fisherman’s house seems to regain its 
youth. 

It is at this charming hour that Fenouillet, after 
having raised the sluices in the weir, ascends the 


Rhone in his little flat-bottomed boat. I meet him 
often as I go out shooting. I hear in the distance 
his two plashing oars, and through the mist I see 
him gently advancing. Soon, touching the bank, he 
makes his boat fast, fills his pipe and sits him down 
on the wooden bench before his door, to see the sun 
rise. - 

Often, after having taken a few steps with me, the 
fisher leaves me, for his wife calls him,—and he is 
afraid of his wife. He goes back with bowed head 
and humble mien, casting toward the house a look 
which has in it something evil. Whenever I see 
this I am astonished to see him so obedient, for in 
spite of his romantic ecstasies, Fenouillet has a 
most repellent countenance. Little, very thin, with 
his pointed head, his nose like an eagle’s beak, his 
diverging eyes, his thin mouth with evil curves, his 
narrow brow full of wrinkles, he has all the look of 
the poacher who gladly takes a shot at the game- 
keeper. Finally, one day, I ended by asking him, 
laughingly, how a man of his age could submit to 
be so treated. 

“ Ah ! That’s a story—an old story ! ” 

“ Tell it me ! ” 

“ Never ! ” 

And as I looked puzzled, he added : 

“ Perhaps—some other time.” 

He told it to me one evening when I was de¬ 
scending the Rhone with him. 

II. 

One of our terrible northwest winds, the mistral, 
was blowing that evening. We plunged into the 
night,—I, at the stern of the boat, appalled at the 
howling of the tempest; he, rowing with his impas¬ 
sible calm. He even whistled an old love-ditty, and 
from time to time looked at the rock of Quiot on 
his right. It is a granite wall rising sheer above 
the stream. Below, a whirlpool is ever roaring. 
They say in that part that many a boat has disap¬ 
peared in the bottomless gulf which is known and 
dreaded by every waterman. When we were face 
to face with the precipice, sheltered from the wind 
by the trees of the island, Fenouillet stopped his 
skiff. The whistling of the gale passed over our 
heads ; around us, nought was to be seen but the 
Tower of Lers, darker than the darkness of the 
sky. 

Fenouillet knocked out the ashes of his pipe into 
the hollow of his hand, and turning to me said in a 
tone so low that I could scarce hear the words : 

“ I am going to tell you my story. I do not want 
to go off without telling somebody. You are young. 
There is in it a lesson, and I am sure, that after my 
departure on my last voyage, you will think the 
longer of me.” 

He looked again to the top of the cliff, smiling 
with a smile that frightened me ; for I saw from his 
eyes, which glittered in the night, that he was goinj* 
to tell me an extraordinary tale. 



Translation Copyright, 1883. 







222 


1 reasury 

- . 

“ When I was twenty-two years old, I married her 
— she who to-day makes me dance like any 
poodle.” 

“ I know her well,” said I. She is a fat Provencal 
peasant, with a red complexion, hair of a dirty white, 
and large shoulders. Still, in spite of all, one could 
find in her traces of beauty which I had often heard 
quoted with enthusiasm by the old fellows of Ro- 
quemaure. 

“ She was then,” continued the fisherman, “ a 
lovely girl of eighteen, a blonde, with blue-green 
eyes fit to drive you mad. I became so. I married 
her in spite of the stories they told about her. You 
cannot imagine with what a wealth of love I sur¬ 
rounded her. I had never had but this one love in 
my life, and it holds me with such power that even 
now, after forty-five years, when I think of my mar¬ 
riage, I feel a thrill in every fibre of me. One even¬ 
ing, when I was returning from setting my nets in 
the Rhone, I was quite surprised not to see her on 
the door-step waiting for me. The house was empty. 

I was alarmed. There was a letter on the table. 

I cannot read, but at once I understood it all. My 
wife had gone away with her first lover. I was young, 
—I did not die of it. Next day, I went quietly to 
raise my nets. Pierre, the miller, met me on the 
bank, as I was returning. ‘Jean had a fine catch 
last night,’ he said. Jean was the boatman of Sorgues, 
my successful rival. ‘ Pshaw ! ’ I replied, ‘ I do not 
envy other men’s luck ; there’s fish for all the 
world.’ He looked me steadily in the face, and 
as my eyes did not droop beneath his gaze, he said, 

“ ‘ I understand ; I swear to you that I am the 
only one who knows the story yet, so you can take 
your own course.’ 

“ I took it. That evening I hid myself near 
the little footpath which leads to the rock of 
Quiot. The weather was as bad as it is to-day. 
The mistral had risen in an icy blast. I waited 
two hours without stirring. At eleven, Jean 
passed, dragging a rope which trailed behind him 
like a long snake. Jean was one of the handsomest 
men you could wish to see. He was thirty years 
old. He was of your build, very brown, with a 
Van Dyke beard and dazzling black eyes. Brave, too, 
as a man could be. As he sailed down the Rhone, 
erect in his boat, his shirt half-open, lolling against 
the boom, he was a magnificent figure. He mounted 
the cliff, right up there. At the top he fastened his 
rope to an iron ring, and let it fall over the preci¬ 
pice. The rope reached down to that fig-tree which 
grows on a level with the water.” 

I measured with my eye the wall of granite before 
us, and I shuddered. Fenouillet became pale ; I 
knew well what was coming. 

“Jean descended to the water level with his nets. 
When I knew that he was busy setting them, I left 
my hiding-place and advanced stealthily. When I 
reached the top, I peered over. I saw him dimly, 


of Tales. 

like a black speck, clinging to the rope, one foot on 
the fig tree. I remained a full minute looking at 
him. I heard him singing a love song, the ditty I 
have been whistling ever since. He was so daring, 
so calm over the gulf, of which, better than any one, 
he knew the danger, so tranquil in the midst of the 
howlings of the gale, that for an instant I had the 
idea of letting him live. 

“ But the image of my wife rose up and I set to 
work cutting the rope near the iron ring. When it 
was nearly through, I stopped again. He had ended 
his task and was preparing to climb up. Then, 
with a stroke of my knife I finished the job, and 
clinging with my left hand to the iron ring, I held 
the rope coiled round my wrist. He thought that it 
had broken and uttered a loud cry, but I held it 
firmly. He stopped, his feet in the foam of the 
whirlpool. Then by the gleam of the stars he saw 
my eyes peering down at him. He recognized me 
at once in spite of the distance. ‘ Fenouillet! ’ he 
cried. I screamed to him : 

“ ‘ Where is Martha ? ’ 

“ Probably he did not hear me, for he tried to climb 
up. His feet slipped on the granite, and he dragged 
the rope so heavily that my wrist was bruised. Never¬ 
theless I still held on. 

“ ‘ Where is Martha ? ’ 

“ He stopped. 

“ ‘ You have cut the rope ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, where is Martha ? ’ 

“ He was now nearer to me. I saw his handsome 
pale face and his black eyes that glittered in the 
darkness like stars. 

“ ‘ Martha is at my house,’ and with his noble voice, 
he began to sing the refrain of his love song— 

“ * In the breeze of evening streaming, 

On the tower of thy castle high, 

I shall see thy white veil gleaming 
Like a star in the deep blue sky.’ ” 

“ My arm grew numb. I was hoping to extract from 
him some expression of regret, for now I was beginning 
weakly to hesitate, when, all at once, the rope slipped 
from my bleeding hand. I saw no more. I scarce 
heard a dull splash in the water. It was over.” 

III. 

Fenouillet resumed his oars, and as we ascended 
the stream, he said to me : 

“I went home more tranquil.- I had done my 
duty. Next day my wife came back. I forgave 
her because I had ceased to love her. Since this 
period we live side by side, without a quarrel, with¬ 
out a joy. One day she threatened, however, to in¬ 
form against me. I bent my head never to raise it 
again. Now I live with the recollections of those 
Middle Ages which you have taught me to know,— 
of the times when one could do oneself justice in the 
sight of God without fear of prosecuting attorneys.” 




Neck or Not/ling. 


223 


1 



NECK OF( NOTHING. 

BY HELEN W. PIERSON. 

I. 

T HE night was a silent and balmy one in early 
autumn—not too warm for lights and em¬ 
inently adapted for literary work. 

Mr. Hugh Sothern, a gentleman who was rich 
enough to indulge in any whim,—a sort of dilet¬ 
tante in literature—was engaged in adding a page or 
two to his great work on “ Rational Progress.” Be¬ 
ing so happily endowed by fortune, he was haunted 
by no fiend demanding copy. He could wait for 
fleeting moods and the glow of inspiration : so that 
he thoroughly enjoyed his work. By the light of 
the Argand burner he was seen to be a well-pre¬ 
served man of fifty, with a bald head, kindly eyes, 
and a benevolent expression. 

There was hardly a sound to be heard, save now 
and then when an over-ripe apple plumped upon 
the grass, or a light step moved overhead. 

“I wonder if Jean feels bored in this very quiet 
place ! ” Mr. Sothern thought, as he heard this step in 
one of his pauses. “ She is thinking of that advent¬ 
urer, I’ll be bound. No, no, my girl ; I can’t give 
you and your hundred thousand to a fortune hunter. 
Your poor father thought of this when he put you 
in my charge, and made it one of the conditions of 
the will that you could not marry without my con¬ 
sent till you were twenty-five. Only eighteen yet, 
my dear, and too full of romance to make a wise 
choice. I won’t listen to it—I won’t have him com¬ 
ing here. I’ve never seen him, but I know what he 
is. If he’ll serve seven years for her she can do as 

she likes, but till then- 

The gentleman became absorbed in his writing 
again for awhile. 

“ There ! I’ve demonstrated that! ” he said, with 
satisfaction. “No one can ask, ‘ Am I my brother’s 
keeper ? ’ We are all brothers; we all hold in 
charge. Hello ! what’s that ? ” 

A decided crash in one of the trees near the 
window had arrested Mr. Sothern’s attention. 

“ Ha! that’s my Newtown pippin. Now why 
the deuce couldn’t the thief have contented himself 


with Baldwins ? There are plenty of them, and why 
does he break my trees ? ” 

Another splintering of a bough is heard. 

“Jerusalem ! I can’t stand this ! ” cried the gentle¬ 
man, throwing down his pen ; “ I don’t begrudge an 
apple to any one, but such wilful destruction of prop¬ 
erty-” 

Mr. Sothern opened his door and looked out. 
The moon light fell full upon the scene, and he 
started forward with a cry. There was a rope fas¬ 
tened to the branch of a tree, and suspended to the 
rope—good Heavens ! Our philanthropist did not 
hesitate a moment. In a flash he had cut down a 
strange sort of fruit from this tree of Newtown pip¬ 
pins—a young man who had apparently gone very 
much to seed. 

“ Hello ! ” he cried, as the young man tumbled 
against him, “ what do you mean by hanging your¬ 
self right at my very door steps ? It’s a liberty, sir—I 
won’t have it—it injures the trees ! ” 

The young man made no answer. 

“ Well ! this is a pretty predicament! ” fumed Mr. 
Sothern ; “I hope my wife or Jean may not hear 
anything—perhaps he’s dead. How horrible for the 
public to be coming here to die at my door! I’m a 
philanthropist, but I don’t want to have funerals for 
everybody. Young man, see here, speak ; say some 
thing. While saying this, the embarrassed philan¬ 
thropist dragged the seemingly inanimate form of 
the young man into his lighted room, and dropped 
him into the nearest arm-chair. * 

“ He don’t move ! Good Heavens ! here’s a go ! 
It’s no light matter to have a murdered man in one’s 
house ; I’ll take the rope off his neck, at any rate.” 

Mr. Sothern accordingly did so with hands that 
shook and a heart that beat very rapidly. 

“ Why, here’s a queer thing ! The rope hasn’t left 
even a mark on his neck ! Well, I suppose the poor 
wretch never hung himself before and so made a 
bungle of it. I dare say even in hanging practice 
makes perfect. So he isn’t dead, at any rate ; I’ll 
throw some water in his face.” 

Looking about him Mr. Sothern could see noth¬ 
ing but a bouquet which stood in a glass of water 
on the table. He dashed that at once in the face of 
the still motionless figure in the chair. 

The remedy proved effectual. The young man 


Copyright, 1883 . 







































































224 


Treasury of Tales. 


starts, dashes some long wet locks from his fore¬ 
head, and moans : 

“ Where am I ? ” 

“ Where you have no right to be,” said Mr. Soth- 
ern sternly. “ What do you mean, sir, by trespass¬ 
ing?” 

“ Oh,” exclaimed the young man, angrily ; “ I 
see ! you cut me down.” 

“ I did, sir.” 

“ And what right had you to interfere ? ” 

Mr. Sothern was transfixed by this view of the 
case. 

“ Right, sir ? ” he faltered. 

“ I had good reasons for dying, sir ! ” exclaimed 
the young man, rising and looking furiously at his 
preserver. “ I had finished with life, love, hope, 
fortune—all gone,—and you dare to interfere ! 
You bring me back to a world to which I have said 
good-bye. What do you intend to do now, sir ? ” 

“ Nothing ! ” exclaimed Mr. Sothern. 

“ What! you give me back my life and intend to 
do nothing for me ! Why, I am yours—my life is 
yours—it is your gift. You are bound to give me 
happiness—everything ! ” 

“ Oh, that’s too large a contract! ” exclaimed Mr. 
Sothern, shrinking away with the sensation that he 
had to deal with a very peculiar person. 

“ Oh no ! You have heard of Frankenstein—be¬ 
ware ! You have created me ! But I know you will 
not shirk the consequences of your action. You 
will make me happy. You have recalled me to this 
world that I may taste that elixir called happiness 
for which I have thirsted all my life. Oh ! my pre¬ 
server ! ” 

He rushes at Sothern and nearly strangles him in 
an embrace. 

He is extremely seedy and unkept. There is 
an amount of garden mould on his clothing, as well 
as various other blotches that suggest beer. He has 
evidently not been shaved for several days. 

“ Keep off, sir,” cries Mr. Sothern, repulsing him. 

“ I must. How can I help it when I think of what 
you have done and what you are going to do-” 

“ What I arh going to do-” 

“ Of course : to rehabilitate me, to make me a new 
man. I am a new man from this hour—new fortune, 
new love. Have you a daughter, sir ? ” 

“ No, I have not! ” (very decidedly and thank¬ 
fully). 

“ If you had—oh, if you had ! ” cried the young 
man with kindling eyes, “ I would say, ‘ Oh, child of 
my deliverer, take me ! my life belongs to him, conse¬ 
quently to you. Oh, let me immolate myself for 
you.’ ” 

“The man is clean daft,” thought Mr. Sothern, 
looking uneasily at the bell-rope. “ I must deal 
gently with him. I made a great mistake in cutting 
him down. If I were not a philanthropist I should 
say let him hang, and be hanged to him.” 

Then Mr. Sothern recalled with an uncomfortable 


feeling the last pages of his great work, and his 
grand plans for the amelioration of humanity at 
large. How much easier it was to be benevolent to 
a world at large than to this creature who was also- 
a man and a brother ! 

“ If he only were at large, I might consider his 
case ; but he’s too near, decidedly too near,” thought 
the philanthropist, who saw the young man prepar¬ 
ing for another embrace. “ He is a blessing in giv¬ 
ing me so rare an opportunity, I suppose ; but how he 
would brighten if he would only take his flight! ” 

“ My deliverer ! ” cried the young man, with a new 
access of enthusiasm. “Tell me your name that I 
may put it first in my prayers.” 

“ Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” Mr. Sothern ex¬ 
claimed ; “ but here is my card.” 

“ Ah,” cried the other with a grateful gasp ; “ in 
my orisons it shall be—but you must know mine.” 

“ Not the least consequence.” 

“True; of what am I thinking? My old self is 
dead—my old name also. You shall name me now ; 

I will never put a single fetter of that old life on me 
again. Anything you like, my dear friend ; only as 
the world is all before us whence to choose we might 
as well take a fine name. What an improvement if 
the whole thing were arranged in this way—to choose 
for ourselves when we arrive at years of discretion ! 
Now, what shall it be ? ” 

“ What the devil do I care ? ” 

“ I incline to Howard—a noble, sonorous ring to 
it: ‘ Not all the blood of all the Howards.’ Percy 
Howard! how would that do ? ” 

“As well as anything.” 

“ Mrs. Percy Howard ! if you had a daughter—but 
you haven’t; perhaps a niece ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ If there could be anything to cement more closely 

the bond that unites us it would be-” 

“ But didn’t you speak of a lost love ? ” suggested 
Mr. Sothern, hoping to turn the fellow’s thoughts to 
some potent spell of the past. 

“ Don’t mention it! All that is over now. She was 
false—she had black hair ; now I shall find a golden¬ 
haired girl with a true heart. Do you happen to 
know a golden-haired girl with a true heart ?” 

“Heavens !—if he should see Jean,” thought Mr. 
Sothern, with a cold chill striking his veins. 

And at that moment the sound of a little trill, soft 
and sweet as the waking note of a woodland bird, 
was heard on the stairs. Then the door opened sud¬ 
denly and a radiant vision appeared—a young girl 
in the most ravishing of pale-blue crepe tea-gowns— 
with billows of creamy lace all over it, a petticoat of 
wing-hued brocade, beneath which little feet in high- 
heeled slippers and pale-blue silk stockings—“like 
little mice crept in and out.” 

But Percy Howard, as he called himself, did not 
regard the feet; his eyes were fixed upon the aureole 
of golden hair that floated about the fresh young 
face. 







Neck or Nothing. 


225 


“ It is she—my soul’s idol! ” he cried clasping his 
hands. “ I mean she who will be my soul’s idol.” 

Jean stopped—flushed, and stepped back a little. 

“ Oh ! I did not know you had company,” she said. 

“ No—he—is not,” exclaimed Mr. Sothern, hesitat¬ 
ing. 

“ Allow me,” the young man said, hastily. “ I am 
Percy Howard, and I hope we shall be better friends 
in time. This gentleman is my guardian, and so I 
am not company, but one of the family.” 

“ His guardian!” cried Jean; “ how nice!—why now 
I shall not be so lonely, guardy dear.” 

“ By Jove ! ” said Mr. Sothern, below his breath ; 
“the girl’s going daft too, and the fellow is really 
good-looking, when he gets rid of his hang-dog ex¬ 
pression.” 

“ My dear,” he said, clearing his throat, “ the 
young man is good enough to wish me to assume 
relations which I really must decline. He is, as you 
see, quite old enough to be his own master, and 


“ But you see there is no other course,” exclaimed 
Percy Howard, in a calm tone. “ You cannot put 
me back into the state of mind in which you found 
me. I had no hope—life was a desert—now it blos- 
tms as the rose ” (with a rapturous look at Jean); 
so, of course, you cannot rationally expect that I 
should hang myself again.” 

Jean uttered a piteous little cry, and Mr. Sothern 
an oath. “Well, well,” he said, reading in the blue 
eyes the pity which is said to be so dangerously 
akin to love, “ I will think it over, and if you prove fit 
for anything—only—I am . able to arrange any¬ 
thing just now.” 

“ I feel very weary myself,” answered the young 
man ; “ it’s a good deal to go through in one even¬ 
ing —bidding adieu to the world and taking a dis¬ 
solving view from an apple-bough : so if you will 
ring for a servant to show me a room, I’ll say ta-ta 
for the present.” 

“ Sir—” began Mr. Sothern, in a furious voice. 

“ My dear young lady,” Howard went on, “ I did 
not know such angels as you were in the world, or I 
would never have wished to leave it.” 

Jean should have looked at this presuming young 
man with a frown of offended dignity; but, strange 
to say, she smiled sweetly. 

“ What has got into the girl ? ” thought her guar¬ 
dian. “ I must get the fellow out of the way; there 
is a certain eloquence about him, and he is not des¬ 
titute of manner. I did not notice it while he had 
the noose on his neck, but I suppose a Chesterfield 
would fail to impress me in that situation.” 

So with the best grace he could he showed the 
stranger into a room, and then stopped to say a 
word of warning to his ward. 

“ I think the fellow is a sort of crank,” he said to 
her, confidentially, “ so if he stays here for a day or 
two, you had better keep out of the way ; I don t 
war* to cast him out on the world without a chance 


—I could never write another page of ‘ Rational 
Progress ’ if I did ; but it is an embarrassing case ! ” 

“ And was he really hanging himself ? ” asked 
Jean, with intense compassion. “ How very, very 
miserable the poor fellow must have been ! ” 

“ Deuce take it,” thought Mr. Sothern, “ there is 
a strange sympathy for criminals in every woman’s 
heart. This would be worse—much worse than that 
penniless advocate—for I suppose he is at least sane. 
My dear child,” he said, kindly, “ do not cherish any 
illusions about this individual. He probably de¬ 
serves all the misery he has—and more.” 

“ But, oh, guardy, did you notice his eyes ? ” 

“ Well—not particularly.” 

“ They are so pathetic,” exclaimed Jean, with a 
little sigh, and then she vanished up stairs, leaving 
her guardian in a very unenviable frame of mind. 

II. 

When Mrs. Sothern, a few days after, surprised 
Jean in the act of pinning a rose-bud in Mr. How¬ 
ard’s button-hole, she came to her husband in con¬ 
siderable trepidation. 

“ When do you intend to get rid of that incubus ? ” 
she said, impatiently. 

“ My dear, I am looking about for a situation for 
him,” her husband answered. “ I can’t exactly turn 
him out in the street. You see he tells me that if I 
had not interfered he would have been provided for 
without any further trouble to himself, and so I am 
bound— : —” 

“ Oh ! yes, I have heard all that before,” exclaimed 
his wife, impatiently, “ but when I see Jean making 
love to him under my very eyes-” 

“ Ah, that’s all owing to the inconstancy of your 
' ^ex, my dear,” answered Mr. Sothern. “ Only a 
month ago she was pining for another penniless ad¬ 
venturer,—perhaps another lunatic might oust this 
one, but then I don’t want to turn my house into a 
lunatic asylum. I must reason with the girl.” 

“I’m afraid, Jean, you’re letting your sympathy 
carry you too far,” he said, when he had the 
opportunity. 

Jean was charming in a smoke-tinted satin with 
plush trimming. She had a bewitching capote of 
the same tint and a long mist-hue feather that 
drooped over her fresh young face. She was going 
for a walk. 

“ Why, how do you mean ? ” she asked. 

“You are getting interested in this fellow who 
has billeted himself on us. 

“ Billeted ? Oh, how cruel ! ” cried the girl, her 
eyes kindling. > “ You snatched him back from 
death—where he would have been so comfortable— 
and now you want to fling him out on a cold world.” 

“ See here, young woman, what was the name of a 
certain young aspirant to your hand, whose offer I 
cruelly declined, and to whom you vowed eternal 
fealty?” 

“ Oh ! I suppose you’re thinking of Russel Gay,” 








226 


Freasury of Talcs. 


the girl replied, with a pout. “ There’s no use dig¬ 
ging up the past; as Percy says, ‘ Life has glorious 
possibilities in the future.’ ” 

“ And one of the glorious possibilities for that 
fellow is to get you and your fortune into his hands. 
I shall put him out neck and crop. I shall call in 
the police.” 

“Oh, no, guardy. You won’t. It would ruin 
your reputation as a philanthropist. Why, think of 
the chance you have : here is a human soul—a free, 
untrammelled human soul : he has no duties, he 
owes no allegiance to any one, he has no ties, he is 
yours—a clean, white page for you to write on.” 

“ Oh ! I’m not so certain about that clean, white 
page,” growled Mr. Sothern. 

“You can make him what you will—you can ex¬ 
periment on this plastic soul,” said Jean, with a 
laugh. “ Imbue him with your doctrines, let him 
lecture on your views, exemplify your theories of the 
perfectibility of man under certain influences. Give 
him those influences and you will see how his soul 
will expand—like a sun-flower in the sun. Place him 
on that higher plane of which you write—let him 
breathe that purer air-” 

“ That will do,” grumbled Mr. Sothern. “ I 
recognize the fellow in your eloquence. Go and 
take your walk.” 

While they were gone, the guardian wrote a letter. 
It read as follows : 

Russel Gay, Esq. # 

Dear Sir : 

Upon reflection I feel that I treated your proposal 
for the hand of my ward, Miss Jean Devereux, with 
decided a negative. I would be glad to make your 
quaintance, and if I find you worth- n< 

further obstacles in your way. Let me know when you 
will find it convenient f .t us. ' •' 

Yours truly, * 

;; I SOTHERN. 

There wa r ‘dued triumph in Mr. Sothern’s 
eyes? us he met' the young couple on their return. 
But*'" noted a new look of happiness in Jean’s 
radiant face, and he feared that he was too late. 

“ My dear, I’ve just been writing to an old friend 
of yours. I hope, Mr. Howard, you won’t mind 
posting this, as I want it to go by the first mail.” 

“ Certainly,” exclaimed that young gentleman 
with alacrity. “ You know you have only to com¬ 
mand me. Am I not yours ?—a sort of flotsam and 
jetsam, snatched from the billows of that sea that 
surrounds all living.” 

“An old friend !” exclaimed Jean ; “well, I don’t 
know-” 

But Mr. Howard had the letter in his hand, and, 
to the amazement of all, tore it open. 

By George ! this is too much,” cried Mr. Sothern 
in great wrath ; “ you impudent puppy ! By what 
pretence do you open my letters ? ” 

“ I am opening my letter just now,” answered the 


young man, coolly, “ and I am very grateful for your 
invitation. You see all means are fair in love and 
war. Confess now it was ingenious.” 

Jean began to laugh, but her guardian did not 
quite appreciate the joke. 

“ Do you mean to say, you are-” 

“Yes, I am—Russel Gay at your service. If you 
will inquire into my record you will find I am not a 
bad fellow. Positively I could not bear the exile 
from my dear little girl any longer. I was ready to 
hang myself in earnest rather than live without her.” 

“ And I suppose she is equally persuaded that she 
cannot live without you ? ” asked the guardian, 
grimly. 

Jean blushed and was silent for a moment, but 
her hand had stolen into her lover’s, and her look 
was more eloquent than speech. 

“ Well ! I must say I have a better opinion of you,, 
than I had an hour ago,” said her guardian. “ Then 
I thought you were a fickle little baggage whose 
heart could not be worth much to any one. Now, 
we’ll see ! Let Mr. Gay give me a chance to know 
him, and if all is satisfactory I shall not make him 
serve seven years. I shall be rather glad to transfer 
to him my fearful responsibility.” 

The fearful responsibility gave her guardian a 
rapturous little kiss, and her lover whispered softly : 

“ There comes a sound of marriage bells.” 


THE II^ON SHROUD. 

BY WII T 'AM MUDFORD. 

,.c of the Prince of Tolfi was built on 
lh< sumn t of the towering and precipitous 
rock of Scylla, and commanded a magnificent 
view of Sicily in all its grandeur. Here, during the 
wars of the Middle Ages, when the fertile plains of 
Italy were devastated by hostile factions, those 
prisoners were confined for whose ransom a costly 
price was demanded. Here, too, in a dungeon ex¬ 
cavated deep in the solid rock, was immured the 
miserable victim whom revenge pursued—the dark, 
fierce, and unpitying revenge of an Italian heart. 

Vivenzio—the noble and the generous, the fear¬ 
less in battle, and the pride of Naples in her sunny 
hours of peace—the young, the brave, the proud 
Vivenzio—fell beneath this subtle and remorseless 
spirit. He was the prisoner of Tolfi ; and he lan¬ 
guished in that rock-encircled dungeon which stood 
alone, and whose portals never opened twice upon a 
living captive. 

It had the semblance of a vast cage ; for the roof 
and floor and sides were of iron, solidly wrought and 
spaciously constructed. High above ran a range of 
seven grated windows, guarded with massy bars of 
the same metal, which admitted light and air. Save 
these, and the tall folding doors beneath them whmh 
occupied the centre, no chink or chasn p < - 

tion broke the smooth, black surface of !. w - 













The Iron Shroud. 


22 7 


An iron bedstead, littered with straw, stood in one 
corner, and, beside it, a vessel of water, and a coarse 
dish filled with coarser food. 

Even the intrepid soul of Vivenzio shrank with 
dismay as he entered this abode, and heard the pon¬ 
derous doors triple-locked by the silent ruffians who 
conducted him to it. Their silence seemed pro¬ 
phetic of his fate, of the living grave that had been 
prepared for him. His menaces and his entreaties, 
his indignant appeals for justice, and his impatient 
questioning of their intentions, were alike vain. 
They listened but spoke not. Fit ministers of a 
crime that should have no tongue ! 

How dismal was the sound of their retiring steps! 
And, as their faint echoes died along the winding 
passages, a fearful presage grew within him, that 
nevermore the face or voice or tread of man would 
greet his senses. He had seen human beings for 
the last time ! And he had looked his last upon 
the bright sky and upon the smiling earth and upon 
a beautiful world he loved, and whose minion he had 
been ! Here he was to end his life—a life he had 
just begun to revel in ! And by what means ? By 
secret poison ? or by murderous assault ? No ; for 
then it had been needless to bring him hither. 
Famine, perhaps—a thousand deaths in one ! It 
was terrible to think of it; but it was yet more terri¬ 
ble to picture long, long years of captivity in a soli¬ 
tude so appalling, a loneliness so dreary, that 
thought, for want of fellowship, would lose itself in 
madness, or stagnate into idiocy. 

He could not hope to escape, unless he had the 
power, with his bare hands, of rending asunder the 
solid iron walls of his prison. He could not hope 
for liberty from the relenting mercies of his enemy. 
His instant death, under any form of refined cruelty, 
was not the object of Tolfi ; for he might have in¬ 
flicted it, and he had not. 

It was too evident, therefore, he was reserved for 
some premeditated scheme of subtle vengeance ; 
and what vengeance could transcend in fiendish 
malice either the slow death of famine or the still 
slower one of solitary incarceration till the last lin¬ 
gering spark of life expired, or till reason fled, and 
nothing should remain to perish but the brute func¬ 
tions of the body? 

It was evening when Vivenzio entered his dun¬ 
geon ; and the approaching shades of night wrapped 
it in total darkness, as he paced up and down, re¬ 
volving in his mind these horrible forebodings. No 
tolling bell from the castle, or from any neighboring 
church or convent, struck upon his ears to tell how 
the hours passed. Frequently he would stop and 
listen for some sound that might betoken the vi¬ 
cinity of man ; but the solitude of the desert, the 
silence of the tomb, are not so still and deep as the 
oppressive desolation by which he was encompassed. 
His heart sank within him, and he threw himself 
dejectedly upon his couch of straw. Here sleep 
gradually obliterated the consciousness of misery ; 


and bland dreams wafted his delighted spirit to 
scenes which were once glowing realities for him, 
in whose ravishing illusions he soon lost the remem¬ 
brance that he was Tolfi’s prisoner. 

When he awoke, it was daylight; but how long he 
had slept he knew not. It might be early morning, 
or it might be sultry noon ; for he could measure 
time by no other note of its progress than light and 
darkness. He had been so happy in his sleep, amid 
friends who loved him, and the sweeter endearments 
of those who loved him as friends could not, that, in 
the first moment of waking, his startled mind seemed 
to admit the knowledge of his situation, as if it had 
burst upon it for the first time, fresh in all its appall¬ 
ing horrors. 

He gazed round with an air of doubt and amaze¬ 
ment, and took up a handful of the straw upon 
which he lay, as though he would ask himself what 
it meant. But memory, too faithful to her office, 
soon unveiled the melancholy past, while reason, 
shuddering at the task, flashed before his eyes the 
tremendous future. 

The contrast overpowered him. He remained for 
some time lamenting, like a truth, the bright visions 
that had vanished, and recoiling from the present, 
which clung to him as a poisoned garment. 

When he grew more calm, he surveyed his gloomy 
dungeon. Alas ! the stronger light of day only 
served to confirm what the gloomy indistinctness of 
the preceding evening had partially disclosed,— 
the utter impossibility of escape. 

As, however, his eyes wandered round and round, 
and from place to place, he noticed two circum¬ 
stances which excited his surprise and curiosity. The 
one, he thought, might be fancy ; but the other was 
positive. His pitcher of water, and the dish which 
contained his food, had been removed from his side 
while he slept, and now stood near the door. Were 
he even inclined to doubt this, by supposing he had 
mistaken the spot where he saw them over night, he 
could not; for the pitcher now in his dungeon was 
neither of the same form nor color as the other, while 
the food was changed for some other of better 
quality. He had been visited therefore during the 
night. 

But how had the person obtained entrance ? Could 
he have slept so soundly that the unlocking and 
opening of those ponderous portals were effected 
without waking him ? He would have said this was 
not possible, but that, in doing so, he must admit a 
greater difficulty, an entrance by other means, of 
which he was convinced none existed. It was not 
intended, then, that he should be left to perish from 
hunger ; but the secret and mysterious mode of sup¬ 
plying him with food seemed to indicate he was to 
have no opportunity of communicating with a human 
being. 

The other circumstance which had attracted his 
notice was the disappearance , as he believed, of one 
of the seven grated windows that ran along the top 







228 


Treasury of Tales. 


of his prison. He felt confident that he had ob¬ 
served and counted them ; for he was rather sur¬ 
prised at their number, and there was something 
peculiar in their form, as well as in the manner of 
their arrangement, at unequal distances. It was so 
much easier, however, to suppose he was mistaken 
than that a portion of the solid iron which formed 
the walls could have escaped from its position that 
he soon dismissed the thought from his mind. 

Vivenzio partook of the food that was before him 
without apprehension. It might be poisoned ; but 
if it were, he knew he could not escape death, should 
such be the design of Tolfi ; and the quickest death 
would be the speediest relief. 

The day passed wearily and gloomily, though not 
without a faint hope that, by keeping watch at 
night, he might observe when the person came again 
to bring him food, which he supposed he would do 
in the same way as before. The mere thought of 
being approached by a living creature, and the op¬ 
portunity it might present of learning the doom pre¬ 
pared or preparing for him, imparted some comfort. 
Besides, if he came alone, might he not in a furious 
onset overpower him ? Or he might be accessible to 
pity, or the influence of such munificent rewards 
as he could bestow if once more at liberty, and mas¬ 
ter of himself. Say he were armed. The worst that 
could befall, if nor bribe nor prayers nor for£e pre¬ 
vailed, was a faithful blow, which, though dealt in a 
damned cause, might work a desired end. There 
was no chance so desperate but it looked lovely in 
Vivenzio’s eyes, compared with the idea of being 
totally abandoned. 

The night came, and Vivenzio watched. Morn¬ 
ing came, and Vivenzio was confounded ! He must 
have slumbered without knowing it. Sleep must 
have stolen over him when exhausted by fatigue ; 
and, in that interval of feverish repose, he had been 
baffled ; for there stood his replenished pitcher of 
water, and there his day’s meal ! 

Nor was this all. Casting his looks toward the 
windows of his dungeon, he counted but five ! 

Here was no deception ; and he was now con¬ 
vinced there had been none the day before. But 
what did all this portend ? Into what strange and 
mysterious den had he been cast ? He gazed till his 
eyes ached ; he could discover nothing to explain 
the mystery. That it was so, he knew. Why it was 
so, he racked his imagination in vain to conjecture. 
He examined the doors. A simple circumstance 
convinced him that they had not been opened. 

A wisp of straw, which he had carelessly thrown 
against them the preceding day, as he paced to and 
fro, remained where he had cast it, though it must 
have been displaced by the slightest motion of either 
of the doors. This was evidence that could not be 
disputed ; and it followed there must be some secret 
machinery in the walls by which a person could 
enter. 

He inspected them closely. They appeared to him 


one solid and compact mass of iron ; or joined, if 
joined they were, with such nice art that no mark of 
division was perceptible. Again and again he sur¬ 
veyed them, and the floor and the roof, and that 
range of visionary windows, as he was now almost 
tempted to consider them ; he could discover nothing, 
absolutely nothing, to relieve his doubts or satisfy 
his curiosity. Sometimes he fancied that altogether 
the dungeon had a more contracted appearance,— 
that it looked smaller j but this he ascribed to fancy, 
and the impression naturally produced upon his mind 
by the undeniable disappearance of two of the win¬ 
dows. 

With intense anxiety, Vivenzio looked forward to 
the return of night ; and, as it approached, he re¬ 
solved that no treacherous sleep should again betray 
him. Instead of seeking his bed of straw, he con¬ 
tinued to walk up and down his dungeon till day¬ 
light, straining his eyes in every direction through 
the darkness, to watch for any appearances that 
might explain these mysteries. While thus engaged, 
and, as nearly as he could judge (by the time that 
afterward elapsed before the morning came in), about 
two o’clock, there was a slight, tremulous motion of 
the floor. 

He stooped. The motion lasted nearly a minute : 
but it was so extremely gentle that he almost 
doubted whether it was real, or only imaginary. He 
listened. Not a sound could be heard. Presently, 
however, he felt a rush of cold air blow upon him ; 
and, dashing toward the quarter whence it seemed 
to proceed, he stumbled over something which he 
judged to be the water ewer. The rush of cold air 
was no longer perceptible ; and, as Vivenzio stretched 
out his hands, he found himself close to the walls. 
He remained motionless for a considerable time ; 
but nothing occurred during the remainder of the 
night to excite his attention, though he continued to 
watch with unabated vigilance. 

The first approaches of the morning were visible 
through the grated windows, breaking, with faint 
divisions of light, the darkness that still pervaded 
every other part, long before Vivenzio was enabled 
to distinguish any object in his dungeon. Instinc¬ 
tively and fearfully he turned his eyes, hot and in¬ 
flamed with watching, toward them. There were 
four ! 

He could see only four : but it might be that 
some intervening object prevented the fifth from 
becoming perceptible ; and he waited impatiently 
to ascertain if it were so. As the light strengthened, 
however, and penetrated every corner of the cell, 
other objects of amazement struck his sight. On 
the ground lay the broken fragments of the pitcher 
he had used the day before, and, at a small distance 
from them, nearer to the wall, stood the one he had 
noticed the first night. It was filled with water, 
and beside it was the food. 

He was now certain, that, by some mechanical 
contrivance, an opening was obtained through the 








The Iron Shroud. 


229 


iron wall, and that through this opening the current 
of air had found entrance. But how noiseless ! for, 
had a feather even waved at the time, he must have 
heard it. Again he examined that part of the wall; 
but both to sight and touch it appeared one even 
and uniform surface, while, to repeated and violent 
blows, there was no reverberating sound indicative 
of hollowness. 

This perplexing mystery had for a time withdrawn 
his thoughts from the windows ; but now r , directing 
his eyes again toward them, he saw that the fifth 
had disappeared in the same manner as the preced¬ 
ing two, without the least distinguishable alteration 
of external appearances. The remaining four looked 
as the seven had originally looked ; that is, occupy¬ 
ing at irregular distances the top of the wall on that 
side of the dungeon. 

The tall folding-door, too, still seemed to stand 
beneath, in the centre of these four, as it had first 
stood in the centre of the seven. But he could no 
longer doubt w r hat, on the preceding day, he fancied 
might be the effect of visual deception. The dun¬ 
geon was smaller. The roof had lowered ; and the 
opposite ends had contracted the intermediate dis¬ 
tance by a space equal, he thought, to that over 
which the three windows had extended. He was 
bewildered in vain imaginings to account for these 
things. Some frightful purpose, some devilish tor¬ 
ture of mind or body, some unheard-of device for 
producing exquisite misery, lurked, he was sure, in 
what had taken place. 

Oppressed with this belief, and distracted more 
by the dreadful uncertainty of whatever fate im¬ 
pended than he could be dismayed, he thought, by 
the knowledge of the worst, he sat ruminating, hour 
after hour, yielding his fears in succession to every 
haggard fancy. At last a horrible suspicion flashed 
suddenly across his mind, and he started up with a 
frantic air. 

“Yes!” he exclaimed, looking wildly round his 
dungeon, and shuddering as he spoke,—“ yes ! it 
must be so! I see it! I feel the maddening 
truth like scorching flames upon my brain ! Eternal 
God ! support me ! it must be so ! Yes, yes, that is 
to be my fate ! Yon roof will descend ! these walls 
will hem me round, and slowly, slowly crush me in 
their iron arms ! Lord God ! look down upon me, 
and in mercy strike me with instant death ! O fiend ! 
O devil !—is this your revenge ? ” 

He dashed himself upon the ground in agony, 
tears burst from him, and the sweat stood in large 
drops upon his face : he sobbed aloud, he tore his 
hair, he rolled about like one suffering intolerable 
anguish of body, and would have bitten the iron 
floor beneath him ; he breathed fearful curses upon 
Tolfi, and the next moment passionate prayers to 
Heaven for immediate death. 

Then the violence of his grief became exhausted ; 
and he lay still, weeping as a child would weep. The 
twilight of departing day shed its gloom around him 


ere he arose from that posture of utter and hopeless 
sorrow. He had taken no food. Not one drop of 
water had cooled the fever of his parched lips. Sleep 
had not visited his eyes for six-and-thirty hours. 
He was faint with hunger ; weary with watching, 
and with the excess of his emotions. He tasted of 
his food ; he drank with avidity of the water, and, 
reeling, like a drunken man, to his straw, cast him¬ 
self upon it to brood again over the appalling image 
that had fastened itself upon his almost frenzied 
thoughts. 

He slept; but his slumbers were not tranquil. 
He resisted, as long as he could, their approach ; 
and when, at last, enfeebled nature yielded to their 
influence, he found no oblivion from his cares. 
Terrible dreams haunted him ; ghastly visions har¬ 
rowed up his imagination ; he shouted and screamed, 
as if he already felt the dungeon’s ponderous roof 
descending on him ; he breathed hard and thick, 
as though writhing between its iron walls. Then 
would he spring up, stare wildly about him, stretch 
forth his hands to be sure he yet had space enough 
to live, and, muttering some incoherent words, sink 
down again, to pass through the same fierce vicissi¬ 
tudes of delirious sleep. 

The morning of the fourth day dawned upon Viven- 
zio ; but it was high noon before his mind shook off 
its stupor, or he awoke to a full consciousness of his 
situation. And what a fixed energy of despair sat 
upon his pale features as he cast his eyes upwards, 
and gazed upon the three windows that now alone 
remained ! 

The three ! there were no more ! and they seemed 
to number his own allotted days. Slowly and 
calmly he next surveyed the top and sides, and 
comprehended all the meaning of the diminished 
height of the former, as well as of the gradual ap¬ 
proximation of the latter. The contracted dimen¬ 
sions of his mysterious prison were now too gross 
and palpable to be the juggle of his heated imagina¬ 
tion. 

Still lost in wonder at the means, Vivenzio could 
put no cheat upon his reason as to the end. By 
what horrible ingenuity it w r as contrived that walls 
and roofs and windows should thus silently and im¬ 
perceptibly, without noise and without motion, al¬ 
most fold, as it were, within each other, he knew 
not. He only knew they did so ; and he vainly 
strove to persuade himself it was the intention of 
the contriver to rack the miserable wretch who might 
be immured there w r ith anticipation merely of a fate 
from which, in the very crisis of his agony, he was 
to be reprieved. 

Gladly would he have clung even to this possibil¬ 
ity, if his heart would have let him ; but he felt a 
dreadful assurance of its fallacy. And what match¬ 
less inhumanity it was to doom the sufferer to such 
lingering torments ; to lead him day by day to so 
appalling a death, unsupported by the consolations 
of religion, unvisited by any human being, aban- 




Treasury of Tales. 


230 

cloned to himself, deserted of all, and denied even 
the sad privilege of knowing that his cruel destiny 
would awaken pity ! Alone he was to perish ! Alone 
he was to wait a slow-coming torture whose most 
exquisite pangs would be inflicted by that very soli¬ 
tude and that tardy coming. 

“ It is not death I fear,” he exclaimed, “ but the 
death I must prepare for ! Methinks, too, I could 
meet even that, all horrible and revolting as it is,— 
if it might overtake me now. But where shall I find 
fortitude to tarry till it come ? How can I outlive 
the three long days and nights I have to live ? There 
is no pow’er within me to bid the hideous spectre 
hence ; none to make it familiar to my thoughts, or 
myself patient of its errand. My thoughts rather will 
flee from me, and I grow mad in looking at it. Oh ! 
for a deep sleep to fall upon me ! That so, in death’s 
likeness, I might embrace death itself, and drink no 
more of the cup that is presented to me than my 
fainting spirit has already tasted ! ” 

In the midst of these lamentations, Vivenzio no¬ 
ticed that his accustomed meal, with the pitcher of 
water, had been conveyed, as before, into his dun¬ 
geon. But this circumstance no longer excited his 
surprise. His mind was overwhelmed with others 
of a far greater magnitude. It suggested, however, 
a feeble hope of deliverance ; and there is no hope - 
so feeble as not to yield some support to a heart 
bending under despair. 

He resolved to watch, during the ensuing night, 
for the signs he had before observed, and, should 
he again feel the gentle, tremulous motion of the 
floor, or the current of air, to seize that moment for 
giving audible expression to his misery. Some per¬ 
son must be near him, and within reach of his voice, 
at the instant when his food was supplied ; some 
one, perhaps, susceptible of pity. Or, if not, to be 
told even that his apprehensions were just, and that 
his fate was to be what he foreboded, would be 
preferable to a suspense which hung upon the pos¬ 
sibility of his worst fears being visionary. 

The night came ; and, as the hour approached 
when Vivenzio imagined he might expect the signs, 
he stood fixed and silent as a statue. He feared to 
breathe, almost, lest he might lose any sound which 
would warn him of their coming. While thus listen¬ 
ing, with every faculty of mind and body strained to 
an agony of attention, it occurred to him he should 
be more sensible of the motion, probably, if he 
stretched himself along the iron floor. He accord¬ 
ingly laid himself softly down, and had not been 
long in that position when—yes—he was certain of 
it—the floor moved under him. 

He sprang up, and, in a voice suffocated nearly 
with emotion, called aloud. He paused—the mo¬ 
tion ceased—he felt no stream of air—all was hushed 
—no voice answered to his—he burst into tears ; and, 
as he sunk to the ground, in renewed anguish, ex¬ 
claimed, “O my God ! my God ! You alone have 
power to save me now, or strengthen me for the trial.” 


Another morning dawned upon the wretched cap¬ 
tive, and the fatal index of his doom met his eyes. 
Two windows !—and two days—and all would be 
over ! Fresh food—fresh water ! The mysterious 
visit had been paid, though he had implored it in 
vain. But how awfully was his prayer answered in 
what he now saw ! The roof of the dungeon was 
within a foot of his head. The two ends were so 
near that in six paces he trod the space between 
them. 

Vivenzio shuddered as he gazed, and as his steps 
traversed the narrow area ; but his feelings no longer 
vented themselves in frantic wailings. With folded 
arms, and clenched teeth ; with eyes that were blood¬ 
shot from much watching, and fixed with a vacant 
glare upon the ground ; with a hard, quick breath¬ 
ing, and a hurried walk,—he strode backward and 
forward in silent musing for several hours. 

What mind shall conceive, what tongue utter, or 
what pen describe, the dark and terrible character 
of his thoughts ? Like the fate that moulded them, 
they had no similitude in the wide range of this 
world’s agony for man. Suddenly he stopped, and 
his eyes were riveted upon that part of the wall 
which was over his bed of straw. Words are in¬ 
scribed there ! A human language, traced by a 
human hand ! He rushes toward them ; but his 
blood freezes as he reads,— 

“ I, Ludovico Sforza, tempted by the gold of the 
Prince of Tolfi, spent three years in contriving and 
executing this accursed triumph of my art. When 
it was completed, the perfidious Tolfi, more devil 
than man, who conducted me hither one morning to 
be witness, as he said, of its perfection, doomed me 
to be the first victim of my own pernicious skill ; 
lest, as he declared, I should divulge the secret, or 
repeat the effort of my ingenuity. May God pardon 
him, as I'hope he will me who ministered to his un¬ 
hallowed purpose. Miserable wwetch, whoe’er thou 
art, that readest these lines, fall on thy knees, and 
invoke, as I have done, His sustaining mercy who 
alone can nerve thee to meet the vengeance of Tolfi, 
armed with his tremendous engine which, in a few 
hours, must crush thee , as it will the needy wretch 
who made it.” 

A deep groan burst from Vivenzio. He stood, 
like one transfixed, with dilated eyes, expanded nos¬ 
trils, and quivering lips, gazing at this fatal inscrip¬ 
tion. It was as if a voice from the sepulchre had 
sounded in his ears, “ Prepare.” Hope forsook him. 
There was his sentence, recorded in those dismal 
words. The future stood unveiled before him, 
ghastly and appalling. 

His brain already feels the descending horror ; his 
bones seem to crack and crumble in the mighty grasp 
of the iron walls ! Unknowing what it is he does, 
he fumbles in his garment for some weapon of self- 
destruction. He clenches his throat in his convul¬ 
sive gripe, as though he would strangle himself at 
once. He stares upon the walls ; and his warring 






The Iron Shroud. 


231 


spirit demands, “ Will they not anticipate their office 
if I dash my head against them ? ” An hysterical 
laugh chokes him as he exclaims, “Why should I? 
He was but a man who died first in their fierce em¬ 
brace ; and I should be less than man not to do as 
much ! ” 

I he evening sun was descending and Vivenzio be¬ 
held its golden beams streaming through one of the 
windows. What a thrill of joy shot through his soul 
at the sight! It was a precious link that united 
him, for the moment, with the world beyond. There 
was ecstasy in the thought. 

As he gazed, long and earnestly, it seemed as if 
the windows had lowered sufficiently for him to reach 
them. With one bound he was beneath them ; with 
one wild.spring, he clung to the bars. Whether it 
was so contrived, purposely to madden with delight 
the wretch who looked, he knew not; but, at the ex¬ 
tremity of a long vista cut through the solid rocks, 
the ocean, the sky, the setting sun, olive groves, shady 
walks, and, in the farthest distance, delicious glimpses 
of magnificent Sicily, burst upon his sight. 

How exquisite was the cool breeze as it swept 
across his cheek, loaded with fragrance ! He in¬ 
haled it as though it were the breath of continued 
life. And there was a freshness in the landscape, 
and in the rippling of the calm, green sea, that fell 
upon his withering heart like dew upon the parched 
earth. How he gazed, and panted, and still clung 
to his hold ! sometimes hanging by one hand, some¬ 
times by the other, and then grasping the bars with 
both, as loath to quit the smiling paradise out¬ 
stretched before him ; till, exhausted, and his hands 
swollen and benumbed, he dropped helpless down, 
and lay stunned for a considerable time by the fall. 

When he recovered, the glorious vision had van¬ 
ished. He was in darkness. He doubted whether 
it was not a dream that had passed before his sleep¬ 
ing fancy ; but gradually his scattered thoughts re¬ 
turned, and with them came remembrance. Yes ! he 
had looked once again upon the gorgeous splendor 
of nature ! Once again his eyes had trembled be¬ 
neath their veiled lids at the sun’s radiance, and 
sought repose in the soft verdure of the olive-tree or 
the gentle swell of undulating waves. Oh, that he were 
a mariner, exposed upon those waves to the worst 
fury of storm and tempest, or a very wretch, loath¬ 
some with disease, plague-stricken, and his body one 
leprous contagion from crown to sole, hunted forth 
to gasp out the remnant of infectious life beneath 
those verdant trees, so he might shun the destiny 
upon whose edge he tottered ! 

Vain thoughts like these would steal over his mind 
from time to time, in spite of himself; but they 
scarcely moved it from that stupor into which it had 
sunk, and which kept him, during the whole night, 
like one who had been drugged with opium. He 
was equally insensible to the calls of hunger and of 
thirst, though the third day was now commencing 
since even a drop of water had passed his lips. He 


remained on the ground, sometimes sitting, some¬ 
times lying ; at intervals sleeping heavily, and, when 
not sleeping, silently brooding over what was to 
come, or talking aloud, in disordered speech, of his 
wrongs, of his friends, of his home, and of those he 
loved, with a confused mingling of all. 

In this pitiable condition, the sixth and last morn¬ 
ing dawned upon Vivenzio, if dawn it might be called, 
—the dim, obscure light which faintly struggled 
through the one solitary window of his dungeon. 

He could hardly be said to notice the melancholy 
token. And yet he did notice it; for, as he raised 
his eyes and saw the portentous sign, there was a 
slight convulsive distortion of his countenance. But 
what did attract his notice, and at the sight of which 
his agitation was excessive, was the change the iron 
bed had undergone. 

It was a bed no longer. It stood before him, the 
visible semblance of a f uneral couch or bier ! 

When he beheld this, he started from the ground; 
and, in raising himself, suddenly struck his head 
against the roof, which was now so low that he could 
no longer stand upright. “God’s will be done!” 
was all he said, as he crouched his body, and placed 
his hand upon the bier ; for such it was. 

The iron bedstead had been so contrived, by the 
mechanical art of Ludovico Sforza, that, as the ad¬ 
vancing walls came in contact with its head and feet, 
a pressure was produced upon concealed springs, 
which, when made to play, set in motion a very sim¬ 
ple though ingeniously contrived machinery that 
effected the transformation. The object was, of 
course, to heighten, in the closing scene of this hor¬ 
rible drama, all the feelings of despair and anguish 
which the preceding one had aroused. For the 
same reason the last window was so made as to ad¬ 
mit only a shadowy kind of gloom rather than light, 
that the wretched captive might be surrounded, as 
it were, with every seeming preparation for approach¬ 
ing death. 

Vivenzio seated himself on his bier. Then he knelt 
and prayed fervently ; and sometimes tears would 
gush from him. The air seemed thick, and he 
breathed with difficulty ; or it might be that he 
fancied it was so, from the hot and narrow limits of 
his dungeon, which were now so diminished that he 
could neither stand up nor lie down at his full length. 
But his wasted spirits and oppressed mind no longer 
struggled with him. He was past hope, and fear 
shook him no more. Happy if thus revenge had 
struck its final blow ; for he would have fallen be¬ 
neath it almost unconscious of a pang. But such a 
lethargy of the soul, after such an excitement of its 
fiercest passions, had entered into the diabolical cal¬ 
culations of Tolfi ; and the fell artificer of his designs 
had imagined a counteracting device. 

The tolling of an enormous bell struck upon the 
ears of Vivenzio ! He started. It beat but once. 
The sound was so close and stunning that it seemed 
to shatter his very brain, while it echoed through the 






232 


Treasury of Tales. 


rocky passages like reverberating peals of thunder. 
This was followed by a sudden crash of the roof and 
walls, as if they were about to fall upon and close 
around him at once. 

Vivenzio screamed, and instinctively spread forth 
his arms, as though he had a giant’s strength to hold 
them back. They had moved nearer to him, and 
were now motionless. Vivenzio looked up, and saw 
the roof almost touching his head, even as he sat 
cowering beneath it; and he felt that a further con¬ 
traction of but a few inches only must commence the 
frightful operation. 

Roused as he had been, he now gasped for breath. 
His body shook violently ; he was bent nearly double. 
His hands rested upon either wall, and his feet were 
drawn under him to avoid the pressure in front. 
Thus he remained for more than an hour, when that 
deafening bell beat again, and again came the crash 
of horrid death. But the concussion was now so great 
that it struck Vivenzio down. As he lay gathered 
up in lessened bulk, the bell beat loud and frequent; 
crash succeeded crash; and on and on and on came the 
mysterious engine of death, till Vivenzio’s smothered 
groans were heard no more. He was horribly crushed 
by the ponderous roof and collapsing sides. 

A nd the flattened bier was his iron shroud. 


THE BOX TUNNEL. 

BY CHARLES READE. 

HE 10:15 train glided from Paddington, May 
7, 1847. In the left compartment of a cer¬ 
tain first-class carriage were four passen¬ 
gers ; of these, two were worth description. 

The lady had a smooth, white, delicate brow, 
strongly marked eyebrows, long lashes, eyes that 
seemed to change color, and a good-sized delicious 
mouth, with teeth as white as milk. A man could 
not see her nose for her eyes and mouth ; her own 
sex could and would have told us some nonsense 
about it. She wore an unpretending grayish dress 
buttoned to the throat with lozenge-shaped buttons, 
and a Scottish shawl that agreeably evaded color. 
She was like •h duck, so tight her plain feathers 
fitted her, and there she sat, smooth, snug, and deli¬ 
cious, with a book in her hand, and a soupcon of her 
wrist just visible as she held it. 

Her opposite neighbor was what I call a good 
style of man,—the more to his credit, since he be¬ 
longed to a corporation that frequently turns out 
the worst imaginable style of young men. He was 
a cavalry officer, aged twenty-five. He had a mus¬ 
tache, but not a very repulsive one ; not one of 
those subnasal pigtails on which soup is suspended 
like dew on a shrub ; it was short, thick, and black 
as a coal. His teeth had not yet been turned by 
tobacco smoke to the color of juice, his clothes did 
not stick to nor hang on him ; he had an engaging 
smile, and, what I liked the dog for, his vanity, 


which was inordinate, was in its proper place, his 
heart not in his face, jostling mine and other peo¬ 
ple’s who have none,—in a word, he was what one 
oftener hears of than meets,—a young gentleman. 

He was conversing in an animated whisper with a 
companion, a fellow officer ; they were talking 
about what it is far better not to—women. Our 
friend, clearly, did not wish to be overheard ; for 
he cast ever and anon a furtive glance at his fair 
vis-a-vis and lowered his voice. She seemed com¬ 
pletely absorbed in her book, and that reassured 
him. 

At last the two soldiers came down to a whisper 
(the truth must be told): the one who got down at 
Slough, and was lost to posterity, bet ten pounds to 
three, that he who was going down with us to Bath 
and immortality would not kiss either of the ladies 
opposite upon the road. 

“ Done, done ! ” 

Now I am sorry a man I have hitherto praised 
should have lent himself, even in a whisper, to 
such a speculation ; “ but nobody is wise at all 
hours,” not even when the clock is striking five and 
twenty ; and you are to consider his profession, his 
good looks, and the temptation—ten to three. 

After Slough the party was reduced to three ; at 
Twyford one lady dropped her handkerchief; 
Captain Dolignan fell on it like a lamb. Two or 
three words were interchanged on this occasion. 

At Reading the Marlborough of our tale made 
one of the safe investments of that day, he bought a 
Times and Punch; the latter full of steel-pen thrusts 
and woodcuts. Valor and beauty deigned to laugh 
at some inflamed humbug or other punctured by 
Punch. Now laughing together thaws our human 
ice ; long before Swindon it was a talking match— 
at Swindon who so devoted as Captain Dolig¬ 
nan !—he handed them out—he souped them—he 
tough-chickened them—he brandied and cochi- 
nealed one, and he brandied and burnt-sugared the 
other. On their return to the carriage, one lady 
passed into the inner compartment to inspect a cer¬ 
tain gentleman’s seat on that side of the line. 

Reader, had it been you or I, the beauty would 
have been the deserter, the average one would have 
stayed with us till all was blue, ourselves included ; 
—not more surely does our slice of bread and but¬ 
ter, when it escapes from our hand, revolve it ever 
so often, alight face downward on the carpet. But 
this was a bit of a fop, Adonis-dragon,—so Venus 
remained in tete-a-tete with him. You have seen a 
dog meet an unknown female of his species ; how 
handsome, how empresse, how expressive he be¬ 
comes ; such was Dolignan after Swindon, and to 
do the dog justice, he got handsomer and hand¬ 
somer. And you have seen a cat conscious of ap¬ 
proaching cream,—such was Miss Haythorn : she 
became demurer and demurer. Presently our cap¬ 
tain looked out of the widow and laughed. This 
elicted an inquiring look frotn Miss Haythorn. 






The Box Tunnel. 


233 


“ We are only a mile from the Box Tunnel.” 

“ Do you always laugh a mile from the Box Tun¬ 
nel ? ” said the lady. 

“ Invariably.” 

“ What for ! ” 

“ Why, hem ! it is a gentleman’s joke.” 

Captain Dolignan then recounted to Miss Hay- 
thorn the following : 

“A lady and her husband sat together going 
through the Box Tunnel,—there was one gentleman 
opposite ; it was pitch dark : after the tunnel the lady 
raid, ‘ George, how absurd of you to salute me go¬ 
ing through the tunnel !’ ‘ I did no such thing.’ 

‘You didn’t?’ ‘No! why?’ ‘Because somehow 
I thought you did ! ’ ” 

Here Captain Dolignan laughed and endeavored 
to lead his companion to laugh, but it was not to 
be done. The train entered the tunnel. 

Miss Hay thorn. Ah ! 

Dolignan. What is the matter ? 

Miss Haythorn. I am frightened. 

Dolignan (moving to her side). Pray do not be . 
alarmed ; I am near you. 

Miss Haythorn. You are near me,—very near 
me, indeed, Captain Dolignan. 

Doligfian. You know my name ! 

Miss Haythorn. I heard you mention it. I wish 
we were out of this dark place. 

Dolignan. I could be content to spend hours here, 
reassuring you, my dear lady. 

Miss Haythorn. Nonsense ! 

Dolignan. Pweep ! (Grave reader, do not put 
your lips to the next pretty creature you meet, or 
you will understand what this means.) 

Miss Haythorn. Ee ! Ee ! 

Friend. What is the matter ? 

Miss Haythorn. Open the door ! Open the door ! 

There was a sound of hurried whispers, the door 
was shut and the blind pulled down with hostile 
sharpness. 

If any critic falls on me for putting inarticulate 
sounds in a dialogue as above, I answer, with all the 
insolence I can command at present, “ Hit boys as 
big as yourself ” ; bigger, perhaps, such as Sopho¬ 
cles, Euripides, and Aristophanes. They began it, 
and I learned it of them, sore against my will. 

Miss Playthorn’s scream lost most of its effect be¬ 
cause the engine whistled forty thousand murders at 
the same moment; and fictitious grief makes itself 
heard when real cannot. 

Between the tunnel and Bath our young friend 
had time to ask himself whether his conduct had 
been marked by that delicate reserve which is sup¬ 
posed to distinguish the perfect gentleman. 

With a long face, real or feigned, he held open 
the door ; his late friends attempted to escape on 
the other side,—impossible ! they must pass him. 
She whom he had insulted (Latin for kissed) depos¬ 
ited somewhere at his feet a look of gentle, blushing 
reproach; the other, •whom he had not insulted, 


darted red-hot daggers at him from her eyes ; and 
so they parted. 

It was, perhaps, fortunate for Dolignan that he 
had the grace to be a friend to Major Hoskyns of 
his regiment, a veteran laughed at by the youngsters, 
for the Major was too apt to look coldly upon 
billiard-balls and cigars ; he had seen cannon-balls 
and linstocks. He had also, to tell the truth, 
swallowed a good bit of the mess-room poker, 
which made it as impossible for Major Hoskyns to 
descend to an ungentlemanlike word or action as to 
brush his own trousers below the knee. 

Captain Dolignan told this gentleman his story in 
gleeful accents; but Major Hoskyns heard him 
coldly, and as coldly answered that he had known 
a man to lose his life for the same thing. 

“That is nothing,”continued the Major, “but un¬ 
fortunately he deserved to lose it.” 

At this, blood mounted to the younger man’s tem¬ 
ples ; and his senior added, “ I mean to say he was 
thirty-five ; you, I presume, are twenty-one ! ” 

“ Twenty-five.” 

“ That is much the same thing ; will you be ad¬ 
vised by me ? ” 

“ If you will advise me.” 

“ Speak to no one of this, and send White the 
^3, that he may think you have lost the bet.” 

“ That is hard, when I won it.” 

“ Do it, for all that, sir.” 

Let the disbelievers in human perfectibility know 
that this dragon capable of a blush did this virtuous 
action, albeit with violent reluctance ; and this was 
his first damper. A week after these events he was 
at a ball. He was in that state of factitious discon¬ 
tent which belongs to us amiable English. He was 
looking in vain for a lady, equal in personal attrac¬ 
tion to the idea he had formed of George Dolignan 
as a man, when suddenly there glided past him a 
most delightful vision ! a lady whose beauty and 
symmetry took him by the eyes,—another look : “ It 
can’t be ! Yes, it, is!” Miss Haythorn! (not that 
he knew her name !) but what an apotheosis ! 

The duck had become a peahen—radiant, dazz¬ 
ling, she looked twice as beautiful and almost twice 
as large as before. He lost sight of her. He found 
her again. She was so lovely she made him ill— 
and he, alone, must not dance with her, speak to 
her. If he had been content to begin her acquaint¬ 
ance the usual way, it might have ended in kissing : 
it must end in nothing. As she danced, sparks of 
beauty fell from her on all around, but him—she did 
not see him ; it was clear she never would see him 
—one gentleman was particularly assiduous ; she 
smiled on his assiduity ; he was ugly, but she smiled 
on him. 

Dolignan was surprised at his success, his ill taste, 
his ugliness, his impertinence. Dolignan at last 
found himself injured ; “Who was this man? and 
what right had he to go on so ? He never kissed 
her, I suppose,” said Dolle. Dolignan could not 




234 


Treasury of Tales . 


prove it, but he felt that somehow the rights of 
property were invaded. He went home and dreamed 
of Miss Haythorn, and hated all the ugly successful. 
He spent a fortnight trying to find out who his beauty 
was,—he never could encounter her again. 

At last he heard of her in this way : A lawyer’s 
clerk paid him a little visit and commenced a little 
action against him in the name of Miss Haythorn 
for insulting her in a railway train. 

The young gentleman was shocked ; endeavored 
to soften the lawyer’s clerk ; that machine did not 
thoroughly comprehend the meaning of the term. 
The lady’s name, however, was at last revealed by 
this untoward incident ; from her name to her ad¬ 
dress was but a short step ; and the same day oifr 
crestfallen hero lay in wait at her door, and many a 
succeeding day, without effect. 

But one fine afternoon she issued forth quite nat¬ 
urally, as if she did it every day, and walked briskly 
on the parade. Dolignan did the same, met and 
passed her many times on the parade, and searched 
for pity in her eyes, but found neither look nor 
recognition, nor any other sentiment ; for all this 
she walked and walked, till all the other promenad- 
ers were tired and gone,—then her culprit summoned 
resolution, and, taking off his hat, with a voice for 
the first time tremulous, besought permission to ad¬ 
dress her. 

She stopped, blushed, and neither acknowledged 
nor disowned his acquaintance. He blushed, stam¬ 
mered out how ashamed he was, how he deserved to 
be punished, how he was punished, how little she 
knew how unhappy he was, and concluded by beg¬ 
ging her not to let all the world know the disgrace 
of a man who was already mortified enough by the 
loss of he acquaintance. She asked an explanation ; 
he told her of the action that had been commenced 
in her name. She gently shrugged her shoulders 
and said, “ How stupid they are ! ” Emboldened 
by this, he begged to know whether or not a life of 
distant unpretending devotion would, after a lapse 
of years, erase the memory of his madness—his 
crime ! 

“ She did not know ! She must now bid him 
adieu, as she had some preparations to make for 
a ball in the Crescent, where everybody was to 
be.” 

They parted, and Dolignan determined to be at the 
ball, where everybody was to be. He was there, and 
after some time he obtained an introduction to Miss 
Haythorn, and he danced with her. Her manner 
was gracious. With the wonderful tact of her sex, 
she seemed to have commenced the acquaintance 
that evening. That night, for the first time, Dolig¬ 
nan was in love. I will spare the reader all a lover’s 
arts, by which he succeeded in dining where she 
dined, in dancing where she danced, in overtaking 
her by accident when she rode. His devotion fol¬ 
lowed her to church, where the dragon was rewarded 
by learning there is a world where they neither polk 


nor smoke,—the two capital abominations of this 
one. 

He made an acquaintance with her uncle, who 
liked him, and he saw at last with joy that her eye 
loved to dwell upon him, when she thought he did 
not observe her. 

It was three months after the Box Tunnel that 
Captain Dolignan called one day upon Captain Hay- 
thorn, R.N., whom he had met twice in his life, and 
slightly propitiated by violently listening to a cutting- 
out expedition ; he called, and in the usual way 
asked permission to pay his addresses to his daughter. 
The worthy Captain straightway began doing quar¬ 
ter-deck, when suddenly he was summoned from the 
apartment by a mysterious message. On his return 
he announced with a total change of voice, that “ It 
was all right, and his visitor might run alongside as 
soon as he chose.” 

My reader has divined the truth ; this nautical 
commander, terrible to the foe, was in complete and 
happy subjugation to his daughter, our heroine. 

As he was taking leave, Dolignan saw his divinity 
glide into the drawing-room. He followed her, ob¬ 
served a sweet consciousness deepen into confusion, 
—she tried to laugh, and cried instead, and then she 
smiled again ; when he kissed her hand at the door 
it was “ George ” and “ Marian ” instead of “ Cap¬ 
tain ” this and “ Miss ” the other. 

A reasonable time after this (for my tale is merci¬ 
ful and skips formalities and torturing delays), these 
two were very happy. They were once more upon 
the railroad, going to enjoy their honeymoon all by 
themselves. Marian Dolignan was dressed just as be¬ 
fore,—duck-like and delicious ; all bright except her 
clothes ; but George sat beside her this time instead 
of opposite ; and she drank him in gently from her 
long eyelashes. 

“ Marian,” said George, “ married people should 
tell each other all. Will you ever forgive me if I 
own to you ; no-” 

“Yes! yes!” 

“Well, then, you remember the Box Tunnel.” 
(This was the first allusion he had ventured to it.) 
“ I am ashamed to say I had ^3 to ^10 with White 
I would kiss one of you two ladies,” and George, 
pathetic externally, chuckled within. 

“ I know that, George ; I overheard you,” was the 
demure reply. 

“ Oh ! you overheard me ! impossible.” 

“And did you not hear me whisper to my com¬ 
panion ? I made a bet with her.” 

“ You made a bet ? how singular ! What was it ? ” 

“ Only a pair of gloves, George.” 

“ Yes, I know ; but what about it ? ” 

“That if you did you should be my husband, 
dearest.” 

“ Oh ! but stay ; then you could not have been so 
very angry with me, love. Why, dearest, then you 
brought that action against me ? ” 

Mrs. Dolignan looked down. 





Denis. 


235 


“ I was afraid you were forgetting me ! George, 
you never will forgive me ? ” 

“ Sweet angel! why here is the Box Tunnel ! ” 
Now, reader,—fie ! no ! no such thing ! you can’t 
expect to be indulged in this way every time we 
come to a dark place. Besides, it is not the thing. 
Consider, two sensible married people. No such 
phenomenon, I assure you, took place. No scream 
in hopeless rivalry of the engine—this time! 


DENIS. 

I. 

HE night is dark, with but few stars shining 
at wide intervals in a blue-black, cloudless 
sky ; and they but dimly serve to define the 
varieties of shadows cast by the great cedar on the 
lawn, the stiff, motionless yew trees rising at regular 
intervals from a prim-clipped hedge, and the bare 
stone house, known as Hawkesley Hall, about which 
they stand sentinel-wise. Of a sudden a window on 
the ground-floor is pushed up, and a little stream of 
light is thrown forth, cutting in two parts the sur¬ 
rounding blackness ; and after a moment’s hesita¬ 
tion a woman’s figure steps forth, and passing be¬ 
yond the stream of light which illumines the hedge 
of yew, proceeds to pace back and forth—a restless 
shadow amongst all these quiet ones. The starlight 
now and then, as she passes from the darkness of the 
cedar-tree to the fainter shadows that lie beyond it, 
gives a glimpse of a pair of white arms and a white 
throat which gleam through the thin black of her 
gown. It is so still, that the sweep of her long 
train over the soft turf is magnified into a decided 
sound in the quiet of the night. 

At length, under the cedar, there is a pause ; the 
two arms are crossed on a low bough, and a white 
face—very white in this faint starlight—is lifted to 
the skies. 

“Yes, I am determined : my mind is quite made 
up. I will tell him everything to-night. I have 
been a coward so far, but I will be one no longer.” 

The voice that broke the stillness was not a girl’s 
voice : one instinctively felt that, notwithstanding 
the evidence of the slender shape dimly outlined 
against the darkness. It was a woman’s voice, pure 
and sweet, but with the richer tones that only life 
with its fuller knowledge can give. It was the 
voice of one who had done more than catch sweet, 
distant visions, or dream tender dreams, of the 
“promised land.” More akin was it to that of one 
who had counted the cost of the journey thither. 

But then grief, instead of happiness, sometimes 
turns the key of life ; and from either guide we 
learn so much that it is often difficult to judge from 
a face or a voice which has been the teacher. 

“ I wish he would come,” the voice sighed, a 
minute later. “ My courage is growing fainter as I 
wait.” 


Even as she spoke another shadow for a second 
eclipsed the stream of light from the open window, 
and a man with hasty feet approached her side. 

“ I was told by Benson that I should find Mrs. 
Jardyne in the garden. But is it wise, darling, to 
be here in the night air with no shawl, and in this 
thin gown ? ” laying a caressing hand upon her 
arm. 

A very different voice this—young and eager, full 
of hope and life. Even in the darkness, had it 
fallen upon your ear, you would have placed its 
owner in a happy category, and sworn that he was 
standing on the verge of life, looking forth over 
wide vistas lit by the light of love and hope. 

“Vin,” the woman said, taking no heed of his 
words, “ I am so glad you have come. I want to tell 
you something.” 

“ Something very serious' it must be. What a 
grave voice ! ” taking her hands in his and leaning 
towards her, the while essaying through the dark¬ 
ness to read the lines of the face before him. And 
then, more lightly : “ Let us hope the words are not 
worthy of the tones in which they are spoken.” 

“ I wish,” she went on, for a moment pressing the 
hands that held hers, “ to speak to you about Mr. 
Jardyne.” 

“Not to-night,” he interrupted. “Let us be 
happy to-night, and forget him. Do not think of 
him” he pleaded gently. “ He has been dead,— 
how many years is it ? I hate ”—with sudden mo¬ 
mentary passion—“ to remember that you have had 
a past in which I have no part or lot. But,” his 
voice falling, and drawing her nearer to him—the 
kindly darkness hiding the pain in his eyes—“ you 
did not love him. You kept that good gift for 
me?” 

“ No, Vin, I did not love him,” rousing herself, 
and her soft voice hardening ; “ and I am sorry to 
speak of a time or a man whose memory I wish, oh, 
I wish, I could blot out of my life. But I must tell 
you something, and after to-morrow-” 

“ After to-morrow you will no longer be his 
widow ; you will be my wife.” 

There was a ring of proud exultation in the glad 
voice, which seemed blown away by the soft low 
sigh that came after it—a sigh that was almost im¬ 
mediately followed by the words that broke abruptly 
in upon it. “ I did not lose him first by death-” 

A pause, a quick, painful breath that told of red¬ 
dening cheeks—and the stillness round seemed all 
hushed, like the young man’s quiet, dark figure, to 
listen to the swift words. 

“ No ; three months after I was married, I woke 
to find that it was not love that had prompted him 
to marry the heiress of Hawkesley ; and sixteen 
weeks later he preferred a life of poverty with the 
woman he did love.” 

Silence, till the last word had died away; and 
then a rustle in the tall boughs overhead, as if they 
had paused to hear the secret, and were now 










Treasury of Tales. 


236 


whispering it abroad ; then a quick movement of 
the man’s silent figure, and his arms were tight 
clasped about the tall black shadow. 

“ My poor darling! ” he whispered tenderly, 
drawing her towards him, till her face was hidden 
against his fast beating heart. “ What grief ! what 
pain ! But it is all over now. From to-day you 
have to forget it all,—it is a dream of long ago. 
With the name, the remembrance will be banished. 
You give me all your love, do you not ? ” 

“ Yes, Vin,” in a low voice, “ it is all yours. I am 
keeping nothing back. Ah,” drawing herself out of 
his encircling arms, and standing very upright, 
“ there is no one in all the wide world for me to 
keep any back for ! Father, mother—both dead. 
A betrayed wife, and now a widow, who is there for 
me to care for, saving you ? ” 

“ That is the past,” he urged, pleadingly. “ The 
future is what you must consider. And did ever 
any one know a fairer prospect ? Young and beau¬ 
tiful, rich,” stretching his arms comprehensively 
forth, “ and to be married to-morrow to one whom 
you love, and who loves you more than any one in 
the wide, wide world.” 

“ And the other side of the picture ? ” 

“ There is no other side.” 

“Ah, Vin, but I cannot help seeing it. You, so 
young and eager, with all the world before you, and 
I with my sad past, my wifehood, my ten years of 
widowhood. It seems cruel to weight your future 
with my past. I should be happier even if I were 
younger than you in years, if not in experience ; but 
I am not. How much older ami?” 

“ I was twenty-one last May.” 

“And I am twenty-eight. Seven years between 
us, and on the wrong side. Oh, Yin, I am frightened ! 
The risk is too great,” in trembling tones. “ I have 
seen so much grief ; let me pass you by, and not 
throw the shadow of my anxious life across yours.” 

“ I will risk it,” he said, quietly. “ My life shall 
now stand between you and your past, so fear nothing. 
Come,” placing a tender, protecting arm about her 
waist, “ let us go in out of this ghostly darkness, and 
you will be braver, and I shall see the sweet eyes 
that I love so well.” 

He drew her gently toward the open window as 
he spoke, and through the bar of light they passed 
into the house together, from the encircling darkness 
that lay without. 

II. 

A cloudless sky overhead, a brilliant morning sun 
lighting up a sleepy world, its searching rays even 
lessening the gloom of the cedar, and of the sombre, 
shadowy yews, and bathing in golden light the tall 
figure of Denis Jardyne, as in a soft, white morning 
gown she sits at a table covered with the wealth of 
a summer garden, arranging with deft fingers bowls 
of many-colored roses. 

In the strong morning light we can see her with 
whose shadow we made acquaintance last night. 


The voice spoke truly ; the shadow of life has swept 
first youth out of the sweet face. But something 
better than mere beauty or mere youth lies in the 
soft, brown eyes, is hid away in the gentle, grave 
mouth. 

The face is too thin for beauty, the figure too thin 
also ; perhaps if we were to make an inventory of 
her charms, some scores of other faults would become 
patent; but by those who knew her—who knew the 
tender sympathy of the brown eyes, the unvarying 
charm of the sweet voice—Denis Jardyne was al¬ 
ways considered beautiful. 

The sun came pouring into the little sitting-room, 
and enriched the glowing colors of the red roses, 
and seemed to bring a faint blush to the delicate 
beauty of the white ones ; and Mrs. Jardyne, lifting 
her head with a little joyful smile, her hands full 
of flowers, murmured as she placed them in a great 
blue bowl, “ Happy is the bride that the sun shines 
on.” 

The opening of the door disturbed her thoughts, 
and she turned her head on seeing old Benson stand¬ 
ing in the doorway. 

“ What is it ? ” she questioned. 

“ There is some one asking to see you, ma’am. I 
have told him as it is most inconvenient; but he 
says he will not detain you many moments, and that 
he particularly wishes to see you.” 

“ What is his name ? ” 

“ He didn’t give it—only said as his business is 
most important, and that he cannot leave a mes¬ 
sage.” 

“ Well, ask him to come in here,” Mrs. Jardyne re¬ 
plied, turning back to her roses. 

A minute later the door was reopened, and a tall, 
middle-aged man entered the room. In a very leis¬ 
urely manner Mrs. Jardyne turned round at the 
sound of the closing door,—that happy smile still 
upon her face, like a reflection of the brilliant sun¬ 
light that illuminated the room,—her slender hands 
full of flowers, to learn what was the stranger’s mes¬ 
sage. 

But as her gaze fell on the tall figure standing 
so motionless, the sombre eyes fixed on hers, of a 
sudden the color fled from cheeks and lips, the 
smile vanished, leaving the face drawn and agon¬ 
ized ; the flowers fell unnoticed to her feet, whilst a 
low, sharp cry escaped her—“ Robert ! ” 

Ah ! it required not his voice to tell her, as she 
looked at the haggard face and miserable eyes, that 
they were those that had looked away her heart 
when she was only seventeen years old. 

She did not speak again, did not utter another 
cry. Her very brain and heart seemed turning into 
stone, as she stood gazing at this ghost of the past, 
that had risen up to kill with its cold finger all her 
beautiful present. 

There she remained white and petrified, all her 
terrified soul gazing out of her eyes—eyes which he 
who stood facing her found it hard to meet. 





Denis. 


237 


It was he, the man, who at length broke the hor¬ 
rible silence, taking a few steps nearer to her as he 
spoke : 

“ I have come,” he said, “ only because it was 
told me that a false report had reached you that I 
was dead. I only learnt,” flushing uneasily, “ about 
you a few days ago, and I have travelled night and 
day since, to let you know the facts of the case.” 

He was standing close beside her now. Appar¬ 
ently his proximity brought back the life to her 
frozen limbs. 

With a shudder, she took a hasty step away from 
him, stretching out her hands as she did so. “ Don’t 
come near me,” she panted. “ I cannot breathe 
when you are near me ! ” 

He took a step away from her, but he answered 
nothing, and his eyes fell before hers. 

“ Do not fear,” he then said bitterly. “ Do you 
think that it is any pleasure to me to come and tell 
you this ? Why, I would ten times rather you had 
been happy in your own way ; but something—con¬ 
science, perhaps—urged me to undeceive you, so here 
I am. Now that I have told you, there is nothing else 
to be said by either of us, so I am going. I meant 
only to spare you future misery, for you surely would 
have discovered the truth some day ; but”—waver- 
ingly, then turned away a gaunt, shabby, stooping 
figure towards the door. 

“Robert,” she called, “forgive me. You did not 
mean to be cruel, I know. But listen,” her voice ris¬ 
ing passionately. “Ten years ago you destroyed 
my youth, burying it forever in a dishonored grave. 
You killed my happiness, my faith, my love—every¬ 
thing I had of value ; and now that after all these 
years I have acquired a fresh store to serve me for the 
coming time you take that away also. Past and fu¬ 
ture, you have robbed me of everything ! ” 

Mr. Jardyne paused when his wife’s voice broke 
the stillness, but he did not turn his head, perhaps 
had not courage sufficient to look at her standing 
amidst her flowers in the brilliant sunshine, with all 
its reflection faded off her face. Perhaps he remem¬ 
bered the expression of the sorrowful brown eyes, 
and feared to meet them. 

But after that moment of irresolution he turned 
back, and without looking at her, “ Denis,” he said, 
“ it is folly to talk of grief for such wrongs as yours. 
This world may never see them righted, and they 
all lie at my door. But you must always remember 
the law is on your side. It lies with yourself alone 
whether you will appeal to it.” 

“ But you know,” she interrupted, “ that I never 
would. Years ago I decided that such sorrow as 
mine could not be righted in such fashion. And I 
do not waver now.” 

He did not answer her words, but after a moment, 
“ Denis,” he went on, “you need not despair. You 
are yet young. Life has gone very hard with me,” 
a painful red dyeing his cheeks. “ I do not look like 
one who will live forever.” 


“ Ah, Robert,” she cried, her voice breaking, “ I 
am not hard enough, or cruel enough, to care for 
happiness won in such a fashion ! What have I 
said,” her voice softening, “that could make you 
think so ? ” And as she took in the shabbiness of 
his attire, the thin hollows in his cheeks, and the 
dark circles round his eyes, “ Surely the past has 
some hold on you, or you would not have come here 
to-day ; for I know, Robert—I know you only meant 
kindly toward me, though you have broken my 
heart. And surely, also, it has some hold on me, for 
it pains me to see you looking thus miserable.” 

He did not answer her, but took a few steps to¬ 
ward the door, and there once more paused. 

“ It is cowardly, I suppose,” he then said abruptly, 
“ to wish one’s self dead, but that is what I wish to¬ 
day. Life clings so persistently to those to whom it 
is worthless.” 

Another moment’s silence, then a faint flush dye¬ 
ing her white cheeks. 

“ Where is she ? ” Denis asked quickly. 

“ Ah, dead ! ” he cried, a ring of anguish in his 
voice. 

The softness fled away from the brown eyes, the 
voice grew hard and cold. “ You took your choice,” 
she said. “ You took your happiness at the expense 
of mine ; and now, now when, after long years of 
misery, I have love offered me once more, it is to you 
again I owe its loss. Oh,” with sudden vehemence, 
clasping her hands together, “ go, I pray of you ! It 
is all I ask of you, all you can do for me—never to 
let me see your face again ! ” 

With the last word she sank down on the chair, 
burying her face in her arms, thrown despairingly 
among the crushed roses, and Robert Jardyne paused 
one moment on the threshold to look at her. 

He noticed the prone head, the summer sunbeams 
turning to gold the brown soft hair ; the despairing 
figure of the woman in the white gown, with the red 
and yellow roses at her feet, where they had dropped 
from her careless hands ; the profusion of blossoms 
all about her, the blue bowls, the summer sunlight 
flooding the whole room with its clear gold ; and 
beyond, the dark green of the yews, standing stiff 
and solemn. . 

It was a picture imprinted on his brain to haunt 
him to the last hour of his life. 

With his hand on the lock he half turned towards 
her. “You shall learn,” he said slowly, “the first 
moment that you are free. Good-bye.” 

There was no answering word—no sign even that 
she had heard—and, without another syllable, he 
turned the handle, and she was left alone. 

Outside, in the fresh morning air, Vincent Halli- 
well was making his way as swiftly as young happy 
feet would carry him, whistling snatches of songs as 
he walked. 

Strong and agile, every movement full of life and 
hope, without a line on the open brow to tell of the 
twenty-one years that had passed over the fair 





Treasury of Tales. 


238 


young head, he found himself at the entrance to 
Hawkesley, standing face to face with a tall, stooping 
stranger, who was issuing forth—a shabby, dark 
figure—into the brilliant sunlight. 

There was a moment’s almost involuntary pause, 
and then, not meeting the glad young eyes turned 
on his, “ Mr. Halliwell ? ” said the stranger interrog¬ 
atively. 

“ You wish to see me?” the quick, boyish tones 
questioned. 

And on receiving a reply in the affirmative, the 
two turned away together in the direction of the lawn 
and its overshadowing cedar, the impatient eager 
steps of Vincent Halliwell striving to keep pace 
with the slow feet of his companion. 

Fully two hours later the door of the sitting-room 
was slowly opened, and Vincent Halliwell, standing 
on the threshold, saw, as Robert Jardyne had done, 
the white figure in the flame of sunlight. 

But the brilliancy all around seemed to mock at 
the despairing, drooped head, at the fading roses ; 
and noting all this, it was with a cry of pain that he 
flung himself on his knees beside her, kissing the 
white gown and slender hands. 

“ Ah, my darling, do not despair ! Lift your head 
and speak to me.” 

And as she did not move, “ Look at me ! ” he 
cried vehemently. “ Do you think that I am going 
to give you up ? Why, if every obstacle earth con¬ 
tains lay between us, my love would eventually con¬ 
quer, and I should win you.” 

She raised her head then, but it was only to say, 
unheeding of his tender, eager words, “ Why have 
you come ? Oh,” clasping her hands, “ I cannot 
bear it ! I cannot. Life is too hard—always has 
been too hard—for me. But,” her voice sinking, 
“ I am conquered now. I have no courage left.” 

“ No, no, Denis, you are too brave a woman for 
that,” rising and pacing the room. “ It is but a little 
more you will have to bear, and then you will be 
mine to protect. For you love me,” pausing, and 
placing two strong hands on her shoulders. “ Yes,” 
looking into the miserable, upraised eyes, “ true as 
truth. Whatever else may change, your love never 
will. It is mine forever.” 

“ Forever, Vin, forever,” passionately, lifting her 
hands imploringly, and then a faint color burning 
into her cheeks. “ But love will not set things 
straight ; love will not help us to say good-bye. 
The courage I have been gathering so hardly these 
last two hours is all departing. Do not try it too 
far. For old times’ sake,” taking his hand in her 
two slender, burning ones,—“ for old times’ sake, 
kiss me once, and wish me well ; and then go—pass 
out of my life forever.” 

“ Denis ! ” he cried hoarsely, of a sudden seeming 
to grasp the meaning of her words, to note the an¬ 
guish of her eyes,—“ you do not know what you are 
saying. Leave you ? Bid you farewell forever ? 
It is impossible. No ; hear me—you shall hear me,” 


as she would have stayed his words, obliging her as 
he spoke to sit down, and flinging himself on his 
knees by her side, whence he could look up into the 
shadowy brown eyes. “You are a woman—a ten¬ 
der, loving woman—but that is all. You cannot 
judge for me. I am a man. No,” tightening his 
hold on the hand he held, “ there is no use saying 
you are older than I. Yesterday, perhaps, I was a 
boy, and you a woman ; but to-day I am ten years, 
older ! ” 

“ Ah, poor Vin ! ” she said, quickly, for a moment, 
laying her slight hand on the fair head. 

But she added nothing further, did not strive to 
check him, as his cheeks flushing, his words coming 
faster in his excitement, he told her that the law was 
her only remedy. That the bar of the law once 
placed between her and the man who had ruined 
her happiness, her life would be her own, to do what 
she would with. 

“ In the meantime,” he went on, “ I will wait. I 
will go abroad, never see you—it will only be for a 
year—it is not so very long, for we can trust each 
other ; and oh, my love,” his voice failing him, “ you 
are well worth waiting for ! ” 

She heard him in perfect silence—not one inter¬ 
ruption did she offer ; but there was something more 
chilling, more hopeless, in the stillness and gravity, 
than there would have been in the most outspoken 
condemnation. 

And so Vincent Halliwell felt, though even to 
himself he would not acknowledge it. 

He knew what the quiet voice was going to say, 
even before the low tones fell on his ear. 

“ No, Vin, I could not. You know it, even whilst 
you are saying it. Do you not ? ” tenderly, as he 
made no reply. “ No lav/ can undo the past. It can 
give me freedom,” as he would have interrupted, 
“ but that I have. He has promised never to return. 
And if he keeps his word, I ask nothing more from 
life. So much hold my past has upon me, that I 
could not bear to have his name —my name,” a little 
bitterly—“ dragged through the mire. And as for 
the rest, well, I must let it go.” 

“ But you shall not,” he cried, impetuously. “ If 
you have no thought for yourself,—if,” passionately, 
“ you do not care for yourself, all the same you must 
think of me. I,” his voice faltering, “ cannot let it 
go.” 

“ And do you think it costs me nothing to say so ? 
I speak calmly, because when two hours ago that 
door opened, and I saw him standing on the thresh¬ 
old, then I died. Then all happy things were in a 
second of time swept out of my life, and I suffered 
all I could suffer. Ah, poor Vin, poor Vin ! ” her 
calmness of a sudden leaving her, and the tears fill¬ 
ing her eyes, “ how can I bear it ! Something al¬ 
ways told me I was not fated to enjoy such happi¬ 
ness.” 

But even yet Vincent Halliwell could not believe 
her, could not comprehend that his will would not 




Denis. 


239 


eventually conquer hers, more especially as her love 
was fighting on his side ; but his passion and elo¬ 
quence were alike unavailing ; she could only im¬ 
plore of him to leave her, to shorten these bitter 
moments, leaving her forever the memory of his 
love, on which her heart would live. 

“ If,” her voice faltering, “ they should never 
meet again.” 

The agony of her voice and eyes touched him, 
and he stood silent before her, noting as in a dream 
the soft brown of the hair, the sweet, tearful eyes— 
which strove not to meet his—and the other beauties 
of the slender white-robed figure, which only that 
morning he had thought would so soon pass into 
his keeping forever. 

And with that thought, with the remembrance 
that he was giving it all up—or rather that it had of 
a sudden passed beyond his grasp—he flung himself 
on his knees, and with his face hidden in the slen¬ 
der hands on her lap, he burst into tears. She felt 
those burning tears, with what a pang, who can say ? 
but no word escaped her ; though presently, as he 
did not move, she with her left hand, on which an 
opal ring—his ring—shimmered, gently smoothed 
his ruffled fair curls with a tender and caressing 
movement. 

At length—“You have conquered,” he said, not 
looking up. “ When you speak to me, and pray of me 
to go, I can do nothing but obey you, though it is to 
my own misery—and I believe to yours. But,” rais¬ 
ing his head, “ should you ever repent, you swear you 
will let me know ? Denis,” passionately, taking her 
hand in his, “ swear to me that the very moment you 
learn you are free, you will send for me. Be it 
to-morrow, or twenty years hence—let me be in 
England, or hundreds of miles away—write but the 
one word ‘ Come,’ and as swiftly as I can be by your 
side, so swiftly may you count upon me.” 

“ I swear it, Vin,” she answered low, her hand in 
his. “ And if you do not come, I will forgive you ; 
and if you do—ah ! ” breaking off : “ say good-bye, 
I cannot bear it! ” 

“ It is only at your bidding that I say it at all,” 
he cried. “Unsay your words even now. Con¬ 
sider, for my sake, for your own sake-” 

But she only shook her head impatiently, her lips 
growing white the while. And his young eagerness 
seemed destroyed by the chilling hopelessness of 
her looks. He said nothing, but with a sudden 
movement he took her in his arms and kissed the 
white lips and cheeks with such passion that she 
shrank away terrified. 

“ That is my good-bye,” he said, hoarsely. 
“ Good-bye, my love, my promised wife ; we are 
young, we can afford to wait. I will live on the 
thought of that.” 

At the door he paused irresolutely, then returned 
once more to her side. 

“ Say something to me,” he said, “something to 
comfort me.” 


She half stretched out her hands as the miserable 
words fell on her ear, but then, as if remembering all 
that lay between them, elapsed them tightly together. 

“What can I say, Yin?” she began. “It seems 
to me I have spoilt your life for you. What can I 
pray for you ? I think, dear, the kindest prayer I 
can pray is, that God will be very good to you, and 
teach you to forget.” And as he would have inter¬ 
rupted : “ No, Vin, I do not mean anything unkind, 
though just now, perhaps, it may sound so ; but life 
is not given us just to lament in. And you are so 
young and strong, and have so much to do with your 
life, that you will be brave, will you not ? ” 

“ Thank you, Denis,” lifting her hand to his lips. 

“ For your sake I will be brave, and—I will wait: ” 
and so turned away through the rays of sunlight into 
the cold world which for him lay beyond the reach 
of Denis Jardyne’s smiles. 

III. 

In the brightest, happiest life, ten years make 
many changes ; the point of view is altered, the line 
of hopes and fears gets shifted. 

To whom is it given to look back ten years, and 
say, “ Those whom I loved then, to them do my 
thoughts turn to-day : as they were first then, so are 
they first to-day ? ” 

But to Denis Jardyne, as she paced up and down 
a pretty London drawing-room, no such thoughts 
came, no such comparisons of to-day and yesterday. 
For was not this the tenth anniversary of that wed¬ 
ding-day that had risen fair and cloudless as to-day 
had done ; and had she not now in her possession a 
small note, which told her how a troubled heart bad 
wrought out its ordained task, and at length slept 
calmly—forgotten alike its sin and sorrow—by the 
blue Mediterranean waves ? 

“ So that now,” lifting tender dark eyes and smil¬ 
ing softly, in such a fashion as to make one forget 
she was no longer young and girlish—“ now he may 
come back. Even,” with a sad little smile, “ if he 
no longer wishes anything else, at least I may see 
him. Ah, Vin,” clasping her hands together, “just 
to hear your voice once more ! ” 

It was a perfect summer day, a day best enjoyed 
in thorough idleness—and in such fashion Denis 
Jardyne toyed with each summer hour. 

The little note, hidden away on her heart, seemed 
to carry soothing in its touch, and through the 
morning hours she strove, though ineffectually, to 
take up one employment after another. And at last, 
owning herself beaten, she gave orders that no one 
should be admitted ; and settling herself comfort¬ 
ably in an easy-chair in the pretty little boudoir, 
from which every ray of sunlight had been carefully 
excluded, she gave herself up to idle thought. 

“ Four o’clock,” glancing toward the mantel-shelf. 
“ I have two hours to think in, and in which to write 
my letter,” a little flush of red stealing into her 
cheeks. “ What shall I say ? ” 








240 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Five o’clock ! ” as the silvery chime broke the 
silence again. “ What a short hour it has been ! 
Now,” rising to her feet, “ I must write.” 

She moved slowly to the table, and drew pen and 
paper towards her. But even with the pen in her 
hand and the paper before her, it was a long, long 
time before the letter was written, though the words 
were few that it contained. 

“ Come, dear Vin, wherever you may be, and let 
me see you once more. If you are happy, still let 
me see you, and know it, and rejoice to know it. If 
you are unhappy, come and let me comfort you, if 
I still have the power.” Then the signature, “ Denis 
Jardyne,” and the date ; ten years since she first 
thought of writing this letter, and the thought sent 
a momentary chill to her heart. But she folded it 
up and sealed the envelope, addressed to the care 
of his lawyer—the only address he had left when 
he bade her farewell so long ago—for the first time 
making use of it, since that morning of her first 
despair. Then as she sat watching it and in fancy 
following it on the journey : how far would it have 
to go ere finding him ? how long would it be ere she 
held his answer in her hand ?—there came a knock 
at the door, and the warning voice of her maid, bid¬ 
ding her remember she was dining out, and that it 
was growing late. With the letter still in her hand 
she went up-stairs. 

“ I will post it to-night,” she thought, laying it on 
the table. “ But no,” a sudden idea striking her, “ I 
will go to the lawyer myself with it to-morrow, and 
learn where he is, and how long it will be before I 
can hear from him.” And the thought sent a flame 
of color into her cheeks, that for a moment seemed 
to restore to her her lost youth. 

When she was ready she dismissed her maid, and 
cautiously locking the door crept candle in hand to 
a large mirror, and looked long and earnestly at her¬ 
self, blushing the while at the unaccustomed vanity 
of her action. 

She leant so close to the glass that every line un¬ 
der the dark eyes and about the sweet mouth, every 
gray thread in the brown hair, were distinctly visible. 
And after a moment, “ Ah ! ” she exclaimed impa¬ 
tiently, turning away, “ why do I look ? Do I not 
know that I have grown old ? that all the beauty I 
once had has vanished away ? Why do I remind my¬ 
self of it ? Why does my heart keep young ? It is 
out of keeping with myself ! ” 

She unlocked the door, and went down-stairs calm 
and grave, the shadowy smile that had haunted her 
all day quite swept away. 

Later on that same evening in Lady Andrewes’s 
rooms in Berkeley Street a pleasant party was as¬ 
sembled ; but that was scarcely strange, for Lady 
Andrewes had a happy knack of getting the right 
people together ; and on this hot July evening they 
seemed to enjoy themselves in all varieties of fashion, 
from the charmed audience gathered round the piano 
in one room, to those listening to the lightest gossip 


of the hour, and its attendant flirtation, about the 
wide-open windows that looked into the silent night. 

“ How beautifully Mrs. Jardyne plays ! ” some one 
remarked ; and there was a pause in the low hum of 
conversation, to listen to one of Mendelssohn’s ten¬ 
der, wordless songs : music that seemed to come 
from Denis’s heart, and that, as she played, seemed 
to herself and others stamped with her own sad 
individuality. 

“ Who did you say was playing ? ” a quick voice 
asked—the voice of a man who had been standing 
for a few minutes behind the player ; and as he put 
his question he leaned forward to try and gain a 
glimpse of the musician’s face. 

Before the question received an answer there was 
a jarring discord that killed the sweet sounds, and 
Mrs. Jardyne rose to her feet, with a gasp as if for 
breath. 

But in a moment, with a word of apology for the 
mistake she had made, she was quiet and grave as 
ever, and she walked the whole length of the room 
on the arm Of the man who had been standing by 
her side ere she paused and turned her eyes back 
in the direction whence she had come. 

What she saw, when she did so, was a bearded, 
bronzed man, with the eager blue eyes she had 
thought of so often, and seen in so many a weary vigil; 
eyes that matched so well the young, confident voice. 
And by his side stood a‘slender, brown-eyed girl, 
in sheeny white satin ; strings of pearls in the soft 
brown hair, and on the round arms, and about the 
fair throat: a picture, indeed, of all that was most 
gentle and lovable in womankind ; a picture that in 
some faint intangible fashion brought back to Denis 
Jardyne her own girlhood, and what she herself had 
been before life had dealt so roughly with her. 

“Who,”—was it her own voice she heard, that 
sounded so misty and far off ? “ who is that girl by 
the piano, Mr. Lewis, do you know ? ” 

“That is Mrs. Halliwell,—Vin Halliwell’s wife, 
you know. He is just home from India, or some far- 
off spot, where he has been wandering for years and 
years. But his wandering has stood him in good 
stead. She is lovely, is she not ? ” 

“ Lovely,” the far-off voice whispered. “ I used to 
know him—I should like to speak to him, I think.” 

So, leaning on Mr. Lewis’s arm, she made her way 
towards the far end of the room. 

“ Halliwell,”—Mr. Lewis touched his arm, and then 
Denis’s voice interposed: “I am Mrs. Jardyne. I 
saw you here, and am come to ask you to introduce 
me to your wife.” 

At her voice a shadow of pain crept into the frank 
blue eyes. Not pain itself, but the faintest, far-off 
shadow of it, as on a happy, sunny day, some casual 
occurrence may bring to our mind some poignant 
sorrow once experienced, over which the waves of 
time have washed since, till the very memory of it is 
dulled : and then, “ Denis ! ” he exclaimed, and for a 
moment looked at her, as if striving to see a vanished 






A Fight for a Wife. 


241 


dream in the tall, black-robed figure before him, in 
the still, grave face,—there was no shadowy smile 
about the mouth now,—in the careworn eyes, in the 
many gray hairs time had sown in the smooth brown 
locks. 

He added nothing to his exclamation, but intro¬ 
duced his sweet, shy wife, and watched with all a 
lover’s pride the glance of admiration Denis gave 
towards the girlish face ; and when Mrs. Halliwell 
turned away, he followed her graceful figure with his 
eyes for half a moment before he turned back to his 
companion. 

“ She is lovely,” Denis said softly. 

“ I am so glad you think so.” 

The quick, boyish voice, scarcely aged at all, just 
as she had remembered it all these years. 

And then more slowly, after a pause : “ When first 
1 saw her she reminded me of you. I think that was 
what first drew me towards her.” 

That was all. The past, except for a certain in¬ 
tangible halo, was cut away from behind him. He 
was not careless, he had scarcely indeed forgotten, 
but it was past. 

He had loved this woman once,—this woman, on 
whom every hour of these ten years had set its dis¬ 
tinctive mark. A great tragedy had divided their 
lives ; they had gone their several ways, and after 
some trouble and heartbreak he had lived it down. 

Her own wish had been granted. “ God had been 
good to him ; he had forgotten.” 

Forgotten so completely that he never even ob¬ 
served that on the slim, ungloved hand that hung by 
her side, still shimmered his opal ring. That night, 
with slow, weary steps, Denis Jardyne mounted the 
stairs to her own room. 

She sent away her maid : “ She would rather be 
alone,” she said : and then she walked over to the 
table, and took up the letter that had cost her so 
much trouble to write. 

She did not open it,—she read the address once 
over, and then she held it in the flame of the candle 
till a small brown heap of ashes was all that remained 
of it; and so, in the darkness and solitude of the 
night, bade farewell to the one romance of her life. 


A FIGHT FOF( A WIFE. 

BY WILLIAM BLACK. 

I.—THE MEETING. 

HE scene of this deadly encounter was 
neither gloomy nor romantic; it was fair 
and pastoral ; and the time was May ; and 
all the sweet influences of the spring-time were 
shedding a soft, idyllic sweetness over our English 
dales. We had with us at this time a young Ameri¬ 
can lady who was on her first visit to the country ; 
and one evening, when various plans were being 


proposed for her amusement and edification, one of 
us said to her : 

“ Now, wouldn’t you rather get away from Lon¬ 
don, and go straight down into one of our quiet 
valleys, and see a real old English town that has 
been slumbering there for many centuries, and is 
likely to sleep for as many more ? You will see a 
strange old place, with quaint houses of red and 
white, and here and there a garden between the 
gables. Then you will go down to the side of a 
broad and smooth river, flowing by under some 
beautiful woods. You will live in an old-fashioned inn 
—called the ‘ Complete Angler ’—and just outside 
your window you will see the smooth blue river 
break white over a long weir ; and you will see the 
trees and lawn and veranda of the miller’s house on 
the other side ; and beyond that again the soft low 
hills and hanging woods of one of our English coun¬ 
ties.” 

Our young friend was much pleased with the 
notion, but hesitated. Of course, she said, this 
quiet and beautiful place must be far away and dif¬ 
ficult to reach. When she was told that it was some¬ 
thing less than fifty miles from London, she at once 
agreed to go ; and hence it was that the desperate 
conflict which I have to describe took place in one 
of the most peaceful nooks of Berkshire, at a time 
of the year when the human bosom should have 
been full, not of angry passions, but of the singing 
of nightingales. 

For this was the secret of it—two men had over¬ 
heard this proposal; and each of them had inwardly 
resolved to outwit the other by immediately tele¬ 
graphing to the “ Complete Angler ” for rooms, so 
that he should be installed there when this young 
lady and ourselves, her guardians for the time, 
should arrive. 

One of them was a slender young gentleman, fair¬ 
haired, large-eyed, and rather petulant in manner, 
who had just made some stir in literary circles by 
the publication of a volume of metaphysical verse. 
The other was considerably his elder, inclined to be 
stout, comely of face, and made welcome among us 
chiefly by a sort of sly good humor which sometimes 
led him into saying good things, but in any case and 
at all times seemed to make him very well contented 
with himself. 

This Mr. Humphreys was understood by some to 
be in a Government office ; but no one could ever 
precisely say what it was, and his duties certainly 
never interfered with his pleasures. His rival, who 
had the privilege of being styled by the Court news¬ 
man the Hon. Philip Sturmere Maurice, was the 
youngest son of an impecunious nobleman, and was 
believed to be waiting for some colonial appoint¬ 
ment. 

Now, these two men, from the moment that our 
pretty Amy Newton came among us, began to pay 
her a series of more or less occult attentions, all in 
a friendly sort of way, of course, and generally 








242 


Treasury of Tales . 


through the small and gentle lady who was her 
hostess. By this means they could present her with 
boxes for the opera, they could lend her new books, 
they could even offer to escort herself and her two 
companions to an exhibition of pictures. All this 
was smooth sailing. Little did we perceive in it the 
elements of a tragedy. The young lady accepted 
these marks of friendliness with a sweet impartiality : 
doubtless they were merely little acts of courtesy 
extended to a stranger from a distant land. 

And of the young American lady herself ? 

Well, she was neither very wise nor very learned ; 
but she was exceedingly pretty, and she had a curi¬ 
ously winning and fascinating manner that drew 
women as well as men toward her. Perhaps it was 
the softness of her voice ; perhaps it was a kind of 
piteous look in her dark gray eyes ; but anyhow, 
people liked to get near her, and when they got 
near her they got interested in her, and when they 
got interested in her they immediately went and 
asked everybody else what was her story. 

No one present knew. It was supposed to be 
rather a painful affair. Had she not been engaged 
to be married to a young man who was drowned 
within sight of shore, Paul and Virginia fashion ?— 
but in any case she always referred to it in a vague 
way, and apparently wished to keep her sorrow a 
secret. For the rest, Miss Amy was rather tall and 
pale ; she wore a good many rings, and when she 
travelled she displayed to the other inhabitants of 
the railway-carriage a bag filled with all sorts of 
curiosities in the way of scents and other toilet 
requisites. One might have laughed at the fashion 
in which she played with these ; only she was so 
pretty and child-like one had not the heart to laugh 
at her. She seemed only to pet herself because 
everybody else petted her. 

We drove to Paddington Station. There was a 
young man there, looking furtively up and down 
the platform. He came to us and said, with an 
amount of confusion in his face tnat seemed to 
make him a trifle sulky : 

“ Oh, you are going into the country ? Really ! 
What beautiful weather ! I took it suddenly into 
my head to run down to see Marlow—it must be 
looking so pretty just now.” 

Miss Newton said nothing at all, though she 
seemed surprised ; but the small lady beside her— 
who manages all such things with an infinite tact 
and discretion—smiled demurely, and remarked : 

“What an odd coincidence! We are going to 
Marlow also. We shall make quite a little party— 
how very nice ! ” 

When once the awkwardness of the meeting was 
over, Mr. Maurice was apparently highly delighted 
with his good fortune ; and he did his best all the 
way down to make himself an agreeable companion, 
taking care to address himself mostly to the elder 
lady. You would have fancied that he meant to 
leave to me all the talk with our pretty young Miss 


Amy ; those young men are so transparently cun¬ 
ning. 

Well, we got down at length to the small country 
station, and here there was a humble carriage in 
waiting to drive us to the river-side. We passed 
along through the sweet-smelling fields. We drove 
through the quaint little town, which was all shining 
now in the warm light of the evening sun. We 
passed the church and got down to the bridge, and 
there before us, on the other side of the stream, 
stood the old-fashioned inn of red brick amidst its 
trim plots of flowers and shrubs. “ Did you ever 
see anything more beautiful ? ” Queen Tita says. 
And, indeed, it would be difficult to compose a 
prettier picture than we beheld at this moment—the 
solitary, quaint, red, old building by the side of the 
river, the smooth water reflecting the drooping trees, 
the white line of the weir, and behind all these some 
rich meadows leading over to a low rampart of hills, 
the thick woods on which were burning red in the 
sunset. 

It was, in truth, a peaceful spot, and we drove 
over the bridge, and round and down to the inn, 
with something of a notion that here, for a space, 
we should shut out all the cares and stormy passions 
of the world, and dream ourselves back into a con¬ 
dition of primeval peace and innocence. We got 
down from the carriage. The solitary waiter was at 
the door to receive us. We hoped that we should 
be the only occupants of the famous old hostelry. 

Just at this moment the face of the young gentle¬ 
man who had come with us was observed to change 
color, and a most unchristian gleam of anger shot 
from his eyes. Who was this blithe and buxom 
person who, dressed in a fishing-costume of gray, 
came gayly along the passage, and seemed over¬ 
whelmed with amazement and joy at seeing us ? 

. “ What ? ” said he, “ can it be possible ? Bless^ 
my soul, now ! What a fortunate thing ! But who 
could have dreamed of meeting you here, of all 
places in this sinful but delightful world ? ” 

Who, indeed ? It has been the lot of the present 
writer to have been present at dramatic performances 
in the capitals of various countries, but he has never 
witnessed a more beautiful piece of acting than that 
which was performed by a stout and middle-aged 
gentleman on the threshold of an inn in Berkshire. 
We were very nearly imposed on. For the moment 
it almost seemed real. But then our common sense 
came to the rescue : and we knew that this sly old 
dog had quietly slipped down here and taken up his 
quarters in anticipation of our coming, while the 
most we could hope for was that the green and 
fertile plains of Berkshire might not be stained with 
blood before the week was out. 

II.— THREATS. 

They behaved themselves pretty well at dinner. 
We dined together in the coffee-room—a queer, low- 
roofed old place, with an abundance of windows 







A Fight for a IVife. 


243 


looking out on the river, and with colored pictures 
of the Thames hung round the walls. The only 
other occupant of the room was an austere and 
elderly maiden lady, dining all by herself, of whom 
Mr. Humphreys rather cruelly remarked that, con¬ 
sidering the number of leap-years she must have 
seen, it was curious she had not taken advantage of 
any one of them. On this Mr. Maurice rather in¬ 
dignantly retorted that there were certain spectacles 
which deserved sympathy rather than ridicule ; and 
we all agreed with that sentiment. The incident 
passed by. No bones were broken. 

After dinner we went outside. There was still 
some warm color in the sky, and the smooth river 
caught a faint glow as it stole away under the dark 
green trees. The woods were quiet now ; in the 
twilight there was no sound but the soft rushing of 
the water over the weir ; one began to wish that 
these young people might sing in the gathering 
darkness, down here by the side of the rushes. 
They were thinking of other things. 

“Of course, Miss Newton,” says the taller and 
younger of the two gentlemen, “ you will go for an 
excursion on the river to-morrow ? The fact is, a 
man I know has put a little toy steamer at my dis¬ 
posal—it is down at Cookham just now—I could 
have it up here for you at any hour you choose.” 

“ A steamer ? ” says our young American friend ; 
“ what a shame it would be to bring a steamer into 
this quiet place ! ” 

The barometer of the young man’s face falls 
ten degrees ; that of his rival jumps up a hundred. 

“ And that isn’t the worst of it,” says Mr. Hum¬ 
phreys, eagerly. “ Oh, no ! not at all. The joys of 
a trip in a small river steamer are most multifarious. 
First you run aground. Then your waves upset a 
skiff, and the two men in it make use of the most 
awful language. Then you take off somebody’s 
outrigger. And so on, and so on, until you wish 
you had never been born ; and, indeed, when you go 
ashore, your own mother wouldn’t believe you ever 
had been, for your identity is completely lost and 
smothered up in the coal-dust that has been 
showered on you. No, no, Miss Newton, don’t you 

be a-I mean, don’t you go in a river steamer. 

Now, if you really want to enjoy the river, I’ll show 
you how. We shall get a big flat punt and moor it 
out below the weir, and we shall have luncheon on 
board, and a box of water-colors. If you like to sit 
and read, well. If you like to>spin for trout, you 
can have my line. If you want to sketch, you have 
all the scenery about you. Now, that is how you 
ought to spend a nice, idling, enjoyable day on the 
Thames.” 

Mr. Humphreys was quite pleased with this burst 
of oratory. “Do you like the picture?” he might 
have asked, in the words of the romantic Claude 
Melnotte. And she did like the picture. She said 
it was charming. She hoped we should have that 
boat. 


“And the water-colors?” said Mr. Maurice, with 
something of a sneer. “ Where do you propose to 
get them about here ?” 

“ I brought them with me,” replied his rival, with 
a certain majestic calm. 

“Oh, do you paint, Mr. Humphreys?” Miss Amy 
said, directly. 

“ No, Miss Newton, I don’t. But I knew that you 
did, and so I brought the colors.” 

It was not for a second or two that any of us 
observed how this unblushing person had tripped. 
He had brought colors for her. But had he not 
vowed and sworn that he was never so surprised in 
his life as when he saw that carriage drive up to the 
door of the “ Complete Angler?” 

“ Perhaps you brought with you the trout for 
which Miss Newton is to fish?’’said the younger 
man, with a ghastly grin on his face. 

“ Oh, dear, no. There are good trout about 
here.” 

“ Never saw any.” 

“ Perhaps not—not at the end of your own line, 
anyway. But if you will take the trouble to look 
through Land and Water for April, 1873, you will 
find a description of a trout taken here which turned 
the scale at six pounds—there ! ” 

“ And the happy fisherman ? ” 

“Was your humble servant.” 

Now whether this was true or not, no one could 
say, for files of Land and Water are not as com¬ 
mon in the country as buttercups. The bold asser¬ 
tion, however, scored one for Mr. Humphreys, and 
pretty nearly put the finishing touch to his rival’s 
resentment and chagrin. We began to wonder 
when these two would rush at each other. 

“ Now young people,” said the lady who looks 
after us all, “ don’t keep lounging about the river¬ 
side, or you will get chilled. You must all go off 
for a short walk before bed-time, all except myself. 
I am going in-doors to unpack.” 

In one moment the young man had darted for¬ 
ward. He would show Miss Newton the shortest 
way round to the road. Was it not a delightful 
evening for a stroll ?—and how differently situated 
was one in the country ! 

Humphreys and I walked after these two, and 
our light-hearted friend was most uncommonly 
morose. Sometimes he whistled ; but that form of 
gayety sounded strangely in the silence of the even¬ 
ing. He had his eyes fixed on the two figures 
before him, and kept pretty close upon them. 

So very still and calm was the evening that we 
could not but overhear what Miss Amy and her 
companion were talking about. Perhaps the silence 
and the strange twilight over the woods had some¬ 
what impressed them ; but, at all events, they were 
speaking in rather a sad way of the occurrences of 
life, and of the fashion in which hopes sprang up 
only to be destroyed by a ruthless fate, and of the 
sympathy that was so valuable in healing these 






244 


Treasury of Tales. 


wounds, and that was so rarely to be met with. 
Young Maurice had a gentle and pleasant voice ; 
he was talking in an under-tone ; these two, as they 
walked together along the quiet country road, 
looked very like lovers. 

My companion whistled another bar of “ The 
Minstrel Boy,” and then began to yawn. 

“ I think I shall go back, and have a cigar before 
going to bed,” said he. 

“ Yen- well,” said I. 

“ But you don’t mean to leave those two walking 
on by themselves ? ” said he, sharply. “ Why, that 
long-legged idiot would go stalking on to the crack 
of doom—till he tumbled over the edge of the 
universe. Call him back. Does he want to drag 
the girl to the shores of the German Ocean ? ” 

I called them ; they turned and met us; and 
there was for a moment a little confusion. Mr. 
Humphreys was equal to the occasion. He imme¬ 
diately said to her, “ Oh, Miss Newton, I want to 
tell you what you must do about to-morrow,” and 
then, before the poor girl knew where she was, he 
had walked her off, and deposited the wrathful and 
fuming Maurice with me. It was a pleasant walk 
back to the inn, one’s companion being a young 
man whose chief desire was to dispatch somebody 
or other on a voyage to another world. 

“ Now,” said the genial Mr. Humphreys to me 
that night, when he had lighted his second cigar 
and mixed his parting glass, “ now that that spindle- 
shanked giraffe has gone to bed, I will tell you all 
that happened as we came back this evening. By 
Jove, what a sweet and engaging creature that girl 
is : what a fine thing it would be to have to take 
her about always—to picture exhibitions, you know, 
where your friends were—to dinner parties, drums, 
and all that; and then, when you were ‘ tired, to 
take a run down to this quiet little spot and have a 
good time all by yourselves. She is a little taller 
than I am, to be sure-” 

“ I thought you were going to tell me a story.” 

“ Ah, yes. Well, no sooner had we started to 
walk home than I found that that milk-faced wisp 
of straw had been making the girl wretched by 
talking of troubles and misfortune and the sympathy 
of unhappy people with each other. Now, you 
know, that ain’t my line ; and I didn’t see the fun 
of it; and says I to myself, ‘ Just let’s see what this 
girl is really unhappy about! ’ You know, not one 
of you would tell me-” 

“ Surely it was not our business, even if we had 
known ! ” 

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘dear Miss Newton, I hear you 
have been rather unhappy.’ She sighed at this. 
Then I went on to tell her that it was very imper¬ 
tinent of me to ask about her private affairs, but she 
must excuse the interest which I, in common with 
everybody else, felt in her ; and would she tell me 
something of the young gentleman who was lost ? ” 

“ Well,” said the attentive listener, “ if cheek has 


any buoyancy about it, there’s no fear of your 
drowning.” 

“Oh, my dear fellow,” remarked the complacent 
gentleman in gray, with a quiet grin on his face, 

“ I know how to treat one of your very sentimental 
girls. She told me at once. He was her cousin. I 
said his being drowned must have been a great 
shock to her: and she said that was so ; and yet 
she didn’t seem to make much of it. So I said that 
people sometimes exaggerated the concern you 
ought to have in your relations; and that there 
were cousins and cousins. 

“ She said that was true, almost in a cheerful voice ; 
and admitted that she did not know much about the 
young man. ‘ I suppose,’ said I, ‘ that your rela¬ 
tives rather looked forward to your marrying him as 
a sort of family affair—you know what I mean ? ’ 
She said that was so, too ; and added, ‘ Poor young 
i man ! ’ 

“ Now, I’ll tell you honestly I had come by this 
time not to believe in the depth of her misery about 
the elegant young gentleman who was supposed to 
play Paul to her Virginia ; and I ventured to hint as 
much. She was not offended. In fact, she grew 
quite lively ; and was rather inclined to poke fun at 
my curiosity, which she said was the thing that 
Americans were blamed for. 

“‘But what was he like ?’ said I, wanting to see 
what she really felt about that hero of a sentimental 
past. Would you believe it—would you believe it, 
sir ?—she never even saw him ! Moreover, it wasn’t 
in coming to see her that he was drowned. Why, 
bless you, I laughed ; then she was hurt, and said 
that the drowning of anybody was not a thing to be 
ridiculed ; to which I assented with such eagerness 
that we immediately became very good friends again. _ 
Silent sorrows ! Why, sir, I will undertake to have 
her skipping about like a lamb in a couple of days ! 
Regrets, and buried affections, and sympathy ?—you 
won’t see much more of that sort of stuff ! As for 
that two yards’ length of attenuated dumpling, I will 
duck him in the river if he tries to stuff her head 
full of such trash—I will—I will, indeed. Let that 
young man beware ! ” 

With this the truculent fellow tossed the end of 
his cigar into the fire-place, just as if he had been 
heaving his rival into the Thames ; and then he 
went off determined to have a good sleep to prepare 
him for the great events of the morrow. 

III.—THE RIVAL SUITORS. 

Was she conscious of the internecine war which 
was raging in this peaceful spot, and of which she 
was obviously the cause ? We met the young lady 
next morning just as she was going down-stairs to 
breakfast. She looked the very impersonation of all 
gentleness and innocence and good-nature. If angry 
passions were raging elsewhere, she, at least, pre¬ 
served a cheerful serenity of mind. 





A Fight for a IVife. 


245 


Doubtless these two gentlemen had both got up 
very early, on the chance of having a little quiet talk 
with her if she happened to be taking the morning 
air. Doubtless, too, they had enjoyed each other’s 
society for an hour or two before breakfast ; they 
were both looking rather impatient when we went 
down. 

“ Oh, Miss Newton, may I give you these flowers ? ” 
said Mr. Maurice, bringing forward a very pretty 
little nosegay of wild blossoms, which he had him¬ 
self culled from the meadows and hedges. 

“Thank you very much,” said she, and he looked 
very pleased and proud. “And thank you, too, Mr. 
Humphreys, for the charming bouquet you sent me 
this morning. It was so kind of you ! ” 

Everybody stared ; everybody except that stout 
and placid Machiavelli, on whose impassive face not 
even one smile of triumph appeared. But how had 
he contrived to get and send her a bouquet at such 
an hour ? He must have got the flowers overnight. 
He must have lain in wait for the maid taking up 
hot water to Miss Newton’s room, and bribed her to 
carry the bouquet and a little message at the same 
time. Now, a man whose attentions to a young lady 
begin before breakfast—who sends her a bouquet 
along with her hot water—means something serious. 

“ And now, Miss Newton,” said this bold person, 
already asserting a sort of guardianship over her, 
“ what are we to do to-day ? Shall we make up a 
party ? The morning is beautiful—the chestnuts, 
the red hawthorn, the laburnum, all are most lovely 
—and as for the river, you will be delighted when 
you go outside.” 

Ivliss Amy made no answer, but looked to us, her 
proper guardians. 

“ I am quite sure, Miss Newton,” said Mr. Mau¬ 
rice, in a sort of scornful way, “you’ll soon get 
heartily sick of sitting in a fisherman’s punt, doing 
nothing but watch some one else trying to catch fish 
that aren’t there. I don’t believe they’ve even got 
here that wooden fish that the landlords in some 
places moor deep down in the water so as to get 
people to come and fish for it. I suppose you’ve 
heard that fisherman after fisherman comes in and 
swears the fish made a rush at his fly—more likely 
in the case of a wooden fish than of a real one, I 
should say. You’ve heard what Dr. Johnson-” 

“ You needn’t,” said the elder lover, with a sudden 
fierceness—“you needn’t take Miss Newton back to 
the time of Dr. Johnson for pedantry, stupidity, and 
rudeness. There is plenty of all three going about 
in our own day.” 

Miss Newton looked alarmed, and said, gently : 

“ I shouldn’t at all mind looking at some one fish¬ 
ing. I don’t know how it is done in English rivers.” 

“ Oh, thank you,” said Mr. Humphreys, getting 
quite cheerful again ; “ but don’t you imagine we 
are going to victimize you ! Oh, no ; what you 
must see, first of all, is the beautiful scenery about 
here. We can drive from here to the Duke of 


Westminster’s place at Cliefden, then on to Maiden¬ 
head Bridge and Taplow, then on to Burnham 
Beeches, and back again another way. And I have 
a wagonette coming at eleven for you.” 

And at eleven o’clock, sure enough, there was 
the wagonette standing at the door, and the whole 
of us submissively went out as if we had been taken 
possession of by this indefatigable government 
official. But how were we to sit ? 

“ I say, Maurice,” Humphreys remarked, in a 
careless way, “ I think you said you knew the coun¬ 
try about here ? ” 

“ Oh, very well, indeed,” said the unsuspecting 
victim ; “ I know every inch of it.” 

“ Then, perhaps, you wouldn’t mind sitting beside 
the driver, and telling him where he ought to take 
us ? Wouldn’t that be the best way, Miss Newton ? ” 

To appeal to her—it was cruel. She said some¬ 
thing very timidly in reply, and the young man, 
with black rage in his heart, got up beside the 
driver. When the ladies were not looking, Hum¬ 
phreys winked to me ; but I could not encourage 
familiarity on the part of so unscrupulous a person. 

Our young friend had certainly a favorable oppor¬ 
tunity that morning of making the acquaintance of 
certain sorts of our English scenery in their most 
charming aspects. We drove through pleasant 
country lanes, the hedgebanks of which were brill¬ 
iant with spring flowers ; we passed through tiny 
villages, and the cottage-gardens were smothered 
with blossoms ; we came upon glimpses of the blue 
river flowing smoothly through rich meadows which 
were white with daisies ; and then, again, through 
an opening in the trees we could see the higher land 
beyond, with the Cliefden woods, rich with the 
foliage of the early summer. 

Miss Amy was indeed delighted, and the driving 
through the fresh air had brought a color to her 
cheeks and a light to her eyes which rendered her 
mere than usually pretty. Then she was most 
friendly with Mr. Humphreys; for somehow or 
other he had put the notion into her head that all 
this was his doing, and she was grateful to him for 
every beautiful thing she saw. You would have 
thought he had planted those red chestnut trees 
(three hundred years before) in anticipation of her 
coming. 

“ And really, Miss Newton, you must not go away 
from England without seeing far more of it. Why 
should you go with your parents to Paris ? Your 
other two sisters are quite sufficient society for them. 
Paris ! It is the most miserable city in the world to 
spend a holiday in. The white glare and heat of 
the streets will blind you. You will lose all the 
health you have acquired here, and begin to get 
headaches, and feel drowsy and disgusted with the 
whole of creation. Now, how long did you say 
your parents meant to stay in Paris before going 
back to America ? ” 

“ Three months.” 





246 


Treasury of Tales . 


“ Then,” said he promptly, “ you stay with our 
good friends here for that time. They will be de¬ 
lighted to have you, I know; and by and by they 
will be going down into Surrey, where you will see 
quite another sort of scenery, and see something of 
our English country life. You will, won’t you ? ” 

The audacity of this person was remarkable. Of 
course we had to press Miss Amy to stay ; and 
although we did so honestly, one generally wishes 
to have one’s offers of hospitality proceed from 
one’s self. However, Mr. Humphreys seemed 
calmly to ignore all such little prejudices. He told 
Miss Newton what she could expect by giving up 
the trip to Paris and staying with us. He gave her 
a description of Box Hill and Mickleham Downs 
which would have been worthy of the poet Thom¬ 
son or of George Robins, the auctioneer. The girl, 
of course, could not promise ; but she was appar¬ 
ently well inclined toward the proposal, and said 
she would see what her parents said when they came 
back from Edinburgh. All this, be it observed, was 
overheard by the young man sitting up in front; 
what he thought of it can only be imagined, for he 
maintained a morose and rigid silence. 

“You see, my dear Miss Newton,” remarked our 
gay friend, “ you must do unto others as you would 
be done by. Now I mean to give America three 
full months-” 

“ Oh, are you coming over ? ” the girl said, her 
whole face inadvertently lighting up. 

“ Oh, yes ! ” he answered in his off-hand way. “ I 
have long purposed it. Now I shall do it—in the 
autumn. When do you say your papa will probably 
be going back ? ” 

“ About the beginning of September,” she said ; 
and then she added, quite unguardedly, “ and what a 
pleasant thing it would be if we happened to find 
you on the same steamer ! ” 

“ Well,” said he, sagely, “I have generally found 
that a man should never leave such things to chance. 
It is better to play the good genius for yourself. 
Accordingly, I think that if you go over to America 
in the beginning of September, and if you would 
kindly let me know the name of the steamer, you 
may pretty confidently reckon on finding me—you 
may call it by chance if you like—among the pas¬ 
sengers.” 

“ Oh, and we could introduce you to so many 
nice people—mamma would be most delighted to 
do so. But do you really mean to go over ? ” 

“ I give you my word of honor,” said he, “ that if 
you will tell me what steamer you go back to 
America by I shall go by that steamer too, and take 
a three months’ holiday in the States. Is that ex¬ 
plicit ? or shall I put the terms of the contract in 
writing ? ” 

Now, an extraordinary incident occurred at this 
moment. Humphreys, with an amiable smile on 
his face, suddenly called out : 

“ I say, Maurice, it must be uncommonly slow 


for you up there. Come on in here, and I’ll change 
places with you.” 

Could a more courteous offer have been made ? 
The young man refused sulkily. Then he was 
pressed ; and at last he consented. Mr. Humphreys 
got up beside the driver ; and presently we heard 
him begin to chaff that serious person in a fashion 
which brought many a smile to Miss Amy’s lips. 
She was evidently listening more to him than to us. 

We drove up and through the beautiful woods of 
Cliefden, the birds singing all around us, the white 
clouds sailing through the blue overhead. We drove 
on to Burnham Beeches, and there, in the midst of 
the forest, saw the great gnarled and twisted gray 
trunks, to which even the least imaginative of Lon¬ 
doners make pious pilgrimages. We drove back to 
Maidenhead Bridge, and had luncheon at the inn 
there, and went down to the river and wandered 
about for an hour ; then we got into the wagonette 
again and set out for Marlow. All this time the 
most patient and winning efforts of Queen Tita were 
ineffectual in smoothing down the savage feelings of 
the young man who sat beside us. 

“ There is nothing,” he said to Miss Amy, “ which 
vexes me so much as a show of coarse joviality and 
plow-boy wit when one is in the midst of beautiful 
scenery. A day like this reminds you of many 
things you had half forgotten ; and when these 
associations are present to the mind, painful and 
sad as many of them may be, it is not pleasant to be 
shocked by an impertinent jocularity. Don’t you 
think so ? ” 

“ But why should a pretty piece of country make 
you sad ? ” she said, quite naturally and cheerfully. 
“ It ought to raise one’s spirits.” 

He said no more after that ; and indeed a silent' 
person is apt to be overlooked if he have four com¬ 
panions all sufficiently talkative. That young man 
was losing ground. 

IV.—THE CHALLENGE. 

When we got back to Marlow the two ladies went 
indoors ; we three strolled round to the meadows by 
the side of the river. I did not at all like the look of 
the young man’s face : there was mischief brooding. 

“ I suppose,” said he to me, in rather a loud and 
ostentatious fashion, “that Miss Newton is under 
your care ? ” 

“ She is for the present.” 

“ And how do you like,” he continued, in the 
same loud fashion, “ her making an assignation to be 
accompanied to America by a gentleman who has 
only been casually introduced to her parents, and of 
whom neither she nor they know anything ? ” 

“ If you mean me, young gentleman,” said Mr. 
Humphreys, ceasing to whistle “ Love’s Young 
Dream,” “ I’d advise you to be a little more respect¬ 
ful.” 

/ 

“ Age commands respect, certainly,” said the 
younger man, with an unmistakable sneer. 









A Fight for a Wife. 


24 7 


“ Yes, and school-boys, when they don’t show it, 
get whipped,” remarked the other, beginning to 
whistle again. 

“I’ll tell you what it is,” exclaimed Maurice, 
turning fiercely round, “ I’ll tell you what my opin¬ 
ion is, that a man who tries to entrap a young girl 
into a clandestine appointment, and without the 
knowledge of her parents, and he old enough to be 
her father, is no better than a cad—I said cad, sir.” 

“ Oh, did you ? Did you really ? ” said Mr. Hum¬ 
phreys. 

Now there is an operation which, in the vulgar 
tongue, is known as “ ballooning,” and which con¬ 
sists in seizing a person from behind by the collar 
of his coat and by another portion of his attire, and 
driving him on before you. A person who is thus 
“ ballooned ” is very helpless ; he may squeal, or use 
bad language, or try to kick, but on he must go. 

Well, no sooner had Mr. Maurice uttered these 
last words than Mr. Humphreys immediately laid 
hold of him in the manner above described, and be¬ 
gan to run him down the slope of the meadows to 
the side of the river. The young man did squeal— 
with absolute rage—he did use bad language, and 
with might and main he struggled to get free. His 
enemy—with a shout of demoniacal laughter which 
rang through the place—held him firm, and drove 
him right down to the stream. The whole affair had 
taken place so quickly that there was no chance of 
interference, and it was all over in a second. 

For, as it happened, there was a log of wood ly¬ 
ing concealed among the grass by the river’s side. 
Maurice, tripping over it, stumbled and fell head¬ 
long into the water, while Humphreys, stumbling 
also, but having proper warning, fell, but managed 
to save himself from going into the stream. The 
next minute Maurice had scrambled out again 
through the rushes, dripping from head to heel, and 
trying to get his wet hair out of his eyes. His hat 
was quietly floating down the Thames. 

His rival stood firm. I fully expected to be the 
unwilling witness of a combat like that which the 
lover of Helen of Kirkconnell describes when, by 
the river’s side, he drew his sword and hacked his 
rival “ in pieces sma’.” But the young man was a 
wise young man ; and who can fight with one’s eyes 
blinded, and one’s garments heavy with water ? 

“ You shall hear from me within an hour,” said 
he, ominously, as he made for the garden of the inn, 
by which way he had hoped to get in unperceived 
to the house. 

Then ensued a strange and wild scene. The el¬ 
derly gentleman tossed his wide-awake into the air. 
He caught it coming down, and kicked it a dozen 
yards out into the long grass. Then, with his hands 
in the air, he performed a savage dance of joy, snap¬ 
ping his fingers, and calling out: 

“ How hath the cheeky fallen ! He hath been 
overcome and vanquished, utterly smote out and 
annihilated, scrunched up, and knocked into ever 


lasting smithereens. My dear friend, shall we have 
a drink on the strength of this ? ’Tis now the witch¬ 
ing hour of half-past six, when he who loves his din¬ 
ner might have a tiny glass of sherry-and-bitters— 
nicht wa/ir ? ” 

His friend took a more sober view of the situa¬ 
tion. 

“ The best thing you can do, Humphreys, is to 
compose your nerves with something else than 
sherry. You’ll have to fight that young man as 
soon as he gets dry clothes on—you may as well 
make up your mind to it.” 

“And who’s afraid ?” said he. “Who’s afraid of 
that sand-colored bell-rope—that elongated pelican 
—that indefinite length of Sydenham trousers and 
shirt-collar ! Bah ! I will explode him into the 
primeval elements ; I will twist him round the trunk 
of a tree, and people will mistake him in the morn¬ 
ing for a snake that has died of a bilious attack.” 

Y. THE DUEL. 

In a very short space of time young Maurice came 
out again, dressed in another suit of clothes. He 
went past us rapidly without speaking. We saw him 
cross the bridge and go into the town. 

“ Now what is he up to ? ” said Mr. Humphreys, a 
trifle more serious. 

“ He is either gone to get a policeman to give you 
in charge for assault, or to get a pair of pistols at an 
ironmonger’s.” 

“ Pistols ? ” said Mr. Humphreys, contemptuously ; 
“that would be like the lunatic.” 

And it was ; for a few moments after Mr. Mau¬ 
rice returned, and coming up to his rival, firmly and 
courteously informed him that he meant to fight 
him ; that he did not think he would have a fair 
chance in a vulgar boxing-match, but that he had 
bought a pair of pistols with which they could settle 
their quarrel in the adjoining meadow. Mr. Hum¬ 
phreys listened with a laugh on his face ; then he 
saw that it was no good making a joke about it, and 
finally, stung by a chance remark of his opponent, 
he said, “ All right; come along ! ” 

Now, what was the third person who was the spec¬ 
tator of all this folly to do ? The whole affair seemed 
so incredible that to call any one’s attention to it 
might have been compromising; and yet, to all ap¬ 
pearances, these two were really going down to the 
side of the river to load these pistols and fire them 
at each other. 

“I thought,” said I, to them both, “that when 
gentlemen in France went out to fire half-loaded 
weapons at each other they generally took with 
them a doctor to make believe the thing was serious. 
Don’t you mean to have a doctor, or any seconds, 
or any reporter to send a romantic account to the 
Figaro 2 ” 

“ We shall do very well by ourselves,” said the 
younger man ; and the two imbeciles walked off. 




248 


Treasury of Tales. 


There remained but one thing for me to do. In 
a certain chamber in that old-fashioned inn there 
was a lady dressing for dinner ; and when she is 
finally arranging the flowers in her hair she does not 
like to be disturbed. However, when I represented 
to her the deadly schemes of those two people whom 
we could see walking down to the meadow, she 
quite forgot the last yellow rose-bud, and caught at 
a light shawl, which she threw round her head and 
shoulders. 

“ Shall we tell them the truth ? ” said.Tita. 

“ What truth ? ” said I; “ only, whatever you have 
to tell them, you’d better look sharp.” 

* * * What a placid evening was shining all 

around when we hastened down to the river—the 
sweetbrier of the garden scenting the air, and the 
beautiful tints in the sky showing on the clear bosom 
of the Thames! We could see those two black fig¬ 
ures down by the tall green rushes. They had ap¬ 
parently settled the preliminaries, and were now 
some dozen yards apart. 

“They see us now—oh, the two gabies! ” said my 
companion. 

The notion of bringing a lady on the scene was 
obviously successful ; one could see each one of 
them smuggling something away into his coat pocket. 
When we arrived on the spot they were evi¬ 
dently contemplating the beauty of the scenery; 
while Mr. Humphreys, with a charming carelessness, 
asked us if we had seen the rush of young fish to 
the surface—obviously getting out of the way of a 
pike. 

“ No, I did not,” said Queen Tita with a gracious 
smile. “ I have been too busy thinking how I 
should scold you two gentlemen. What do you 
mean by going away by yourselves in this manner, 


instead of waiting in the garden until Miss Newton 
came down ? You ought to pay her every attention 
while she is our guest ; otherwise she will not think 
much of our English people, and she will have a 
bad account of us to gfve to Mr. St. Vincent.” 

“ Mr. St. Vincent ? ” they both repeated mechan¬ 
ically. 

“ Yes,” was the innocent answer ; “ the gentleman 
whom she is to marry as soon as she returns home.” 

There was a strange pause. Mr. Humphreys be¬ 
gan to stare about and whistle. The other gentle¬ 
man looked uncomfortable, and blushed hotly. 

“ But I shall forgive you if you come back to the 
inn at once,” said their gentle monitress ; “ and in¬ 
deed dinner will be waiting for us in twenty min¬ 
utes. You won’t mind my running back by my¬ 
self ? ” 

When she had gone the two men looked at each 
other for a moment, and then young Maurice, with 
a contemptuous smile, tossed his pistol in among the 
reeds. Another splash told us that the second 
weapon had followed it. Then they stood and 
looked at each other again. 

“ Look here, old chap,” the elder gentleman said, 
in a bland fashion, “ there isn’t much use in making 
a fuss about this. I beg your pardon for any awk¬ 
ward little thing that may have occurred. When a 
man is made a fool of by a woman, he’s not respon¬ 
sible for his actions—what do you think ? ” 

“ I quite think so,” said the other ; and they 
shook hands amicably. 

Next morning our two friends discovered that ur¬ 
gent business called them away to London, and 
they left us with many expressions of regret. . It 
was remarked, morever, by a certain gentle-eyed 
young lady, that no reference had been made to 
that compact about a trip to the United States. 



t 












A Christmas Eve Experience. 


249 



A CHRISTMAS EVE EXPERIENCE. 

BY MIRIAM COLES HARRIS. 

AUTHOR OF “ RUTLEDGE.” 

“ r ¥"'OM,” said Ellen, pushing back her plate and 
leaning forward on her elbows ; “ Tom, it’s 
been an awfully dull day. I want to do some¬ 
thing to-night—to go to the theatre or somewhere.” 

“ Verily” said Tom, putting down his empty cof¬ 
fee-cup and taking up the paper, without even looking 
at her. Ellen watched him as he settled himself 
back in his chair, w r hich he turned so that he faced 
the fire, and that the light fell over his shoulder on 
the paper. The maid meanwhile moved about the 
room, taking away the dessert and putting up the 
silver. Ellen made and unmade several times a pyr¬ 
amid of grape-seeds upon her plate, but at last her 
tears brimmed over. 

“ You are too selfish to live,” she said, pushing 
the plate away again. This statement her brother 
disdained to notice. It is possible that he did not 
even hear it, for Ellen was only his young sister, and 
he did not generally think what she said of much 
importance. 

If she had been somebody else’s sister, how differ¬ 
ent it would have been ! For she was pretty, and the 
eyes that were at present engaged in the secretion 
of such great tears were deep-blue and large and 
had dark lashes. Her hair was a yellowish brown, 
her skin warm and clear. She was slender and not 
very tall. Tom himself was a handsome fellow, 
nearly six feet high, dark, with good features and a 
distinguished air. 

They lived alone in a house which was too big for 
them, their only companion an aunt who had rheu¬ 
matism, and who rarely came dowm stairs. The 
family only a few years before had been quite large 
enough to fill the house, but first one and then an¬ 
other had been taken away, and poor little Ellen had 
grown up in crape and bombazine. Somebody was al¬ 
ways dead, or was always going to die. There w T as al¬ 
ways a good reason why Ellen couldn’t have the sort 
of life that other girls had. Tom had been away at 
college and had escaped a good deal of the depres¬ 
sion, as boys do. He wasn’t unfeeling, but fate seemed 
to have made other arrangements for him, and you 
can’t live two lives at once. There was boating, and 


foot-ball, and good health, and all the interests of 
school and college life, at one end of the line ; tele¬ 
grams and bad news, and somebody very ill, and a 
good deal of crying, at the other. It wasn’t surpris¬ 
ing that the banished youth looked upon the life at 
home as the less real of the two, and entered into 
it but tamely,—which contributed much to the 
benefit of his health and spirits, and was not much 
to the detriment of his moral development. For 
what child was ever the better for growing up in the 
shade, and to what immature mind is the sight and 
thought of death a benefit ? 

Poor little Ellen was stunned and shocked contin¬ 
ually by the griefs that overtook the household. She 
was the youngest member of it, and had been handed 
over as a dying charge from one to another, when 
they had been called away. She had stood at all 
these death-beds, with her great eyes open, and 
wonder and awe filling them. She was not capable 
of feeling grief, but desolation and discomfort and 
absence of natural childish joy she could feel. Still, 
looking at her now r , just grown to maidenhood, with 
a warm bloom on her cheeks, it was difficult to real¬ 
ize she had had such a life. The blight of the cy¬ 
press and the yew certainly had not fallen on her 
complexion, nor had it extinguished the natural 
longing for gayety in her heart, to judge by the te¬ 
nacity with which she held to the idea of going 
to the theatre. 

She was not vanquished by her brother’s silence, 
but after she had got over her too-ready tears, she 
returned to the charge. The maid had by this time 
left the room, and Ellen got up and went to the 
mantel-piece, leaning against it, and holding her 
dress back from the fire. 

“ It’s all very well for you,” she said. “You’re 
down town every day, and out every evening. There 
is always something going on for you, and you don’t 
pay any attention to your mourning ; men are not 
expected to. But it’s dismal for me. Here are the 
holidays, and I can’t go to big parties because I am 
in black, and there ar’n’t any little ones to go to be¬ 
cause all the family are in black too. This is Christ¬ 
mas Eve, and it isn’t a bit different from other 
nights, and to-morrow will be Christmas, and it won’t 
be a bit different from other days. I get so tired of 
not going anywhere ; if you’d only think, you’d see 






















































250 


Treasury 

what a stupid time I have. I can go to the theatre, 
that’s one thing I can do, and nobody can find fault 
with it, for it’s six months since Aunt Amelia died, 
and I’ve got off my crape. And while I have got it 
off, it seems a pity I shouldn’t take the chance, and 
go to places that I can go to.” 

This arrested Tom’s attention. It struck him as 
forcible. Though Ellen didn’t say exactly that 
she’d better take the chance and go between the 
crapes, he understood very well that she implied 
that Aunt Helena’s rheumatism was very bacf and 
that another period of mourning was impending. So 
he looked up from his paper to say there wasn’t 
anything new at any of the theatres, and she’d better 
wait till next week. 

“ Everything is new to me,” she cried, “ and I 
may never go if I wait for next week.” 

“So absurd,” he said, “to go to the theatre, in 
cold blood, just you and I, to see some stupid thing 
that I’ve seen a dozen times before, and you’ll yawn 
over just as much. Besides, ten to one, we can’t get 
decent places. Wait a few days, and I’ll make up a 
party for you and we’ll take a box.” 

“ You can take a box and make up a party for me 
next week, too : it’s no more than you ought to do. 
I ought to have some entertainment. But that isn’t 
to-night, and I’ve set my heart on going to-night. 
Come, Tom, now, take me to-night anywhere—I 
don’t care where. I’m so deadly tired of doing 
nothing.” 

“ It’s the most childish thing I ever heard of. Go¬ 
ing out in a snow-storm to see nobody knows what, 
just you and I together. Why, Ellen, everybody 
would laugh at us. It’s like people from the coun¬ 
try.” 

“ If you’d been in the house all day as I have, you 
wouldn’t think it was such nonsense. Just please to 
fancy how you’d like it, going up and down stairs for 
Aunt Helena, reading to her a little, looking over 
the accounts, writing notes, sewing, looking out of 
the window and not having a soul of your own age to 
talk to. I seem to stifle. I long so to have something 
to excite me.” 

“ O women ! ” said Tom, returning to his paper— 
“ women like that sort of thing ; it’s what they’re 
used to.” He did not like the comparison, and was 
inclined to be less yielding than he had been. It 
seemed such a degradation to be called upon to 
imagine himself leading a life like that. Ellen 
watched him furtively as he hardened, and prompt 
tears came to her aid, which he saw as he glanced 
up after a few moments to know what her silence 
meant. He hated to see women cry, of course. So 
he threw aside his paper with a little ill temper, and 
said : 

“ Go and get ready, if you must go. It’s an insuf¬ 
ferable bore, but I suppose it must be done.” 

Ellen did not wait for a second invitation. She 
was quite used to her brother’s ungraciousness, and 
knew very well it wouldn’t do to be critical. So she 


of Tales. 

I " ' 

flew off light hearted, to put on her bonnet, and give 

Aunt Helena her pills, and to glance out of the win¬ 
dow as she pulled down the shades in the sick-room 
with a glow of satisfaction at the softly falling snow. 

Little Ellen was not hard-hearted, but she had had 
so much of sick-rooms that they did not mean much 
to her. They were not any more suggestive to her 
than the monk’s coffin is to him after he has slept in 
it a score or so of years. Human sensibilities can 
go just so far, and there is no possible use in strain¬ 
ing them beyond ; they simply won’t go. Ellen 
tripped out of the sick-room with its shaded light 
and faint smell of medicines and wood fire as light¬ 
hearted as if it had been a banqueting hall. She 
found Tom putting on his coat with a softened ex¬ 
pression. 

“ I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking,” he said. 
“We’ll stop for Elizabeth and take her with us.” 

“ Elizabeth ! ” echoed Ellen, a cloud coming over 
her face. “ I don’t see what’s the use. I know she 
won’t go with us. She always has such a lot of 
things to do.” 

“ It will do no harm to ask her,” Tom replied with 
dignity. 

“ It will take up time, and we shall be late any¬ 
how.” 

Tom disdained to answer. She knew he meant to 
go, whatever she might think about it, and she went 
down the steps with subdued alacrity. Not that she 
wasn’t fond of Elizabeth ; on the contrary, she was 
her cousin and her crony. But Elizabeth had such 
a lot of things to do always, as she had said, lived in 
such a different world from Ellen ; Ellen would have 
liked for once to have had her little “good time ” to 
herself, without having to share it with her grand 
young cousin, whose days were a perpetual feast. 
Besides, in her heart she was afraid that Tom was a 
little too fond of his cousin, and ungracious as he 
was he was all the brother she had, and she didn’t 
feel inclined to give him up to Elizabeth, who had 
everything and everybody. 

But, as has been said, she had learned not to be 
critical, and to be thankful for what she could get. 
It was nice toJ>e going out, even with Elizabeth and 
Tom, who wouldn’t probably speak two words to 
her. The fresh, cold air was delicious, and the light 
falling snow made a picture of the tiresome city 
streets. She began to have a feeling that it was 
Christmas Eve, and she hummed a fragment of a 
Christmas carol to herself as she hurried along by 
the side of her silent brother —Christus natus hodie. 
Christmas had never been much accounted of in their 
Puritan household, but she wondered if the people 
that did make account of it, didn’t have a “ better 
time.” That was Ellen’s one regret and aspiration, 
—starved for pleasure in her youth. 

With Elizabeth it was different, of course. Every¬ 
thing was different with Elizabeth. They were 
people who kept festivals and improved every occa¬ 
sion of stimulating feeling. Even now, as they went 




25 1 


A Christmas Eve Experience. 


up the steps, Ellen could see the wreaths of ever¬ 
greens in every window ; she almost expected to hear 
music, and be told that there was a child’s party, or 
something going on. But no. The house was quite 
quiet, and the servant led them into the library, 
where Elizabeth was sitting alone reading by a sub¬ 
dued light before the fire. 

She arose in rather a slow, regal way she had, 
but her face lighted up, and she kissed Ellen as if 
she were glad to see her, and gave Tom her hand in 
a way that implied that she distantly included him 
in her gratification. 

When he had told her their errand, she said, “ Oh, 
impossible,” and Ellen’s heart sank, for she knew 
Tom would not be in a good humor after being 
disappointed. 

“ Why impossible ? ” said Tom, sturdily. “ You’re 
not going to do anything else ? ” 

“ Of course not,” said Elizabeth, calmly. “ We 
don’t go out on Christmas Eve. You know it is a 
Fast.” 

“ I didn’t know it,” said Tom. “ How should I ? ” 

“ I had forgotten,” said Elizabeth, “ that you were 
a Mayflower, and would probably have cod-fish from 
principle to-morrow, and eat your turkey to-day.” 

“ We didn’t have turkey for dinner, did we, Ellen ? 
I have almost forgotten what we did have, Ellen has 
been bothering me so about taking her to the theatre 
ever since I left the table.” 

“ What possessed you, dear, to want to go to¬ 
night ? ” asked Elizabeth, sitting down on the sofa, 
and making a place for Ellen to sit down beside 
her. 

But Ellen would not sit down ; she gave an anxious 
glance at Tom, who threw himself into an easy chair 
beside his cousin. Elizabeth repeated her question, 
“ What possessed you to want to go to-night ? ” 

Ellen hung her head. She knew what had pos¬ 
sessed her, but she didn’t care to acknowledge to 
Elizabeth that it was a treat to go anywhere, and 
that she was always longing, more or less, for some 
excitement. 

“ It’s nice to be out in the snow,” she said, “and 
I’ve been at home all day.” 

“ Is it snowing still ? ” asked Elizabeth, rising and 
going to the window. Tom followed her, and looked 
out with her as she drew back the curtain. “ It is 
lovely,” she said ; “one’s ideal Christmas Eve. 
See how the trees are powdered, and how the lamps 
twinkle. And what a stillness there is ; the streets 
are ‘ dumb with snow ’ ! ” 

“ Do come with us,” pleaded Ellen, taking heart 
from this enthusiasm. 

“ Oh, impossible,” said Elizabeth, in a manner 
that left no room for hope. “ I couldn’t, you know, 
I couldn't to the theatre. But how lovely it would 
be to go to take a walk, and see the people out, and 
the snow, and the shop-windows, and all.” 

“ I’ll tell you what I think we’d better do,” said 
Tom eagerly, and Ellen’s heart sank lower at every 


word. “ I think we’d better do as Elizabeth says, 
and go out and see the snow and the shop-windows. 
We could get in a stage at the corner, and ride down 
all the length of Broadway and back, and walk as 
much as we please, and give up the theatre for to¬ 
night. Now be reasonable, Ellen. I’ll take a box 
for you any night next week you say, and we’ll make 
up a party and there’ll be some sense in it. Don’t 
you say so, Elizabeth ? Isn’t that the best thing for 
us to do ?” 

“ I should like it immensely,” said Elizabeth; “ but 
perhaps Ellen has set her heart on seeing some par¬ 
ticular play to-night.” 

“ Not at all,” said Tom. “ We ‘ shipped for Cowes 
and a market.’ We haven’t an idea what we are 
going to see. It’s all a whim of Ellen’s and she 
isn’t childish enough to want to go, if you cannot.” 

“ Would you like it just as well ? ” asked Elizabeth, 
turning slowly her handsome eyes upon her cousin. 

Poor Ellen, abashed by Tom’s sharp gaze at the 
same moment, said, confusedly, the theatre would 
do next week, of course, if Elizabeth w r ould like to 
go to walk. So Elizabeth dropped the curtain 
which she had been holding back, and drew it again 
across the window, saying it w T as very nice and she 
would go and put her bonnet on. She moved across 
the room like a queen, however, and did not go to 
get ready as poor little Ellen had gone to get ready 
half an hour ago. She stopped at the table, and 
took some flowers out of a glass, and gave them to 
Ellen, and even handed one to Tom, but without a 
vestige of coquettish action, talking to Ellen as 
she did it. She was tall and well-formed, blonde 
and tranquil-looking, quite used to admiration, dig¬ 
nified in manners, much given to cultivating herself, 
full of aspiring plans and purposes. Tom looked 
upon her as a superior being ; she had a manner of 
looking upon him as a somewhat inferior one. 

While she was gone to put her bonnet on, Tom 
walked up and down the room and turned over some 
of Elizabeth’s books, and rather avoided conversa¬ 
tion with his sister. She, meanwhile, ready to cry, 
stood pulling the flowers to pieces, and thinking 
Tom and Elizabeth the most selfish of the human 
race—Elizabeth, who thought herself so self-deny¬ 
ing, and who had been reading a pious book with 
red edges when they cam^ in, and who wouldn’t 
go to the theatre because it was a fast—day ; and 
Tom who was considered such a splendid fellow, and 
who got such a lot of invitations, and who felt him¬ 
self so much above most people. Her heart swelled 
as she thought of all this, and how they had tram¬ 
pled out her one little hope of pleasure, and how 
they hadn’t even thought of her, and didn’t even 
know that she was disappointed as long as they got 
what they wanted for themselves. 

Presently Elizabeth came down, and Tom couldn’t 
take his eyes off her ; she looked so handsome in 
her rich winter clothes, a regal seal-skin dolman and 
a dark dress. As they were going out of the door 





252 


Treasury of Tales. 


a boy came up the steps with an armful of packages. 
They were Christmas presents, which she gave to 
the servant to be put with all the others, and opened 
in the morning. 

When they were out in the street, the sidewalks 
being not yet cleared, there was often a very narrow 
path, in which Elizabeth walked, with Tom beside 
her in the snow, and Ellen humbly trudging on be¬ 
hind, with very bitter thoughts, no doubt. But it 
was really not a night to cherish bitter thoughts, and 
after the first disappointment was over, good little 
Ellen made herself happy in the sense of freedom 
in the fresh air, and in the sights about her. 

At the corner they waited for a stage, which came 
soon, noiseless through the snow. It was empty. 
They sat down near the door, Tom putting Eliza¬ 
beth in the end seat (he couldn’t bear the thought 
of any chance-comer sitting down beside her) ; then 
he took the place next her, and let Ellen shift for 
herself. Poor Ellen ! Your time will come. Wait 
till you get a lover, my dear. He will put you in 
the corner seat, and sit down to guard you. 

Ellen sat ‘anywhere, first by one window, then by 
another, as she wanted to look at this or that, for 
they had it all to themselves. Elizabeth leaned 
back in her corner, and looked beautifully content. 
She gazed out at the snow-covered pedestrians, at 
the women carrying home heavy market-baskets, 
with the legs of chickens sticking out ; at the little 
children, tugging at their parents’ hands ; at the 
express-wagons, piled with parcels, great and 
small ; at the lights from the windows ; at the men 
with their throats muffled and their hands in their 
pockets, breasting a storm as soft as white rose- 
leaves. They were still in the upper streets, where 
there were no shops ; but one great hotel they passed, 
with windows all alight, and express-wagons and 
baggage-wagons lining the street in front, and 
people hurrying in and out with packages, and two 
or three liveried servants walking up and down on 
the pavement beside carriages, and a lady wrapped 
in an opera-cloak getting into one, and into another 
a gentleman in an ulster and travelling-cap, with a 
steamer-trunk upon the box. The very newsboys 
were dramatic ; you felt they had their story, and 
speculated about the homes to which they went and 
the Christmas they were going to have. Everything 
seemed so full of life, so electric and yet so en¬ 
chanted, the soft rose-leaf snow, the winter air 
without the winter chill, the city motion without the 
city roar. 

“ How nice it is ! ” said Elizabeth. “ Tom, it 
was a happy thought of yours, bringing us out to¬ 
night.” 

Whatever Tom’s reply was, it was so low that it 
was lost to Ellen. Indeed, after that, though they 
talked together, she could not hear a word. 

By and by, at a street-corner, the stage came to a 
stand-still. A group of men, standing on the side¬ 
walk, had signalled it to stop. There were four of 


them ; and Ellen, who had been sitting on the oppo¬ 
site side from her companions, quickly started back, 
and seated herself close beside her brother. Tom 
and Elizabeth were not paying much attention to 
anything but what they were saying to each other, 
but Ellen looked with interest at the persons who 
were getting in. One man got in first, and then it 
became apparent that the next one was ill or dis¬ 
abled, for those behind him seemed to have much 
difficulty in getting him up the steps, and the one 
already in the stage seemed to exert himself a good 
deal in supporting him. Indeed, they were so long 
about it that the driver on the box knocked on the 
roof, and called to them to hurry, and sharply rang 
the bell two or three times. The men did not swear 
at him, as one would have thought they might, judg¬ 
ing from their appearance,—judging in fact from the 
nature of the average man hurried in doing some¬ 
thing difficult. They pressed and crowded so, get¬ 
ting in at the door, that Elizabeth, in a little dismay, 
pulled her cloak out of the way, and drew back as 
far as she could. 

“ Look out what you’re about there,” said Tom, 
sharply, all in arms at the idea of any one pressing 
too close against her. But even the man addressed 
didn’t swear or answer, and when Tom saw that 
there was a sick man being lifted in, he probably 
felt a little ashamed of himself for his hasty words. 

He watched, as did the young women, the task of 
the sick man’s attendants. He seemed so helpless, 
they looked so anxious. Ellen saw the drops of 
sweat rolling down the face of the one who had got 
in first, and who was supporting him by one arm, 
while the one who held him by the other had his 
lips firmly pressed together, as if exerting all his 
strength. They had got him nearly to the end of 
the stage, when the driver, having got quite to the 
end of his patience, started up the horses suddenly, 
and the jerk threw the poor creature back with vio¬ 
lence upon the seat in which they were placing him. 

“ Oh ! ” involuntarily cried Ellen and Elizabeth in 
tones of pity. His companions seemed to be taking 
good care of him, however, and arranging him in his 
seat, which was the corner at the end of the stage, 
opposite to the side on which Ellen and her com¬ 
panions were sitting. Two sat down beside him, 
and one opposite him, a little above Ellen. 

This man took off his hat, and took out his. 
handkerchief, and wiped the perspiration from his 
forehead. He was rather a small, sallow man, with 
an anxious, restless expression, and Ellen met his 
eye more than once, for she could not help gazing 
at the party. The sick man himself was so muffled 
up, she could not see his face. The lamp which 
was above him threw down the shadow of his broad 
hat, pulled forward over the little that might, in 
another light, have been visible of his face. The 
man who sat next him was a coarse-looking fellow 
with dark whiskers. He was better dressed than the 
anxious-faced man opposite him, and in his manner 





2 53 


A Christmas Eve Experience. 


there was something compounded of authority and 
suavity, that suggested the publican’s calling. He 
was very silent, and sat stolidly looking straight 
before him, not noticing the presence of the strangers 
in the stage. 

The fourth man was stout, close-shaven, and 
rather jolly. He wore glasses, and his small eyes 
twinkled behind them. He had a double chin, and 
he put his hands on his knees, and looked about him 
very affably, and occasionally spoke in a low tone 
to his neighbor, who discouraged his attempts at 
conversation. No one else got into the stage, and 
they rolled on several blocks without change. 

Meanwhile, Tom and Elizabeth had again fallen 
into their absorbing but fragmentary interchange of 
thought, and had forgotten all about their neighbors. 
But Ellen could not take her eyes away, nor interest 
herself in the streets through which they were pass¬ 
ing. Again and again she caught the eye of the 
man next her ; and she felt that though the dark 
man opposite her was never looking towards 
her when she looked at him, he was watching her 
sharply when she wasn’t. She felt uncomfortable, 
and wished Tom and Elizabeth would think it 
well to get out and walk awhile. But Tom appar¬ 
ently had no thought of anything but prolonging the 
present, and Elizabeth seemed to have surrendered 
herself to passive enjoyment of the hour under his 
guidance. 

Presently the stout and urbane man, after a 
whispered word or two to his companion, pulled the 
strap, and got out, saying aloud, in rather a forced 
way : 

“ Good night-! See you to-morrow in the course 
of the day.” 

The dark man nodded shortly, but didn’t even 
cast a look after him, and Ellen’s sallow neighbor 
wiped his forehead again, and moved uneasily on 
his seat. The stage rumbled on a block or two 
farther ; the dark man lifted his eyes and gave him 
an almost imperceptible signal. The anxious man 
got up hurriedly, pulled the strap, and saying some¬ 
thing low as he passed the others, got out. 

Ellen had expected the others to follow, but no : 
the man pushed the door shut, and turned his back, 
and hurried, almost ran, without a look behind, and 
disappeared down a side street. 

Another block, and another ; the sick man’s com¬ 
panion leaned towards him, said something that 
Ellen could not catch, got up, pushed towards the 
door without looking to the right or left, and not 
waiting for the stage to stop, leaped to the ground, 
and was gone. Ellen’s amazed eyes followed him. 
He did not run, he did not seem to hurry, but he 
disappeared. She turned in perturbation to look 
at the poor man thus deserted, but she could not 
see his face, and he gave no sign of his dismay at 
being left. She eagerly pulled Tom’s sleeve. 

“ Look,” she whispered. “ Look, Tom, those men 
have gone away, and left that poor man all alone.” 


But Tom shook her off and went on with some¬ 
thing that he was saying to Elizabeth. Ellen, how¬ 
ever, was stirred ; she was not to be suppressed this 
time ; she leaned forward and took hold of Eliza¬ 
beth’s cloak. 

“ Look,” she said in a low tone. “ Look at that 
man. They have left him all alone.” 

Elizabeth was not as far off from common life as 
Tom, and was more easily recalled. “How heart¬ 
less ! ” she murmured, thoroughly aroused. 

“ Tom, speak to him,” said Ellen. “ Ask him if 
you can do anything for him. How will he get 
out ? ” 

“Nonsense,” said Tom. “It’s no business of 
mine. His friends have probably arranged to have 
him met by some one at the ferry.” 

This silenced Ellen for a moment, but she re¬ 
turned to the charge. “ He is too ill a man to be 
left alone like that. I think you ought to speak to 
him, Tom.” 

“I’d have my hands full,” said Tom, “if I went 
about speaking to everybody that might be likely to 
be the better for being spoken to.” 

Something in this pagan observation touched 
Elizabeth’s conscience uncomfortably. The muffled 
figure of the helpless man took a pathetic coloring. 

“ It is inhuman,” she said, “ not to offer him as¬ 
sistance, not at least to speak to him. Tom, I insist 
upon your asking him if any one is going to meet 
him.” 

“ Absurd ! ” exclaimed Tom, but with a softened 
look. “ The man would think that I was poking 
fun at him.” 

The three heads were close together, and their 
low tones could not be heard at the other end of the 
stage where the man sat. 

“ The man would think he wasn’t in Hindostan,” 
returned Elizabeth. 

“ Men don’t expect to be coddled by the general 
public when they’ve got the gout and can’t afford to 
take a carriage when they’re going out.” 

“ Well, just as you please. If you won’t speak to 
him, I will.” 

And the stately young woman made a movement 
as if to get up, which brought Tom to his senses, 
and his feet. Anything to prevent such a profana¬ 
tion—Elizabeth speaking to, and being answered by, 
a common fellow in an omnibus. It made no 
difference whether he were sick or well. The out¬ 
rage of the thing was equal. So he got up, and 
supporting himself by the rod, made a step forward, 
leaning back to say in a whisper to Elizabeth : 

“ I wouldn’t make such a fool of myself to please 
anybody else.” 

The young women watched eagerly as he ap¬ 
proached the sick man, steadying himself by the rod 
above him. He leaned down. There was a little 
more noise than there had been, from the passing at 
the same moment of several loaded wagons. Tom 
stood leaning down toward the man, between him 






254 


Treasury of Tales. 


and them. They could not hear, nor see anything, 
but they watched, all the same. 

In another moment, Tom made a hasty movement 
toward the door, pulled the strap with vehemence, 
pushed open the door, and standing on the step held 
out his hand and said peremptorily, “Come, quick.” 

Ellen with an instinct of obedience, got up and 
made a step toward him, looking amazed. But 
Elizabeth sat still, and gazed at him, and then at the 
man in the corner, and said, amazed too : 

“ What is it ? What do you mean ? ” 

“I mean come!” he said, authoritatively, pulling 
out Ellen, and holding his hand out for her. She 
hesitated. The driver, who evidently wasn’t a 
patient person, began striking the bell just over the 
poor sick man’s head, and looking down through the 
window to see what was the occasion of delay. 
Then was seen who was of the ruling sex. Tom 
had always been the abject slave of his cousin be¬ 
fore ; she had ruled him without remembering that 
he might possibly have a will of his own. She was 
dumb with amazement when he showed that he had 
one ; when for the third time he told her to get out 
of the stage, she obeyed him mutely. 

She landed in snow above her ankles ; Ellen was 
making her way to the sidewalk. Tom’s hand was 
firm and fierce as he almost pulled her after him ; 
the stage rumbled away, the driver looking back at 
them from the box where he sat muffled to the ears, 
and powdered with snow. When they got upon the 
sidewalk, Ellen stamped the snow from her feet and 
brushed it from her dress, but Elizabeth stood still, 
and turned to Tom with an amazed and questioning 
face. She was not the sort of woman to be made 
angry easily ; she had had very little provocation in 
her life, and did not take fire readily, but she must 
know what meant this sudden reversal of all the laws 
that had governed her intercourse with her cousin. 

They had got out of the stage just at the boun¬ 
dary between up-town and down-town, the lighted 
shops surrounding the square were visible, and more 
vehicles were passing and there was more motion in 
the scene. They had landed in the middle of a 
block, and the shop in front of which they stood was 
filled with Japanese vases and fans and drapery, and 
was brilliant with lights. 

“ I wish you’d tell me what all this means,” said 
Elizabeth, standing still just where she had been 
when her cousin released her hand after dragging 
her through the snow to the sidewalk. He turned 
toward her, and then she and Ellen saw that his face 
was very pale. 

“ What did the man say ? What is it ? ” cried 
Ellen, putting out her hand and taking hold of his 
arm. 

“ Nothing : I only want to get you home,” he said, 
moving on as he spoke. 

But now Elizabeth’s slow wrath kindled, and she 
stood quite still. “ I don’t want to be got home,” 
she -said. “ I want to understand a little what you 


mean by treating us as if we were a pair of children 
that you had in charge. 1 want to understand why 
we were hustled out of that stage, and why you think 
it best to order us sent home.” The lights from the 
shop window fell on her face, and she looked very' 
handsome with a high color on her cheeks, and a 
look of hurt feeling in her eyes. 

“ I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” said Tom, humbly, coming 
back to her, for he had started ahead. “ I’m sorry. 
I’m afraid I was rude, but I couldn’t help it. Come 
home, and I’ll tell you all about it.” 

“No,” said Elizabeth, “I will not go home, with 
you at least, until you tell me something more. I 
am quite resolved. I will not be treated like a 
child.” 

“What did the man say ?” cried Ellen. “Can’t 
you tell us, Tom? Did he say anything insulting? 
He wasn’t strong enough to hurt us. What was the 
sense of tearing us out of the stage like that ? ” 

“ Why did you leave him alone ? ” said Elizabeth 
in a tone of reproach, gazing after the stage, which 
was now almost out of sight around the square. “ It 
seems as if you had tried to disregard my wishes 
and hurt my feelings.” 

“ I did all I could to please you- Don’t let us 

stand here any longer in the snow.” 

“ I don’t mind the snow. I don’t mind anything 
but seeing you do such a pagan, heartless thing.” 

“ You needn’t be so hard upon me, for, if you 
must know-” 

“ Yes, I must know-” 

“ The man is dead / ” 

Ellen gave a shrill cry, and clung to her brother’s 
arm, an instant transformation passing over her warm 
face. Elizabeth stepped back and grasped a railing 
—while the color slowly left her face, and a strange 
light filled her eyes. 

“ Are you quite sure ? ” she said at last. 

“ Quite sure,” said Tom, drawing a deep breath. 

“ There is a wound over his temple big enough to 
have killed forty men. He is stone dead ; I took 
hold of his hand : his eyes—don’t make me talk 
about it. I want to get you home.” 

“ What does it all mean ?” said Elizabeth, slowly. 

“ It means foul play—a dirty, cowardly murder— 
three to one. I think if we hadn’t been engrossed 
in talking—they have played a bold game—the vil¬ 
lains—they are all safe by this time—it makes one’s 
blood boil-” 

“You think they murdered him, and devised this 
way of disposing of all traces of the crime, and now 
they have escaped ? What are you going to do ?” 

“ Going to do ? Get you and Ellen home. Come, 
quick.” 

Ellen was crying hysterically now, but Elizabeth 
had come to life and resolution. “ We will go home 
alone,” she said. “You must not think of us. 
Quick, don’t lose a minute ! There’s a cab, jump 
into it, and go.” 

“ Go where ?” he said. 









A Christmas Eve Experience. 


She gave nim a look of amazement, almost of con- ' 
tempt. “ Surely,” she said, “ you don’t mean to let 
this crime go unpunished ? You don’t mean to go 
home and not denounce those wretches? I didn’t 
think you were a coward. I don’t know what to 
understand.” 

“ Understand one thing,” said Tom in a hard 
voice, “ I am going to take you home, and I am 
going to do as I think best about this matter. 
There are some things women do not understand. 
Here is a stage : are you ready to get in ? ” 

“ No, I am not ready to get in. I am not ready 
to go home. Where are Police Headquarters ? I 
will go myself.” 

Here Ellen stopped her sobs, and began to trem¬ 
ble for what might be coming next, in such a world 
of tragedy. 

“ What good could you do ? ” she said to her 
cousin. 

“ W T hat good ? Are we all heathen and cowards, 
to be silent and go home and take care of ourselves 
when such a deed as this is done ? ” 

“ Elizabeth,” said Tom, in a controlled voice, 
coming closer to her, and taking hold also of the rail 
by which she was supporting herself. “ I hope you 
will be reasonable and listen to what I say. The 
man is past help ; his murderers are well on their 
way to safety. I could not identify one of them, 
neither could you. Ellen might. What would be 
the result of going to Headquarters and giving the 
alarm ? You and Ellen dragged into the news¬ 
papers, testifying as witnesses, interviewed by 
reporters, mixed up with an affair no one knows how 
disgraceful and revolting. It was for that reason I 
hurried you out of the stage, for that reason as much 
as to save you from the shock of looking upon the 
dreadful sight. Men know more about these things 
than women ; you would do better to be governed by 
me in this matter. I hope you will go home. The 
police will soon have the affair in charge ; it is their 
business and not ours. We have reason to be thank¬ 
ful that we have no duty in the matter.” 

“ You have not convinced me that we have no duty 
in the matter.” 

“ If I had been alone, my feeling of indignation 
would have got the better of my prudence, and I 
should perhaps have done what you want me to do 
now. But I give you my word, I will not do it now, 
nor will I let Ellen do it. One might be justified in 
sacrificing a woman’s delicacy to save life, but not 
as in this case, to destroy it. You may call it what 
you please, justice and all that, but it is the blood of 
those men you would be demanding. I feel as much 
of a thirst for it as you do, but it costs too much. I 
will not pay my sister for it. You must do as you 
think best. Of course I can only control her actions, 
but you will let me offer you advice.” 

Tom was very pale. Ellen had never heard him 
speak so before. She did not wonder now that she 
had always had to yield to him. Elizabeth was pale 


2 55 

too ; her face was very much changed. The light 
from the shop window fell full upon the group ; 
there was silence for a moment. Elizabeth once 
glanced towards Tom, but his eyes were averted 
from her. 

“ I will go home,” she said without looking at him 
again. The passers-by on the sidewalk jostled 
against them, the snow fell thicker, there was a chill 
in the air that she had not felt before, as she silently 
followed her cousins to the car which had stopped 
for them to enter. 

What a silent party ! Tom never opened his lips. 
Ellen had no encouragement to open hers. When 
they got out of the car, they had a block to walk, the 
very block that they had walked when they went 
out, with Elizabeth in the narrow path, and Tom, 
devoted, close beside her in the snow, and Ellen 
trudging on behind. Now Elizabeth walked on 
alone, and Ellen after her, and Tom brought up the 
rear. At the door of Elizabeth’s house they waited, 
still in silence, till the servant came ; she said good¬ 
night to Ellen and the same to Tom, but their eyes 
did not meet, and the door shut upon her, and they 
walked silently on towards home. It was a lesson 
to Ellen that you must not call a man a coward, even 
if you are his cousin, whatever you may say about 
his being a heathen. 

Elizabeth, when she got into her own room, threw 
off her cloak and sat down by the fire and tried to 
put herself back in imagination to where she had 
been an hour and a half ago. But it seemed impos¬ 
sible. The shock of the night’s occurrence, the 
changed places that she and Tom held towards each 
other, were two things that, in a certain way, she 
never would get over. Elizabeth’s processes of feel¬ 
ing were not rapid. She was not versatile of heart 
like Ellen, possibly, nor vehement and fierce like 
Tom himself. She wanted to be just ; she did not 
desire to be angry. She was sorry to have to change 
her opinion of herself, or of any one, but she was 
willing to do it, if need were, and to acknowledge 
that she had been mistaken. She had always 
thought herself very superior to Tom, though she 
had liked him very much ; yes, she had liked him 
very much—she had been very fond of him in fact, 
she acknowledged to herself. There had been no 
one whom she had been better pleased to know was 
in love with her than Tom. It had seemed natural 
and right that he should be in love with her; she had 
not looked beyond nor reasoned upon its effects 
upon him. Upon her, of course, it was to have no 
effect; such trifles do not affect us. But now. She 
had been roughly treated, ruled, and thrown off by 
him. She had been afraid of his anger. She had 
given up to his authority. Was he a pagan ? He 
wasn’t a coward. Did he possibly know better than 
she did what was right to do in certain cases of 
emergency ? 

She could not think it all out in a moment ; she 
shrank back from the new and strange emotions that 







256 


Treasury of Tales. 


the very thought of such subjection bred in her. 
And then she heard the church clocks striking, and 
knew that Christmas Eve was wearing away to 
Christmas morn, and she reproached herself for 
thinking such thoughts on this holy night. And 
then with a shudder she recalled the figure of the 
murdered man, still rolling along, perhaps, on his 
ghastly ride ; she thought of him, with his outrages 
and wounds, pushed out into the turmoil of the 
streets this peaceful night, when the angels sang of 
good-will and of love. Jostled by eager, careless 
passengers crowding up against him, shaken by the 
noisy lumbering vehicle, sworn at by angry voices, 
gazed at by careless eyes, the murdered man would 
go on unconscious through the whole length of the 
busy, teeming city. The lights from the gay shops 
would glimmer in his eyes, the click of money would 
rattle in his ears ; the laugh of pleasure, the rush of 
commerce, the vehemence of desire, what were they 
all to him ? Past homes where wreaths of holly pro¬ 
claimed the coming feast, where children slept 
beside their Christmas treasures; past churches 
where lights were burning for the midnight mass, 
where flowers were sweet upon the- altar, where 
silence reigned and devotion prepared itself for 
exultation when the Birthday chimes should ring ; 
past stone and iron fortresses of Mammon, silent as 
the grave till the festival was over ; past wagons 
loaded down with the holiday’s necessities ; past 
belated travellers, hurrying guests, winding down 
through the great city’s greatest thoroughfare, on its 
busiest, greatest night—what was it all to him ? Poor 
corpse, pushed and thrust ; poor human chrysalis, 
from which the living thing had crept forth silently, 
and fluttered into space ! 

From the deep mystery of the soul’s release, the 
worthlessness and yet the sacredness of the body that 
it leaves, her thoughts turned to the guilty men hiding 
in dark places, or hurrying from pursuit ; the stain 
of sin, the quake of fear, the bitterness of remorse 
or the stolidness of habitual evil, their lifelong 
earthly doom. She thought of them all, murdered 
and murderers, as little children sleeping on some 
Christmas Eve long years ago, with hands under 
soft round cheeks on peaceful pillows, watched 
over by mothers who, perhaps, had lived to see 
this shame and blight. Hundreds of children were 
sleeping to-night in the great city, hundreds of 
mothers were watching so and hoping all things 
for the children of their love. %Was it all inevit¬ 
able, the yoke of sin, the blight of hope ? 

As she had sat reading her pious little book by 
the fire a few hours ago, she had felt as if all the 
stars were singing together of the birth of Christ, as 
if all the lands were crowding together round His 
cradle to do homage to their Infant King. The 
happy voices of children, the glow of contented 
firesides, the roll of majestic anthems, had filled her 
young imagination and made her ideal Christmas 
fair. Now all was invaded by this discord ; deep 


abysses opened before her ; dark questionings crept 
into her mind, the mystery of evil laid its first grasp 
upon her faith. But when, “ in the dark before the 
dawn,” she stood among the worshippers in church, 
and heard the Gloria i?i Excelsis sung, she felt as if 
she knew better than she had known before what 
peace and good-will meant, and why the angels 
sang. The Christmas of youth and dream and sen¬ 
timent was gone ; but the Christmas of the height 
and depth and strength of love divine was come, 
the Christmas proposed to faith, shrouded in thick 
clouds below, but glorious with light ineffable above. 

4 : # 

Ellen had her theatre party the next week, but 
Elizabeth was not asked to be of it. In fact, about 
those days, Ellen got a good many more indulgences 
than usual. It has been remarked by thoughtful 
observers, that an important agent in the ameliora¬ 
tion of the condition of sisters, is a brother’s quarrel 
with his sweetheart. Tom was very silent and 
stayed at home a good deal in the evenings of this 
winter, and sat by the fire and pulled his moustache 
and listened to all Ellen had to tell him of where 
she had been and whom she had seen through the 
day. Like a virtuous and self-sacrificing little per¬ 
son, she tried once or twice.to make peace, to tell him 
that Elizabeth seemed to her to be looking pale and 
out of spirits ; to ask him to take her to see Elizabeth, 
on some ingenious, yet too palpable pretext. But 
Tom was so hard and unrelenting that she was 
frightened and ceased to flutter her little flags of 
truce before him ; though he was so much nicer 
about other things, he was inexorable in this, and the 
whole winter passed without a sign that he abated 
any of his rancor. 

It was in Easter-week that the three cousins met 
for the first time since Christmas Eve under the same 
roof. The roof was a hospitable one, and the occasion 
festive, but nothing seemed to melt Tom’s hard 
heart. He did not go near his cousin all the even¬ 
ing, nor even seek to meet her eye. Elizabeth, 
heartsore from his unkindness, was glad when the 
evening came near its end and she could go away. 
As she came up the stairs, she saw Tom standing, 
glum, at the door of the gentlemen’s dressing-room, 
waiting for Ellen, who was dancing yet. When he 
saw Elizabeth, he retreated into the room, never 
looking up. 

It was early, no one else was getting ready to go. 
Elizabeth went into her dressing-room and put on 
her wraps by herself, for even the maid had gone 
below to gaze at the festivities. She went out into 
the hall and looked about her, then going towards 
the door of the room where Tom was, she said aloud, 
or what was meant to be aloud : 

“ Tom ! ” 

The music was sounding below, and she had to 
repeat it, before he came. Then she retreated a 
step towards the door of the room from which she 





Pete Shivershee s Miracle. 


2 57 


had come, and put her hand on the baluster, for it 
must be acknowledged that she trembled a little. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said, coldly. “ Did you 
call me ? ” 

She had some white fluffy thing on her head which 
was very becoming, and she held her white cloak 
together with one hand at the throat, while with the 
other, as has been said, she steadied herself by the 
railing. 

“ I haven’t had a chance to ask you—it’s so long 
since I've seen you—did you ever hear anything 
about—about that awful thing last Christmas ? I’ve 
often wondered if ever anything came out.” 

“ I never saw anything but a paragraph or two in 
the papers. I presume you saw the same.” 

“ Yes ; I didn’t know but that you’d heard some¬ 
thing more.” 

“ Nothing whatever.” 

A pause ; during which Elizabeth had ample time 
to repent of what she had done, and Tom had 
leisure to enjoy his saturnine revenge. It seemed 
endless, but it probably did not last longer than two 
minutes. 

“ Tom,” said Elizabeth, abruptly, “ do you think 
you have been—nice—to me, this winter ? ” 

She raised her eyes to him, and met his for a 
moment. The dull, hard stone within him melted. 

“ I have been a great fool,” he murmured, leaning 
towards her. “ Can you forgive me, ever ? ” 

“ Why—yes,” she said, slowly, while a mist of 
tears came into her eyes, and a sort of sob rose in 
her throat. “ But it has been a great pity-” 

He bent over her hand. “ I have been miserable 
enough,” he said, huskily, “if that makes it any 
better.” 

Then some people came up the stairs, chattering 
and laughing shrilly, and Elizabeth took away her 
hand and drew her cloak about her. 

“ Let me go home in the carriage with you,” he 
whispered eagerly. “ Ellen won’t be ready yet for 
half an hour. I can come back for her.” 

They went down the stairs in a sort of maze, the 
music floating up to them, the gay sights all a mist. 
But Elizabeth was the soberer, and the superior, 
as was natural and proper. In the hall below, she 
caught sight of Ellen, and sent Tom to tell her that 
he was coming back for her. 

“ I’m going home with Elizabeth, and I shall come 
back for you. You can dance for half an hour 
longer if you choose.” 

Though the tone was lordly, his face told the 
story : a story so old that all the world knows it, and 
yet so new that all the world stops to listen to it with 
involuntary sympathy—perhaps with envy, always 
with remembrance, sometimes with regret. 



PETE SHIVERSHEE’S MIRACLE. 

A CHRISTMAS STORY OF THE MICHIGAN PINE 
WOODS. 

BY HERBERT W. COLLINGWOOD. 

I. • 

HE moon was just peeping over the pines as 
Pete Shivershee slunk down the road from 
the lumber camp into the forest. Pete did 
not present a surpassingly dignified appearance as 
he skulked through the clearing, but he was not a 
very dignified person even at his best. 

Most persons would have said, I think, that Pete’s 
method of departure was hardly appropriate for one 
who had been selected by the citizens of Carter’s Camp 
to go on an important mission. But Pete had his own 
reasons for his actions. He crept along behind the 
stumps and logs till he reached the forest. Then, 
as if the shadow gave him fresh courage and dig¬ 
nity, he drew himself upright, and started at a sharp 
trot down the road towards the village. 

We have said that Pete had reasons for his con¬ 
duct. They were good ones. In the first place, he 
was an Indian. Not a “ noble son of the forest,” 
such as Cooper loved to picture, but a mean, dirty, 
yellow-faced “ Injun." Lazy and worthless, picking 
up a living about the lumber camps, working as little 
as he could, and eating and drinking as much as 
possible : such was the messenger. The mission was 
worse yet. 

It was Christmas Eve. The snow covered the 
ground, and the ice had stilled for the time the 
mouth of the roaring river. It was Saturday night 
as well ; and for some time past the lumbermen had 
been considering the advisability of keeping the good 
old holiday with some form of celebration suited to 
the occasion. 

The citizens of Carter’s Camp were not remark¬ 
ably fastidious. They knew but one form of cele¬ 
bration, and they had no thought of hunting out 
new ones. The one thing needful to make a cele¬ 
bration completely successful was—whiskey. This 
they must have in order to do justice to the day. 

The temperance laws of Carter’s were very strict. 
Not that the moral sentiment of the place was par¬ 
ticularly high, but it had been noticed that the 
amounts of labor and whiskey were in inverse pro¬ 
portion. The more whiskey, the less labor. It 
was a pure question of political economy. The fore¬ 
man had often stated* that he would prosecute to the 
fullest extent of the^law the first man caught bring¬ 
ing whiskey into camp. The foreman did not at¬ 
tempt, perhaps, to deny that his knowledge of the 
law was somewhat crude. He had forcibly stated, 
however, that should a case be brought before him, 
he would himself act as judge and jury, while his 
fist and foot would take the place of witness and 
counsel. There was something so terrible in this 
statement, coming as it did from the largest man in 
camp, that very little whiskey had thus far been 








258 


Treasury of Tales. 


brought in. The amount per capita was far below 
that at much more enlightened places. The friends 
of prohibition might have made a strong argument 
from the state of society at Carter’s. 

But now that Christmas had come, it seemed fit¬ 
ting that the Carterites should show their colors. It 
had been understood all along that when Christmas 
came they should strive to make up for their tem¬ 
perance in one grand celebration. They proposed 
to enjoy the society of a friend and counsellor from 
which they had shut themselves so long. A self-ap¬ 
pointed committee, consisting of a few choice spirits, 
had made all the necessary arrangements, but a se¬ 
rious hitch in affairs had taken place. The supply 
teamster had been bribed to secure the stimulant, 
and had been provided with a large jug in which to 
carry it. He had left the jug at his favorite bar¬ 
room, but in the rush of business incident to the col¬ 
lection of his load he had actually forgotten it. 

It was a great shame ; but, as Bill Gammon philo¬ 
sophically remarked, “ ’twont do no good ter whine 
about it, ’specially when we kin git it yet.” 

Bill did not intend to be beaten by any ordinary 
combination of circumstances. He at once proposed 
that Pete Shivershee—the “ Injun”—be sent after 
the whiskey. 

This proposition did not meet with universal fa¬ 
vor. “ Injuns” were not considered as being entire¬ 
ly responsible persons at Carter’s Camp. To send 
an “ Injun” to bring back a quantity of whiskey was 
too much like sending a horse to bring back a 
basket of corn. 

But there was little chance for argument after all. 
Pete was the only man in camp who could make 
the distance in time, for if he could do nothing else 
he could run. He might return with a portion of 
his load at least. Either they must go without their 
treat, or trust to Pete. 

The first idea was not to be thought of, and so, 
at length, the proposal was accepted. 

Bill found Pete curled up by the stove. He took 
him out of doors and explained the business in hand. 
Bill prided himself somewhat on his ability to “ git 
work out of Injuns.” As the attempted solution of 
this same question has cost our Government consid¬ 
erable time and money, perhaps Bill’s thoughts on the 
subject may be of some service in shaping our “ In¬ 
dian policy.” After stating tersely and forcibly the 
business on hand, Bill said : “ Look here, Injun, ef 
ye hump yerself betwixt this an’^town with thet whis¬ 
key, ye kin jine in the fun like a white man ; but ef 
ye gits drunk on the way or fools around, I’ll lick 
ye till ye can’t see. Now git a goin.’ ” 

The reader should pause for a moment and con¬ 
template the great inducement held out to Pete to 
return in safety with the whiskey. The “ Injun” 
that could not restrain his appetite for the sake of be¬ 
coming intoxicated with a party of superior white 
men was certainly past all hope. 

Pete muttered only “ all right.” He took the 


money Bill gave him, and then slunk away down the 
road for the forest, as we have seen him. 

II. 

Bill felt so confident of the success of his experi¬ 
ment that he did not hesitate to inform the boys 
that Pete was “ dead sure ” to return. He would 
stake his reputation upon it. 

“ Thet Injun will bring thet whiskey back all right. 
Thar aint nothin’ but a mirrykil thet kin stop him, 
an’ mirrykils aint strikin’ no Injuns this year.” 

The crowd received this block of logic in silence. 
It was far too deep and tough for them to split. 

Pete was in a hard position. If he loved anything 
in this world, it was whiskey. If there was anything 
he feared, it was Bill’s fist. The two were sure to 
go together. The money jingling in his pocket 
suggested unlimited pleasures, but over every one 
hung Bill’s hard fist. It was a severe struggle, but 
the fist conquered ; as Bill had said, nothing but a 
miracle could stop him. Pete ran several miles 
through the forest, till, turning a corner of the road, 
he came upon a little clearing in which stood a small 
log house. Pete knew the place well. Here lived 
Jeff Hunt with his little French wife, and their troop 
of children. 

Jeff was a person of little importance by the side 
of his wfife, though, like all “lords of creation,” he 
considered himself the legal and proper head of the 
family, as well as one of the mainstays of society. 
His part of the family government consisted for the 
most part in keeping the house supplied with wood 
and water, and in smoking his comfortable pipe in 
the corner, while his wife bent over her tub. 

Mrs. Hunt was the only woman near the camp, 
and so all the laundry work fell to her. Laundry 
work in the pine woods implies mending and darn¬ 
ing as well as washing and ironing, and the poor 
little woman had her hands full of work surely. It 
was rub, rub, rub, day after day, over the steaming 
tub, with the children running about like little wolves, 
and Jeff kindly giving his advice from his comfort¬ 
able corner. And even after the children were in 
bed at night, she must sit up and mend the clean 
clothes. 

What a pack of children there were ! How rough 
and strong they seemed, running about all day, all 
but poor little Marie, the oldest. She had never 
been strong, and now at last she was dying of con¬ 
sumption. She could not sit up at all, but lay all 
day on the little bed in the corner, watching her 
mother with sad, beautiful eyes. 

The brave little Frenchwoman’s heart almost 
failed her at times, as she saw how day by day the 
little form grew thinner, the eyes more beautiful, the 
cheeks more flushed. She knew the signs too well, 
but there was nothing she could do. 

Pete was a regular visitor at Jeff’s and always a 
welcome one. His work was to carry the washing 
to and from camp. He came nearer to feeling like 








Pete Shivershees Miracle. 


259 


a man at Jeff’s house than at any other place he 
knew of. Everyone but Mrs. Hunt and little Marie 
called him only “ Injun,” but they always said “ Mr. 
Shivershee.” The “ Meester Shivershee ” of the little 
Frenchwoman was the nearest claim to respectability 
that Pete felt able to make. One night while carry¬ 
ing home the clothes he dropped them in the mud. 
He never minded the whipping Bill Gammon gave 
him half as much as he did poor Mrs. Hunt’s tears, 
to think how her work had gone for nothing. 

As Pete came trotting down the road, Jeff stood 
in front of his house chopping stove-wood from a 
great log. A lantern, hung on a stump, provided 
light for his purpose. Pete stopped from sheer 
force of habit in front of the house, and Jeff, glad of 
any chance to interrupt his work, paused to talk 
with him. 

“Walk in, Injun,” said Jeff, hospitably. “Yer 
clo’es aint quite ready, but the woman will hev ’em 
all up soon—walk in.” 

It suddenly oame over Pete that this was his night 
for taking the clothes home, but his present errand 
was of far more importance than mere laundry work. 

“ Me no stop. I goin’ ter town. Great work. 
Large bizness.” By which vague hints he meant no 
doubt to impress Jeff with a sense of the dignity of 
his mission, and yet cunningly to keep its object 
concealed. 

“ Goin’ to town, be ye ? Great doin’s ter camp 
ter-morrer, I s’pose. I’ll be round ef I kin git away, 
but walk in, Injun, an’ git yer supper, an’ see the 
wimmin,” and Jeff opened the door for Pete to pass 
in. 

The thought of supper was too much for Pete, 
and he slunk in after Jeff and stood in the corner by 
the door. The room was hardly an inviting one, 
and yet if Pete had been a white man some thoughts 
of “ home sweet home ” must have passed through 
his mind. But he was only a despised “ Injun.” 

A rough board table was laid for supper at one 
side of the room. In the corner little Marie lay with 
the firelight falling over her poor thin face. Pete 
must have felt, as he looked at her, like some hope¬ 
less convict gazing through his prison bars upon some 
fair saint passing before him. She seemed to be in 
another world than his ; there seemed between 
them a gulf that could not be bridged. Three of the 
larger children were sobbing in the corner, while the 
rest formed a sorrowful group about an old box in 
which were two or three simple plants frozen and 
yellow. Mrs. Hunt was frying pork over the hot 
stove. As she looked up at Pete, he noticed that 
she had been crying. 

Jeff was the very prince of hosts. He made haste 
to make Pete feel at home. 

“ Set by, Injun. So the boys is goin’ ter kinder 
cellybrate ter-morrer, be they ? ” 

But Pete felt that his mission must not be dis¬ 
closed. “ What matter is with kids ? ” he asked, to 
change the subject. 


“ Oh, they’re jest a-yellin’ about them flowers,” 
explained Jeff. “Ye see they hev ben a-trainin’ 
some posies in-doors against ter-morrer, ye know. 
Ter-morrer’s Christmas, ye see, an them kids they hed 
an idee they’d hev sum flowers fer ter dekerate thet 
corner where the little gal is. Little gals, when 
they aint well, like sech things, ye know.” 

Pete nodded. He was not aware of this love of 
diminutive females, but it would not show very 
good breeding to appear ignorant. 

“Wall, ye see,” continued Jeff, “they kep the 
flowers away from the little gal, meanin’ ter s’prise 
her like. But jest this afternoon they gut ketched 
by the frost, an’ now there they be stiffer’n stakes. 
It is kinder bad, aint it—’specially ez it’s Christmas, 
too ? ” 

“ What Crissmus ? ” put in Pete. 

“ Oh, Christmas ? Wall, it’s a sorter day like. It’s 
somethin’ like other days, an’ yet it aint. But then, 
Injun, I don’t s’pose ye would understand ef I wuz 
ter tell ye.” And Jeff concealed his own ignorance, 
as many wiser and better men have done, by assum¬ 
ing a tone too lofty for his audience. 

But Mrs. Hunt could explain, even if Jeff could 
not. She paused on the way to the stove with a dish 
of pork in her hand. 

“ It eez the day of the good Lord, Meester Shiver¬ 
shee. It eez the day when the good Lord he was 
born, and when all people should be glad.” But the 
little woman belied her own creed as she thought of 
little Marie and the dead flowers. 

I hardly think Pete gained a very clear idea of the 
day, even from Mrs. Hunt’s explanation. It was, I 
fear, all Greek to him. 

“ What flowers fer ? ” he asked, as, in response to 
Jeff’s polite invitation, he “sat by” and began 
supper. 

“ Wall, it’s a sorter idee of the wimmin, ” ex¬ 
plained Jeff. “ Looks kinder pooty to see flowers 
round ; ye see, kinder slicks up a room, like. All 
these things hez ter come'inter keepin’ house, ye see, 
Injun.” With which broad explanation Jeff helped 
himself to a piece of pork. 

But Mrs. Hunt was bound to explain too. Her 
explanation was certainly more poetic. 

“ It eez the way we show our love for the good 
Lord, Meester Shivershee. What is more beautiful 
than the flowers ? We take the flowers, and with 
much love we place them upon the walls, and we 
make others happy with them, and the good Lord, 
who loves us all, he is pleased, ”—but here, seeing 
the sobbing children and the frozen plants, she could 
not help wiping her eyes upon her apron. 

The little sufferer on the bed saw this action. Her 
voice was almost gone. “ Never mind, Mamma,” she 
whispered ; but the beautiful eyes were filled with 
tears, for she knew that Mamma would mind—that 
she could not help it. 

Pete listened to all this attentively. “ Injun ” that 
he was, of course he could not understand it all, and 








26 o 


Treasury of Tales. 


yet he could hardly help seeing something of the 
sorrow that the loss of the flowers had brought upon 
the family. He finished his supper, and then slunk 
out at the door again. Jeff followed Him out. 

“ Little gal ever git well ? asked Pete. 

“No; I don’t s’pose she will,” answered Jeff. 
“ There aint no hopes held out fer her. Makes it 
kinder bad, ye see. Nice, clever little gal as ever 
lived too. Stop in an’ git yer clo’es when ye come 
back, will ye ? ” 

“ All right,” muttered Pete, as he trotted away 
towards the town. 

III. 

I wonder what Pete was thinking about as he ran 
through the forest. An “ Injun’s” thoughts on any 
ordinary subject cannot be very deep, yet when one 
comes from such a scene as Pete had just witnessed, 
and when such sad eyes as Marie’s haunt one all 
along a lonely road, even an “ Injun’s ” thoughts 
must be worth noticing. Let us imagine what Pete’s 
thoughts were as he shuffled mile after mile through 
the snow. The scene he had just left rose before 
his dulled “Injun” mind. How kind Mrs. Hunt 
had always been to him ! She was the only one that 
called him “ Mister.” How queer it was that the 
children should cry because the flowers were killed ! 
How little Marie had looked at him ! Somehow Pete 
could not drive those sad eyes away. They seemed 
to be looking at him from every stump, from every 
tree. They were filled with tears now—could it be 
because the flowers were frozen ? 

It is no wonder that when at last the few linger¬ 
ing village lights came into view, Pete was wonder¬ 
ing how he cofdd help matters out. 

It was quite late, and most of the shops were 
closed. Only here and there some late worker 
showed a light. The bar-rooms were open full 
blast, and as Pete glided down the sawdust street it 
needed all the remembrance of Bill’s fist to keep 
him from parting with a portion of the jingling 
money for an equal amount of good cheer. But 
the fist had the best of it, and he went straight on to 
the last bar-room. Surely Bill was right. Nothing 
but a miracle could stop him. 

But the miracle was performed, and when Pete 
least expected it. 

Pete knew better than to go into the front door 
of the bar-room. He knew how well he and all his 
race are protected by the Government. It had been 
decided that no one should be allowed to sell liquor 
to an “ Injur.,’ —at least at the regular bar. If an 
“ Injun,” however, could so far lose sight of his 
personal dignity as to come sneaking in at the back 
door, and pay an extra price for his liquor, whose 
business was it ? 

Pete knew the way of bar-tenders. He had been 
in the business before. He did not go in at the 
front door where the higher-bred white men were 
made welcome, but slunk down an alley by the side 
of the building, meaning to go in the back way. 


There was no light in the store next the bar-room. 

It was a milliner’s store and had been closed for 
some hours. But in the back room two women 
were working away anxious to finish a hat, evidently 
intended for some village belle’s Christmas. Pete 
stopped in the dark alley for a moment to watch 
them. 

A man sat asleep in a chair by the stove, but the 
women worked on with tireless fingers. The hat 
was growing more and more brilliant under their 
quick touches. By their side stood a basket of arti¬ 
ficial flowers and bright ribbons. It seemed to Pete 
that he had never before seen anything so beautiful. 
Here were flowers—why could he not get some for 
the little sick girl ? 

It was a severe struggle for the poor “ Injun,” out 
there in the dark alley. The thought of the thrash¬ 
ing he would receive on the one hand, and the sad 
eyes of Marie on the other. What could he do ? 
But even an “ Injun ’’can remember a kindness. It 
may have been a miracle, or it may have been just 
the out-cropping of the desire to repay a kindness 
which even an “ Injun ” is said to possess. At any 
rate the eyes conquered, and Pete braved the fist of 
Bill. For fear that he should lose courage, he pushed 
against the door of the room, and entered without t 
ceremony. 

There was a great commotion, I can assure you. 
The idea of an “ Injun ” pushing his way into the 
back parlor of a milliner’s shop was too much of a 
revolutionary proceeding to pass unnoticed. The 
women dropped their work with a little scream, 
while the man started from his chair with most vio¬ 
lent intent upon poor Pete. 

“What be ye after here, ye denied Injun?” he 
growled. “ Hump yerself outer here—-git a-goin’! ” 

But Pete pulled out his money, at the sight of 
which the standing army of the milliner’s store 
paused. Money has smoothed over many an out¬ 
rage. It might perhaps excuse even such an action 
on the part of an “ Injun.” 

“ I want flowers,” Pete said, pointing to the bas¬ 
ket. “ Give me flowers—I pay.” 

“ Oh, ye wanter buy sum of them artyficial flowers, 
do ye ? This is a pooty time o’ night ter come flower 
huntin’ ain’t it ? Jest pick out yer flowers, an’ then 
climb out ! ”—and he held the basket out at arm’s 
length for Pete to select. 

Pete took a great red rose, and a white unnamable 
flower. There was not very much of a stock to se¬ 
lect from, but Pete, with “ Injun ” instinct, selected 
the largest and gaudiest. 

“ Them is wurth about ten shillins,” figured up the 
merchant, taking the money from Pete’s hand. 

Pete carefully placed the flowers in the pocket of 
his ragged coat, and started for the door. The mil¬ 
liner’s man, rendered affable by the most surprising 
bargain he had just made, naturally wished to retain 
the patronage of such a model customer. 

“Want anything in our line, Injun, jest call round 





26 i 


The Old Man s Christmas. 


an' we’ll please ye. Only come a little afore bed¬ 
time when ye come again.” But Pete slunk out at 
the door and did not hear him. 

Pete’s money was nearly gone, but he had a 
scheme in his head. He slunk in at the back door 
of the bar-room, and obtained his jug, and what 
whiskey he could buy with the rest of his money. 
Then up the street he ran again, out of town, stop¬ 
ping only once at the pump to fill the jug to the top 
with water. Resolutely fastening in the stopper, 
and not even raising the jug to his mouth, he started 
for camp at his long, swinging trot, with the jug in 
his hand. Mile after mile was passed over, yet Pete 
did not stop till Jeff Hunt’s cabin came in sight. 
Hiding his jug behind a log, he crept up to the 
window and looked in. 

The light was burning on the table, where Mrs. 
Hunt sat nodding over her work. She had been 
mending the clothes so that Pete could take them 
back with him. Tired out, she had fallen asleep. 
The box of frozen plants still stood by the table. 
Pete grinned as he saw them, thinking of the great 
flowers in his pocket. Marie was asleep. Over her 
head were hung long clusters of moss, with masses 
of ground pine and red berries. 

Pete stole to the door and went in. Mrs. Hunt 
woke with a start, but at sight of Pete smiled in her 
weary way. Pete made up his bundle of clothes, 
and then pulled out the great red rose and the 
white flower. He laid them on the table with— 
“ Flowers fer little gal. Sick. Make her think 
Crissmus. Good flowers. All color. No fade. 
No smell. No wear out.” Then, catching up his 
bundle, he slunk away without waiting for Mrs. 
Hunt’s thanks. 

IV. 

When Bill Gammon woke in the morning, he 
found the jug of watered whiskey at the foot of his 
bunk. But Pete was nowhere to be seen. He had 
left the jug and fled. 

The Christmas celebration at Carter’s was a very 
tame affair. Many were the curses showered upon 
Pete, and had that worthy been present, I doubt if 
even the thought of the famous miracle would have 
sustained him in the beating he would have received. 

Bill Gammon was for once without an explanation. 

“ The mirrykil must hev struck him,” he mused, 
“but I’m derned ef I wouldn’t like ter know what it 
wuz.” 

But if the miracle produced such a sad effect upon 
the festivities at Carter’s, the joy it caused at Jeff 
Hunt’s cabin made matters even, I think. 

The glad Christmas sun, glad with the promise of 
the “old, old story,” came dancing and sparkling 
over the trees, and looked down in wonderful ten¬ 
derness upon the humble cabin. The first bright 
beams fell upon the bed where little Marie was lying. 
They showed her the rose and the white flower nest¬ 
ling in the evergreens. The children came and 


stood in wonder before the rude flowers. How won¬ 
derful they were ! Where could they have come 
from ? 

The face of the little girl was more patient than 
before. The eyes seemed more tender, and yet not 
so sad. Perhaps the glad sun, the same good sun 
that had looked upon that far-away tomb from which 
the stone had rolled, whispered to her, as it played 
about her face, how soon the stone wo*uld roll from 
her life ; how soon she would forget all her care and 
trouble, and enter the land of sunshine and flowers. 
It may be that the good old Christmas sun even 
hunted out poor despised Pete, and told him some¬ 
thing of its happiness. I am sure he deserved it. 
Let us hope so at any rate. 


THE OLD MAN’S CHRISTMAS. 

BY ELLA WHEELER. 

I. 

T HOUGH there was wrong on both sides, they 
never would have separated had it not been 
for the old man. 

He was Ben’s father, and Ben was an only child— 
a spoiled, selfish, high-tempered lad, who had grown 
up with the idea that his father, Anson English', or 
the “old man,” as his dutiful son called him, was 
much richer than he really was, and that he had no 
need of any personal effort—any object in life, aside 
from the pursuit of pleasure. 

Ben’s mother had died when he was fifteen years 
old and his father had never married again. Yet 
it was not any allegiance to her memory which 
had kept Anson English from a second marriage. 
He remembered her, to be sure, and scarcely a day 
passed without his mentioning her. But after her 
death, as during her weary life, he used her name as 
a synonym for all that was undesirable. He com¬ 
pared everybody to “ ’Liz’beth,” and always to her 
disadvantage. He had a word of praise and en¬ 
couragement and approval for every housewife in 
the neighborhood except—his own. Whatever went 
wrong, in doors or out, “ ’Liz’beth ” was the direct or 
indirect cause. 

During the first five years of her married life, 
Elizabeth made strenuous exertions to please her 
husband. She wept her sweet eyes dim over her 
repeated failures. Then she found that she had 
been attempting an impossible labor, and grew pas¬ 
sively indifferent—an indifference which lasted until 
death kindly released her. 

Elizabeth had been a tidy housekeeper during 
these first years. 

“You’d scrub and scour a man out ’er house an’ 
home ! ” was all the praise her husband gave her for her 
order and cleanliness; and to his neighbors, to whom 
he was fond of paying informal visits, he would often 











262 


Treasury of Tales. 


say—“ ’Liz’beth’s at it again—sweepin’ and cleanin’, 
so I cleared out. Never see her without a broom in 
her hand. I’d a good deal rather have a little more 
dirt, than so much tearin’ ’round. ’Liz’beth tires me, 
with her ways.” 

Yet, when in the indifference of despair which 
seized upon Elizabeth before her death, she allowed 
her house to t look after itself, Anson was no better 
satisfied. 

“ I’ve come over to find a place to set down,” he 
would tell his neighbors. “ ’Liz’beth’s let things 
’cumulate, till the house is a sight to see—she’s get- 
tin’ dreadful slack, somehow. A man likes order 
when he goes home to rest from all his cares.” 

Even when she died she displeased him by choos¬ 
ing a busy season for the occasion. 

“ Just like ’Liz’beth, to die in hayin’ time,” he said. 
“ Everything got to stop—hay spoilin’—men idle. 
Women never seem to have no system about work 
matters—no power of plannin’ things, to make it 
convenient like for men folks.” 

Yet after she was gone, Anson found how much 
help she had been to him, how wonderful her econ¬ 
omy had been, how light her expenditures. He knew 
he could never find any one to replace her, in these 
respects, and as money considerations were the main 
ones in his mind he believed it would be the better 
economy to remain a widower, and hire his work 
done. 

So during those most critical years of Ben’s life, 
he had been without a woman’s guidance or care. 

At eighteen he was all that arrogance, conceit, sel¬ 
fishness, and high-temper could render him. Yet he 
was a favorite with the fair sex for all that, as he had 
a manly figure, and a warm, caressing way when he 
chose, that won their admiration and pleased their 
vanity. 

Anson English favored early marriages, and be¬ 
gan to think it would be better all around if Ben 
should bring a wife home. 

She could do the work better than hired help, and 
keep the money all in the family. And Ben would 
not waste his time and means on half a dozen, as he 
was now doing, but would stay at home, no doubt, 
and settle down into a sensible, practical business 
man. Yes, Ben ought to marry, and his father told 
him so. 

Ben smiled. 

“ I’m already thinking of it,” he said. He had ex¬ 
pected opposition from his father, and was surprised 
at his suggestion. 

“Yes,” continued the “old man,” as Ben already 
designated him, “ I’d like to see you settled down 
before you’re twenty-one. But you want to make a 
good choice. There’s Abby Wilson, now. She’s 
got the muscle of a man, and ain’t afraid of anything. 
And her father has a fine property—a growin’ 
property. Abby’ll make a man a good, vigorous 
help-mate, and she’ll bring him money in time. 
You’d better shine up to Abby, Ben.” 


Ben gave a contemptuous laugh. “ I’d as soon 
marry a dressed-up boy,” he said. “ She’s more 
like a boy than a girl in her looks and in her ways. 
1 have other plans in my mind, father, more to my 
taste. I mean to marry Edith Gilman, if she’ll take 
me, and I think she will.” 

A dark frown contracted Anson English’s brow. 

“ Edith Gilman ? ” he repeated ; “ why that puny 
school ma’m, with her baby face and weak voice ’ll 
never help you to get a livin’, Ben. What are you 
thinkin’ of ? ” 

“ Of love, father. I guess. I love her, and that’s 
all there is of it. And I shall marry her, if she’ll 
take me, and you can like it or lump it, as you 
please. She’s a good girl, and if she’s treated well 
all round, she’ll make a good wife, and she’s the 
only woman that can put the check rein on me, 
when I get in my tempers. She’ll make a man of 
me yet.” 

“ But she can’t work,” insisted his father. “ She 
looks as white and puny as ’Liz’beth did the year she 
died.” 

“ She’s overworked in the school-room. I mean 
to take her home, and give her a rest. 1 don’t ask 
any woman to marry me and be my drudge. I ex¬ 
pect my wife will keep help.” 

The old man groaned aloud. Ben’s ideas were 
positively ruinous. If he married this girl, it would 
add to, not decrease, the family expenses. But it 
was useless to oppose. Ben would do as he pleased, 
the old man saw that plainly, and he might as well 
submit. 

He did submit, and Ben married Edith on his 
twenty-first birthday, and brought her home. 

II. 

Edith was a quiet little creature, with a soft voice, 
and a pale, sweet face, and frail figure. She came 
up to Anson English when she entered the house, 
and put her hands timidly upon his arms. 

“ I want you to love me,” she said ; “ I have had 
no father or mother since I can remember. 1 want 
to call you father, and I want to make you happy if 
I can.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you how,” the old man retorted. 
“ Discharge the hired girl, and make good bread. 
That ’ll make me happy,” — and he laughed 
harshly. 

Edith shrank from his rough words, so void of the 
sympathy and love she longed for. But she dis¬ 
charged the girl within a week, and tried to make 
good bread. It was not a success, however, and 
the old man was not slow to express his dissatisfac¬ 
tion. Edith left the table in tears. 

“ Another dribbler—’Liz’beth was always a cryin’ 
just that way over every little thing,” sighed the 
old man. 

Edith eventually conquered the difficulties of 
bread making, and became a famous cook. But she 





The Old Man's Christmas. 


263 


did not please her husband’s father any the better 
by this achievement. 

“ ^ ou’re always a fixin’ up some new sort of trash 
for the table,” he said to her one day. “ Dessert is 
it, you call it ? ’Nuff to make a man’s patience de¬ 
sert him, to see sugar and flour wasted so. ’Liz’beth 
liked your fancy cooking, but I cured her of it.” 

“ Yes, and you killed her, too,” cried Edith, for 
the first time since her marriage losing control of 
her temper, and answering back. “ Everybody says 
you worried her into the grave. But you won’t suc¬ 
ceed so well with me. I will live just to defy you, 
if no more. And I’ll show you that I’ll not bear 
everything, too.” 

It was all over in a moment, and it was not repeat¬ 
ed. Indeed, Edith was kinder and gentler and more 
submissive in her manner after that for days, as sweet 
natures always are when they have once broken 
over the rules which govern their lives. 

Yet the old man always spoke of Edith as a vi¬ 
rago after that. 

“ She’s worse’n ’Liz’beth,” he said, “ and she had a 
temper of her own at times that would just singe 
things.” 

Ben passed most of his evenings and a good part 
of his days at the village “ store.” He came home 
the worse for drink occasionally, and he was abso¬ 
lutely indifferent to all the work and care of the 
farm and family. 

“ She’s just like ’Liz’beth,” the old man said to 
his neighbors ; “ she don’t make home entertainin’ 
for her husband. But Ben isn’t balanced like me, 
and he goes wrong. He’s excitable. I never was. 
The right kind of a woman could keep him at 
home.” 

After a child came to them matters seemed 
to mend for a time. So long as the infant lay pink 
and helpless in its mother’s arms, or in its crib, it was 
a bond to unite them all. 

So soon as it began to be an active child, with 
naughty ways which needed correction, it was an¬ 
other element of discord. 

The old man did not think Edith capable of con¬ 
trolling the child, and Ben was hasty and harsh, and 
he did not like to hear the baby cry. So he stayed 
more and more at the store, and was an object of 
fear to the child and of reproach to the mother 
when he did return. 

They drifted farther apart, and the old man con¬ 
stantly widened the breach between them. They 
had been married six years, and the baby girl was 
four years old, when Ben struck Edith a blow, one 
day, and told her to take her'child and leave the 
house. 

In less than an hour she had gone, no one knew 
whither. 

“ She’ll come back, more’s the pity,” the old man 
said. “ ’Liz’beth, she started off to leave me once, 
but she concluded to come back and try it over 
again.” 


But Edith did not come back. Months afterwards 
they heard of her in a distant part of the State teach¬ 
ing school and supporting her child. 

Ben applied for a divorce on the plea of desertion. 
Edith never appeared against him, and he obtained 
it. 

III. 

One year from the time Edith left him, he mar¬ 
ried Abby Wilson. She had grown into a voluptuous 
though coarse maturity, and was dashing in dress and 
manner. Her father had recently died, leaving her 
a fine property. She had always coveted Ben, and 
did not delay the nuptials from any sense of delicacy, 
but rather hastened the hour which should make him 
legally her own. 

The old man was highly pleased at the turn af¬ 
fairs had taken. After all these years Ben was 
united to the woman he had chosen for him so long 
ago, and now surely Ben would settle down, and 
take the care off his shoulders—shoulders which 
were beginning to feel the weight of years of labor. 
In truth, the old man was breaking down. 

He fell ill of a low fever soon after Ben’s second 
marriage, and when he rose from his bed he seemed 
to have grown ten years older. He was more child¬ 
ish in his fault-finding, and more irritable than ever 
before, and this new wife of Ben’s had little patience 
with him. She was not at all like Edith. She bul¬ 
lied him, and frightened him into silence when he 
began to find fault with her extravagance. For 
she was extravagant—there was no denying that. 
She cared only for show and outward appearance. 
She neglected her home duties, and often left the 
old man to prepare his own food, while she and 
Ben dashed over the country, or through the 
neighboring villages, behind the blooded span she 
had insisted upon his purchasing soon after their 
marriage. 

Poor old Anson English ! He was nearing his 
sixtieth year now, and he looked and seemed much 
older. Ben was his only earthly tie, and the hope 
and stay of his old age. And he was but a reed—a 
reed. His father saw that at last. Ben would never 
develop into a practical business man. He was un¬ 
stable, lazy, and selfish. And this new wife seemed 
to encourage him in every extravagant folly, instead 
of restraining him as the old man had hoped. And 
someway Ben had never been the same since Edith 
went away. He had been none too good or kind to 
his father before that ! but since then—well, when 
she went, it seemed to Anson that she took with her 
whatever of gentleness or kindness lurked in Ben’s 
nature, and left only its brutality and selfishness. 

And strive as he would to banish the feeling, the 
old man missed the child. 

Ah, no ! he was not happy in this new state of 
affairs, which he had so rejoiced over at the first. 
He grew very old during the next two years. Like 
all men who worry the lives of women in the domes¬ 
tic circle, he was cowardly at heart. And Ben’s 






264 


Treasury of Tales. 


new wife frightened him into silent submission by 
her masculine assumption of authority and her loud 
voice and well-defined muscle. 

He spoke little at home now, but he still paid 
frequent visits to his neighbors, and he remained 
firm in the Adam-like idea that Elizabeth had been 
the root of all evil in his life. 

“Yes, Ben’s letting the place run down pretty 
bad,” he confessed to a neighbor who had broached 
the subject. “ Ben’s early trainin’ wasn’t right. 
’Liz’beth, she let him do ’bout as he pleased. ’Liz’- 
beth never had no notions of how a boy should be 
trained. He’d a come out all right if I’d a managed 
him from the start.” 

Strange to say, he never was known to speak onfe 
disparaging word of Abby, Ben’s second wife. Her 
harshness and neglect were matters of common dis¬ 
cussion in the neighborhood, but the old man, who 
had been so bitter and unjust toward his own wife 
and Edith, seemed to feel a curious respect for this 
Amazon who had subjugated him. Or, perhaps, he 
remembered how eager he had been for the mar¬ 
riage, and his pride kept him silent. Certain it is 
that he bore her neglect, and later her abuse, with 
no word of complaint, and even spoke of her some¬ 
times with praise. 

“ She’s a brave one, Abby is,” he would say. 
“ She ain’t afraid of nothin’ or nobody. Ef she’d a 
been a man, she’d a made a noise in the world.” 

Ben drank more and more, and Abby dressed and 
drove in like ratio. The farm ran down and debts 
accumulated—debts which Abby refused to pay with 
her money, and the old man saw the savings of a 
long live of labor squandered in folly and vice. 

People said it was turning his brain, for he talked 
constantly of his poverty, often walking the streets 
in animated converse with himself. And at length 
he fell ill again, and was wildly delirious for weeks. 
It was a high fever ; and when it left him, he was. 
totally blind, and quite helpless. 

He needed constant care and attention. He 
could not be left alone even for an hour ; Ben 
was seldom at home, and Abby rebelled at the 
confinement and restraint it imposed upon her. 
Hired help refused to take the burden of the care of 
the troublesome old man without increased wages, 
and Ben could not and Abby would not incur this 
added expense. Servants gave warning ; Ben drank 
more deeply, and prolonged his absences from home, 
and Abby finally carried out a resolve which had at 
first caused even her hard heart some twinges. 

She made an application to the keeper of the 
County Poor to admit her husband’s father to the 
department of the incurably insane, which was ad¬ 
jacent to the Poor House. 

“ He’s crazy,” she said, “just as crazy as can be. 
We can’t do anything with him. He needs a strong 
man to look after him. Ben’s never at home, and 
he has everything to look after any way, and can’t 
be broken of his rest, and the old man talks and cries 


half the night. I’m not able to take care of him 
—I seem to be breaking down myself, with all I 
have to endure, and besides it isn’t safe to have 
him in the house. I think he’s getting worse all 
the time. He’d be better off, and we all would, if 
he was in the care of the county.” 

The authorities looked into the matter, and found 
that at least a portion of the lady’s statements were 
true. It was quite evident that the old man would 
be better off in the County House than he was in 
the home of his only son. So he was taken away, 
and Abby had her freedom at last. 

“ We are going to take you where you will 
have medical treatment and care; it is your daugh¬ 
ter’s request,” they told him in answer to his 
trembling queries. 

“ Oh ! yes, yes—Abby thinks I’ll get my sight 
back, I suppose, if I’m doctored up. Well, may 
be so, but I’m pooty old—pooty old for the doctors 
to patch up. But Abby has a powerful mind to 
plan things—a powerful mind. ’Liz’beth never would 
a thought of sending me away—’Liz’beth was so easy 
like. Abby ought to a been a man, she had. She’d 
a flung things.” 

So he babbled on, as they carried him to the 
Poor House. 

It was November, and the holidays were close at 
hand. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year. Abby 
meant to enjoy them, and invited all her relatives to 
a time of general feasting and merry-making. 

“ I feel as if a great nightmare were lifted off my 
heart and brain, now the old man has gone,” she 
said. “ He will be so much better off, and get so 
much more skilful treatment, you know, in a place 
like that. They are very kind in that institution, and 
so clean, and nice, and he will have plenty of com¬ 
pany to keep him from being lonesome. We have 
been all through it, during the last year, or else we 
never should have sent him there. It is really an ex¬ 
cellent home for him.” 

IV. 

It was just a year later when a delicate, sweet¬ 
faced woman was shown through the wards of that 
“ excellent home” for the poor and unfortunate. She 
walked with nervous haste, and her eyes glanced 
from room to room, and from face to face, as if seek¬ 
ing, yet dreading, some object. 

Presently the attendant pushed open a partly 
closed door, which led into a small close room, ven¬ 
tilated only by one high, narrow window. 

“ This is the room I believe,” he said, and the lady 
stepped in—and paused. The air was close and 
impure, and almost stifled her. 

On the opposite side of the room she saw a large 
crib with a cover or lid which could be closed and 
locked when necessary, but which was raised now. 
In this crib upon a hard mattress and soiled pil¬ 
lows, lay the emaciated form of an old man. He 
turned his sightless eyes toward the door as he 
heard the sound of footsteps. 






The Old Man s Christmas. 


265 


“ What is wanted ? ” he asked feebly ; “ does 
any body want me ? Has any body come for 
me?” 

“ 0 father, father ! ” cried the woman in a voice 
choked with sobs. “ Don’t you know me ? It is I— 
and I have come to take you away—to take you 
away home with me. Will you go ? ” 

A glow of delight shone over the old man’s wasted 
face, like the last rays of the sunlight over a winter 
landscape. He half arose upon his elbow, and 
leaned forward as if trying to see the speaker. 

“ Why it’s Abby, it’s Abby, come at last! ” he said. 
“ You called me father, didn’t you—and you was cry¬ 
ing, and it made your voice sound kind o’ strange and 
broken like. But you must be Abby come to take 
me home. Oh, I thought you’d come at last, Abby. 
It seems a long, long time since I came away. And 
you’ve never been to see me ; no, nor Ben, either. 
But you’ve come at last Abby, you’ve come at last. 
Let me take your hand, daughter, for I can’t see yet. 
They don’t seem to help me here as you thought 
they would. And I’m so hungry , Abby !—do you 
think you could manage to get the old man a little 
something to eat before we start home ? ” 

The woman had grown paler and paler as she lis¬ 
tened to these words which the old man poured 
out in eager haste, like one whose thoughts and feel¬ 
ings long pent within himself for want of a listener 
now rushed forth pell-mell into speech. 

“ He does not know me,” she whispered—“ he does 
not know me. Well, I will not undeceive him now. 
He is happy in this delusion,—let him keep it for the 
present.” Then, aloud, she said : 

“You are hungry, father? do you not have food 
enough here ? ” 

“ Oh, I have my share, Abby ; I have my share. 
But my appetite’s varying, and sometimes when they 
bring it I can’t eat it, and then when I want it most 
I can’t get it. I’m one of many here, and I’ve been 
so lonesome, Abby. But then I knew you’d come 
for me all in good time. And, Ben—how is Ben, 
Abby ? does he want to see his old father again ? Ah, 
Ben was a nice little boy—a nice little boy. But 
’Liz’beth wan’t no kind of a mother for such a high- 
strung lad. And then he hadn’t oughter married 
that sickly sort of girl that ran off an’ left him. Sakes 
alive ! what a temper she had ! It sort of broke Ben 
down living with her as long as he did. But he 
remembers his old father at last, don’t he ? And he 
wants to have me home to die. Ah, Ben has a good 
heart after all! ” 

“ I must not tell him ; I must not,” whispered the 
woman as she listened. “ Bitter to me as his decep¬ 
tion is, I must let him remain in it.” Then with a 
sudden bracing of the nerves, and a visible effort she 
said : 

“ Ben is away from home now, father. He will 
not be there to meet you, but you’ll not mind that : 
1 shall make you so comfortable ; I want you at 
home during the holidays.” 


So he went out from the horror and loneliness and 
gloom of the Poor House, to the comfortable home 
which Edith had provided for herself and child in 
the years since she left Ben. Eva was a precocious 
little maiden of nine now, wise and womanly be¬ 
yond her years. So soon as Edith learned cf the old 
man’s desolate fate, she resolved to bring him home. 
Eva could attend to his wants during the day, while 
she was in the school-room, and the interrupted 
studies could be pursued in the evening. Or she 
could hire assistance if he was as troublesome as re¬ 
port had said. He had been a harsh old man, and 
had helped to widen the breach between her and 
Ben. But he was the father cf the man she had 
married, and she could not let him die in the Poor 
House. So she brought him home. 

“ Don’t I hear a child’s voice,” he asked, as Eva 
came dancing out to greet them.' “ Who is it, 
Abby ? ” 

“ Why it’s your own little granddaughter, Eva,” 
cried the child clasping his withered hand in her two 
soft palms. “ Don’t you remember me ? Mamma 
says you used to love me.” 

Edith’s heart stood still. Surely now he would 
understand. And would he be angry and harsh 
with her ? 

The old man’s face lighted. 

“ Ah, I see, I see,” he said, musingly, “ Abby and 
Ben have taken the little one home. It must be 
Edith is dead. She was such a puny thing.” Then 
turning his face to the woman who was guiding his 
faltering footsteps, he asked : 

“ And is Edith dead ? ” 

“Yes,” she answered, quietly, “Edith is dead.” 
And added, “to you” in a whisper. 

“ He must never be undeceived,” she thought. 
“ It would be too severe a blow ; the truth might 
kill him.” And to Eva she said, a little later : 

“ Dear, your grandfather is very ill, and not quite 
right in his mind. He thinks my name is Abby, and 
you must not correct him or dispute any strange 
thing he may say.” 

The journey left the old man very weak indeed, 
but he talked almost constantly. 

“ It was so good of you, Abby, to take the little 
girl home,” he would say. “ But I knowed you 
had a good heart and Ben, too. He was fond 
of his old father, spite of his rough ways. It was 
pooty lonesome—pooty lonesome, off there at that 
place—that Institute where you sent me. Some 
folks said it was the Poor House, but I knew 
better—I knew better. Ben an’ you would never 
a sent me there. I s’pose it was a good place, but 
they had too many patients. Sometimes I was cold 
and hungry and all alone for hours and hours. Oh, 
it’s good to be back home with you—you, Abby— 
but why don’t Ben come ? ” 

“Ben is away, father.” 

“ Oh, yes, yes. Business, I suppose. Ben ’ll turn 
out all right at last. I always thought so. After he 





266 


Treasury of Tales. 


sort o’ outgrows ’Liz’beth’s trainin’. But I hope he’ll 
get back for Christmas. Somehow I’ve been thinkin’ 
lately ’bout the Christmas days when Ben was a lit¬ 
tle boy. We alius put something in his stockin’ 
that night, no matter if twan’t no more’n a sweet 
cake. Sakes alive ! how he prized things he found in 
his stockin’ Christmas mornins ! I got to thinkin’ 
’bout it all last Christmas out at that there Institute, 
and 1 just laid an’ bawded like a baby, I was so 
home-sick like. Seemed to me if I could just see 
Ben’s face again, I’d ask nothin’ more of heaven. 
And now I think if I can just hear his voice again, 
it’ll be enough. Do you think he’ll git home for 
Christmas, Abby ! ” 

“ I hope so, dear father, but I cannot tell,” Edith 
answered softly, her heart seeming to break in her 
breast as she listened. 

She knew vefy well that Ben would not go across 
the street to see the father he had deserted, and 
that she could never send for him to come to her 
house, to pay even a last visit of mercy. 

“ What will I do—how can I explain to him, when 
Christmas comes and Ben does not appear ? ” she 
thought. 

But the way was shown her by that great Peace- 
Maker who helps us out of all difficulties at last. 

Christmas eve, the old man’s constant chatter 
grew flighty and incoherent. He talked of people 
and things unknown to Edith, and spoke his mother’s 
name many times. Then he fell asleep. In the 
morning he seemed very weak, and his voice was 
fainter. 

“ Such a strange dream as I have had, ’Liz’beth,” 
he said, as Edith put her hand on his brow, and 
smoothed back the thin, white hair. 

“ Such a strange dream. I thought Ben had grown 
into a man, and had left me alone—all alone to die. 
I’m so glad to be awake, and find it isn’t true. How 
dark it is, and how long the night seems ! To¬ 
morrow is Christmas. Did you put something in 
Ben’s stockin,’ ’Liz’beth? I have forgotten.” 

“Yes,” answered Edith, in a choked voice. 

“And it’s gettin’ colder, ’Liz’beth. Hadn’t you 
better look after Ben a little. See if he’s covered 
up well in his crib. You’re so careless, ’Liz’beth, 
the boy’ll take his death o’ cold yet. And he’s all 
I’ve got. He’ll make a fine man, a fine man if you 
don’t spoil him, ’Liz’beth. But you hain’t no real 
sense for trainin’ a boy, somehow. Is he covered 
up ? It’s bitter, bitter cold.” 

“ He is well covered,” Edith answered. The old 
man seemed to doze again. Then he roused a little. 

“ It’s dawn,” he said. “ I see the light breaking. 
Little Ben’ll be crawling out for his stockin’ pooty 
quick : I oughter had the fire made afore this, to 
warm his little toes. Strange you couldn’t a waked 
me, ’Liz’beth ! You don’t never seem to have no 
foresight.” 

Then the old man fell back on Edith’s arm, 
dead. 


A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

BY CHARLES DICKENS. 

STAVE ONE.—MARLEY’S GHOST. 

ARLEY was dead, to begin with. There is 
no doubt whatever about that. The reg¬ 
ister of his burial was signed by the clergy¬ 
man, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief 
mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge’s name 
was good upon ’Change for anything he chose to put 
his hand to. 

Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail. 

Scrooge knew he was dead ? Of course he did. 
How could it be otherwise ? Scrooge and he were 
partners for I don’t know how many years. Scrooge 
was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole 
assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, his 
sole mourner. 

Scrooge never painted out old Marley’s name, 
however. There it yet stood, years afterwards, 
above the warehouse door—Scrooge and Marley. 
The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Some¬ 
times people new to the business called Scrooge 
Scrooge, and sometimes Marley. He answered to 
both names. It was all the same to him. 

Oh ! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind¬ 
stone, was Scrooge ! a squeezing, wrenching, grasp¬ 
ing, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner ! Exter¬ 
nal heat and cold had little influence on him. No 
warmth could warm, no cold could chill him. No wind 
that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was 
more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open 
to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have 
him. The heaviest rain and snow and hail and sleet 
could boast of the advantage over him in only one 
respect—they often “ came down ” handsomely, and 
Scrooge never did. 

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, 
with gladsome looks, “ My dear Scrooge, how are 
you? When will you come to see me?” No beg¬ 
gars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children 
asked him what it was o’clock, no man or woman ever 
once in all his life inquired the way to such and such 
a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men’s dogs ap¬ 
peared to know him ; and when they saw him com¬ 
ing on, would tug their owners into doorways and 
up courts ; and then would wag their tails as though 
they said, “ No eye at all is better than an evil eye, 
dark master ! ” 

But what did Scrooge care ! It was the very 
thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded 
paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep 
its distance, was what the knowing ones call “ nuts ” 
to Scrooge. 

Once upon a time—of all the good days in the 
year, upon a Christmas eve—old Scrooge sat busy 
in his counting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting, 
foggy weather ; and the city clocks had only just 
gone three, but it was quite dark already. 






A Christmas Carol. 


267 


The door of Scrooge’s counting-house was open, 
that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who, in a 
dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying 
letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk’s 
fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one 
coal. But he couldn’t replenish it, for Scrooge kept 
the coal-box in his own room ; and so surely as the 
clerk came in with the shovel the master predicted 
that it would be necessary for them to part. Where¬ 
fore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried 
to warm himself at the candle ; in which effort, not 
being a man of a strong imagination, he failed. 

“ A merry Christmas, uncle ! God save you ! ” 
cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's 
nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was 
the first intimation Scrooge had of his approach. 

“ Bah ! ” said Scrooge ; “ humbug ! ” 

“Christmas a humbug, uncle? You don’t mean 
that, I am sure ! ” 

“ I do. Out upon merry Christmas! What’s 
Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills 
without money ; a time for finding yourself a year 
older, and not an hour richer ; a time for balancing 
your books and having every item in ’em through a 
round dozen of months presented dead against you ? 
If I had my will, every idiot who goes about with 
‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled 
with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of 
holly through his heart ! He should ! ” 

“ Uncle ! ” 

“ Nephew, keep Christmas in your own way, and 
let me keep it in mine.” 

“ Keep it ! But you don’t keep it.” 

“ Let me leave it alone, then. Much good may it 
do you ! Much good it has ever done you ! ” 

“ There are many things from which I might have 
derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare 
say, Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I 
have always thought of Christmas time, when it has 
come round—apart from the veneration due to its 
sacred origin, if anything belonging to it can be 
apart from that—as a good time; a kind, forgiving, 
charitable, pleasant time ; the only time I know of 
in the long calendar of the year, when men and 
women seem by one consent to open their shut-up 
hearts freely, and to think of people below them as 
if they really were fellow-travellers to the grave, and 
not another race of creatures bound on other jour¬ 
neys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put 
a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that 
it has done me good, and will do me good ; and I say, 
God bless it ! ” 

The clerk in the Tank involuntarily applauded. 

“ Let me hear another sound from you” said 
Scrooge, “ and you’ll keep your Christmas by losing 
your situation !—You’re quite a powerful speaker, 
sir,” he added, turning to his nephew. “ I wonder 
you don’t go into Parliament.” 

“Don’t be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us 
to-morrow.” 


Scrooge said that he would s«e him —yes, indeed 
he did. He went the whole length of the expression, 
and said that he would see him in that extremity first. 
“ But why ? ” cried Scrooge’s nephew. “ Why ? ” 
“ Why did you get married ? ” 

“ Because I fell in love. ” 

“ Because you fell in love ! ” growled Scrooge, as 
if that were the only one thing in the world more 
ridiculous than a merry Christmas. “ Good after¬ 
noon ! ” 

“ Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me be¬ 
fore that happened. Why give it as a reason for 
not coming now ? ” 

“ Good afternoon.” 

“ I want nothing from you ; I ask nothing of you •, 
why cannot we be friends ? ” 

“ Good afternoon.” 

“ I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so 
resolute. We have never had any quarrel to which 
I have been a party. But I have made the trial in 
homage to Christmas, and I’ll keep my Christmas 
humor to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle ! ” 
“ Good afternoon ! ” 

“And A Happy New-Year ! ” 

“ Good afternoon ! ” 

His nephew left the room without an angry word, 
notwithstanding. The clerk, in letting Scrooge’s 
nephew out, had let two other people in. They were 
portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, 
with their hats off, in Scrooge’s office. They had 
books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him. 

“ Scrooge and Marley’s, I believe,” said one of 
the gentlemen, referring to his list. “ Have I the 
pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley ? ” 
“ Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years. He 
died seven years ago, this very night.” 

“ At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,” 
said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “ it is more than 
usually desirable that we should make some slight 
provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer 
greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in 
want of common necessaries ; hundreds of thousands 
are in want of common comforts, sir.” 

“ Are there no prisons ? ” 

“ Plenty of prisons. But under the impression, 
that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or 
body to the unoffending multitude, a few of us are 
endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some 
meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose 
this time because it is a time of all others when 
Want is keenly felt and Abundance rejoices. What 
shall I put you down for ? ” 

“ Nothing ! ” 

“You wish to be anonymous ?” 

“ I wish to be left alone. Since you ask me what 
I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make 
merry myself at Christmas, and I can’t afford to 
make idle people merry. I help to support the prisons 
and the workhouses—they cost enough—and those 
who are badly off must go there.” 





268 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Many can’t go there ; and many would rather 
die.” 

“ If they would rather die, they had better do it, 
and decrease the surplus population.” 

At length the hour of shutting up the counting- 
house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge, dismount¬ 
ing from his stool, tacitly admitted the fact to the 
expectant clerk in the tank, who instantly snuffed 
his candle out, and put on his hat. 

“ You’ll want all day to-morrow, I suppose ? ” 

“ If quite convenient, sir.” 

“ It’s not convenient, and it’s not fair. If I was 
to stop half a crown for it, you’d think yourself 
mightily ill-used, I’ll be bound ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ And yet you don’t think me ill-used, when I pay 
a day’s wages for no work.” 

“ It’s only once a year, sir.” 

“ A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every 
twenty-fifth of December! But I suppose you 
must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier 
?iext morning.” 

The clerk promised that he would ; and Scrooge 
walked out with a growl. The office was closed in 
a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his 
white comforter dangling below his waist (for he 
boasted no great-coat), went down a slide, at the end 
of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honor of its be¬ 
ing Christmas eve, and then ran home as hard as he 
could pelt, to play at blind-man’s-buff. 

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual 
melancholy tavern ; and having read all the news¬ 
papers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with 
his banker’s book, went home to bed. He lived in 
chambers which had once belonged to his deceased 
partner. They were a gloomy suit of rooms, in a 
lowering pile of buildings up a yard. The building 
was old enough now, and dreary enough ; for no¬ 
body lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being 
all let out as offices. 

Now it is a fact, that there was nothing at all par¬ 
ticular about the knocker on the door of this house, 
except that it was very large ; also that Scrooge 
had seen it, night and morning, during his whole 
residence in that place ; also, that Scrooge had as 
little of what is called fancy about him as any man 
in the city of London. And yet Scrooge, having 
his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, 
without its undergoing any intermediate process of 
change, not a knocker, but Marley’s face. 

Marley’s face, with a dismal light about it, like a 
bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or 
ferocious, but it looked at Scrooge as Marley used 
to look—with ghostly spectacles turned up upon its 
ghostly forehead. 

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it 
was a knocker again. He said, “ Pooh, pooh ! ” and 
closed the door with a bang. 

The sound resounded through the house like thun¬ 
der. Every room above, and every cask in the wine- 


merchant’s cellars below, appeared to have a separate 
peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man 
to be frightened by echoes ! He fastened the door, 
and walked across the hall, and up the stairs. Slowly,, 
too, trimming his candle as he went. 

Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for its be¬ 
ing very dark. Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge 
liked it. But before he shut his heavy door, he 
walked through his rooms to see that all was right. 
He had just enough recollection of the face to de¬ 
sire to do that. 

Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room all as they 
should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under 
the sofa ; a small fire in the grate ; spoon and basin 
ready ; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge 
had a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody un¬ 
der the bed ; nobody in the closet; nobody in his 
dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspi¬ 
cious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as 
usual. Old fire-guard, old shoes, two fish-baskets, 
washing-stand on three legs, and a poker. 

Quite satisfied, he closed his door and locked him¬ 
self in ; double-locked himself in, which was not his 
custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off 
his cravat, put on his dressing-gown and slippers and 
his night-cap, and sat down before the very low fire 
to take his gruel. 

As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance 
happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that 
hung in the room and communicated, for some pur¬ 
pose now forgotten, with a chamber in the highest 
story of the building. It was with great astonish¬ 
ment, and -with a strange, inexplicable dread, that, 
as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. Soon 
it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house. 

This was succeeded by a clanking noise, deep 
down below, as if some person were dragging a heavy 
chain over the casks in the wine-merchant’s cellar. 

Then he heard the noise much louder, on the 
floors below ; then coming up the stairs ; then com¬ 
ing straight towards his door. 

It came on through the heavy door, and a spectre 
passed into the room before his eyes. And upon its 
coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it 
cried, “ I know him ! Marley’s ghost! ” 

The same face, the very same. Marley in his 
pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights, and boots. His body 
was transparent ; so that Scrooge, observing him, 
and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two 
buttons on his coat behind. 

Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had 
no bowels, but he had never believed it until now. 

No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he 
looked the phantom through and through, and saw 
it standing before him,—though he felt the chilling 
influence of its death-cold eyes, and noticed the very 
texture of the folded kerchief bound about its head 
and chin,—he was still incredulous. 

“ How now ! ” said Scrooge, caustic and cold as 
ever. “ What do you want with me ? ” 




A Christmas Carol. 


269 


“ Much ! ”—Marley’s voice, no doubt about it. 

“ Who are you ? ” 

“Ask me who I was." 

“ Who were you then ? ” 

“ In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley.” 

“ Can you—can you sit down ? ” 

“ I can.” 

“ Do it, then.” 

Scrooge asked the question, because he didn’t 
know whether a ghost so transparent might find him¬ 
self in a condition to take a chair ; and felt that, in 
the event of its being impossible, it might involve 
the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But 
the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fire¬ 
place, as if he were quite used to it. 

“ You don t believe in me.” 

“I don’t.” 

“ What evidence would you have of my reality 
beyond that of your senses ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Why do you doubt your senses ? ” 

“ Because a little thing affects them. A slight dis¬ 
order of the stomach makes them cheats. You may 
be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a 
crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone po¬ 
tato. There’s more of gravy than of grave about 
you, whatever you are ! ” 

Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking 
jokes, nor did he feel in his heart by any means 
waggish then. The truth is, that he tried to be 
smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, 
and keeping down his horror. 

But how much greater was his horror when, the 
phantom taking off the bandage round its head, as 
if it were too warm to wear in-doors, its lower jaw 
dropped down upon its breast ! 

“ Mercy! Dreadful apparition, why do you 
trouble me ? Why do spirits walk the earth and 
why do they come to me ? ” 

“ It is required of every man, that the spirit within 
him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and 
travel far and wide ; and if that spirit goes not forth 
in life it is condemned to do so after death. I can¬ 
not tell you all I would. A very little more is per¬ 
mitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I can¬ 
not linger anywhere. My spirit never walked be¬ 
yond our counting-house,—mark me !—in life my 
spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our 
money-changing hole ; and weary journeys lie before 
me ! ” 

“ Seven years dead. And travelling all the time ? 
You travel fast ? ” 

“ On the wings of the wind.” 

“You might have got over a quantity of ground 
in seven years.” 

“ O blind man, blind man ! not to know that ages 
of incessant labor by immortal creatures for this earth 
must pass into eternity before the good of which it 
is susceptible is all developed. Not to know that 
any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, 


whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short 
for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that 
no space of regret can make amends for one life’s 
opportunities misused ! Yet I was like this man ; I 
once was like this man !” 

“ But you were always a good man of business, 
Jacob,” faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply 
this to himself. 

“ Business ! ” cried the Ghost, wringing its hands 
again. “ Mankind was my business. The common 
welfare was my business ; charity, mercy, forbear¬ 
ance, benevolence, were all my business. The deal¬ 
ings of my trade were but a drop of water in the 
comprehensive ocean of my business.” 

Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the 
spectre going on at this rate and began to quake 
exceedingly. 

“ Hear me ! My time is nearly gone.” 

“ I will. But don’t be hard upon me ! Don’t be 
flowery, Jacob ! Pray ! ” 

“ I am here to-night to warn you that you have 
yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A 
chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer.” 

•“You were always a good friend to me. 
Thank’ee !” 

“ You will be haunted by Three Spirits.” 

“ Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, 
Jacob? I—I think I’d rather not.” 

“ Without their visits, you cannot hope to shun 
the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow night, 
when the bell tolls One. Expect the second on the 
next night at the same hour. The third, upon the 
next night, when the last stroke of Twelve has 
ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more ; and 
look that, for your own sake, you remember what has 
passed between us !” 

It walked backward from him ; and at every step it 
took, the window raised itself a little, so that, when 
the apparition reached it, it was wide open. 

Scrooge closed the window, and examined the 
door by which the Ghost had entered. It was 
double-locked, as he had locked it with his own 
hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. Scrooge 
tried to say, “Humbug!” but stopped at the first 
syllable. And being, from the emotion he had un¬ 
dergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of 
the invisible world, or the dull conversation of the 
Ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of 
repose, he went straight to bed, without undressing, 
and fell asleep on the instant. 

STAVE TWO.—THE FIRST OF THE THREE SPIRITS. 

When Scrooge awoke, it was so dark that, look¬ 
ing out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the 
transparent window from the opaque walls of his 
chamber, until suddenly the church clock tolled a 
deep, dull, hollow, melancholy ONE. 

Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and 
the curtains of his bed were drawn aside by a strange 
figure—like a child : yet not so like a child as like 





Treasury of Tales. 


2 jo 

an old man, viewed through some supernatural 
medium, which gave him the appearance of having 
receded from the view, and being diminished to a 
child’s proportions. Its hair, which hung about its 
neck and down its back, was white as if with age ; 
and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the 
tenderest bloom was on the skin. It held a branch 
of fresh green holly in its hand ; and, in singular 
contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress 
trimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest 
thing about it was that from the crown of its head 
there sprung a bright clear jet of light by which all 
this was visible ; and which was doubtless the occa¬ 
sion of its using, in its duller moments, a great 
extinguisher for a cap, which it now herd under its 
arm. 

“ Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was fore¬ 
told to me ?” 

“ I am !” 

“ Who and what are you ?” 

“ I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.” 

“ Long past ?” 

“No. Your past. The things that you will see 
with me are shadows of the things that have been ; 
they will have no consciousness of us.” 

Scrooge then made bold to inquire what business 
brought him there. 

“Your welfare. Rise, and walk with me !” 

It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead 
that the weather and the hour were not adapted to 
pedestrian purposes ; that the bed was warm, and 
the thermometer a long way below freezing ; that he 
was clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing-gown, 
and night-cap ; and that he had a cold upon him at 
that time. The grasp, though gentle as a woman’s 
hand, was not to be resisted. He rose ; but, finding 
that the Spirit made towards the window, clasped its 
robe in supplication. 

“ I am a mortal, and liable to fall.” 

“ Bear but a touch of my hand there," said the 
Spirit, laying it upon his heart, “ and you shall be 
upheld in more than this !” 

As the words were spoken, they passed through 
the wall, and stood in the busy thoroughfares of a 
city. It was made plain enough by the dressing of 
the shops that here, too, it was Christmas time. 

The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, 
and asked Scrooge if he knew it. 

“ Know it ! Was I apprenticed here ?” 

They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a 
Welsh wig, sitting behind such a high desk that, if 
he had been two inches taller, he must have knocked 
his head against the ceiling, Scrooge cried in great 
excitement, “ Why, it’s old Fezziwig! Bless his 
heart, it’s Fezziwig, alive again !” 

Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at 
the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He 
rubbed his hands ; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; 
laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ 
of benevolence ; and called out in a comfortable, 


oily, rich, fat, jovial voice, “ Yo ho, there ! Ebene- 
zer ! Dick !” 

A living and moving picture of Scrooge’s former 
self, a young man, came briskly in, accompanied by 
his fellow-’prentice. 

“ Dick Wilkins, to be sure !” said Scrooge to the- 
Ghost. “ My old fellow-’prentice, bless me, yes. 
There he is. He was very much attached to me, 
was Dick. Poor Dick ! Dear, dear !” 

“Yoho, my boys !” said Fezziwig. “No more 
work to-night. Christmas eve, Dick. Christmas, 
Ebenezer ! Let’s have the shutters up, before a man 
can say Jack Robinson ! Clear away, my lads, and 
let’s have lots of room here !” 

Clear away ! There was nothing they wouldn’t 
have cleared away, or couldn’t have cleared away, 
with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a 
minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it 
were dismissed from public life forevermore ; the 
floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trim¬ 
med, fuel was heaped upon the fire ; and the ware¬ 
house was as snug and warm and dry and bright a 
ball-room as you would desire to see upon a winter’s- 
night. 

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up- 
to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and 
tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs. Fez¬ 
ziwig, one vast, substantial smile. In came the three 
Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the 
six young followers whose hearts they broke. In 
came all the young men and women employed in the 
business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin 
the baker. In came the cook, with her brother’s 
particular friend the milkman. In they all came one 
after another ; some shyly, some boldly, some grace¬ 
fully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling * 
in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they 
all went, twenty couple at once ; hands half round 
and back again the other way ; down the middle and 
up again ; round and round in various stages of af¬ 
fectionate grouping ; old top couple always turning 
up in the wrong place ; new top couple starting off 
again, as soon as they got there ; all top couples at 
last, and not a bottom one to help them. When 
this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clap¬ 
ping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, “ Well 
done !” and the fiddler plunged his hot face in¬ 
to a pot of porter especially provided for that 
purpose. 

There were more dances, and there were forfeits, 
and more dances, and there was cake, and there 
was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold 
Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, 
and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But 
the great effect of the evening came after the Roast 
and Boiled, when the fiddler struck up “ Sir Roger 
de Coverley.” Then old Fezziwig stood out to 
dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too ; with 
a good stiff piece of work cut out for them ; three 
or four and twenty pair of partners ; people who 






A Christmas Carol. 


2jl 


were not to be trifled with ; people who would dance, 
and had no notion of walking. 

But if they had been twice as many,—four times, 
—old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, 
and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to her, she was 
worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. 
A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig’s 
calves. They shone in every part of the dance. 
You couldn’t have predicted, at any given time, 
what would become of ’em next. And when old 
Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the 
dance,—advance and retire, turn your partner, bow 
and courtesy, corkscrew, thread the needle, and 
back again to your place,—Fezziwig “cut,”—cut so 
deftly that he appeared to wink with his legs. 

When the clock struck eleven this domestic ball 
broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their sta¬ 
tions, one on either side the door, and, shaking 
hands with every person individually as he or she 
went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. 
When everybody had retired but the two ’prentices, 
they did the same to them ; and thus the cheerful 
voices died away, and the lads were left to their 
beds, which were under a counter in the back shop. 

“ A small matter,” said the Ghost, “to make these 
silly folks so full of gratitude. He has spent but a 
few pounds of your mortal money,—three or four 
perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this 
praise ? ” 

“ It isn’t that,” said Scrooge, heated by the re¬ 
mark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, 
not his latter self,—“ it isn’t that, Spirit. He has 
the power to render us happy or unhappy ; to make 
our service light or burdensome, a pleasure or a toil. 
Say that his power lies in words and looks ; in 
things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible 
to add and count ’em up : what then ? The happi¬ 
ness he gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.” 

He felt the Spirit’s glance, and stopped. 

“ What is the matter ? ” 

“ Nothing particular.” 

“ Something, I think ? ” 

“ No, no. I should like to be able to say a word 
or two to my clerk just now. That’s all.” 

“ My time grows short,” observed the Spirit. 
“ Quick ! ” 

This was not addressed to Scrooge, or to any one 
whom he could see, but it produced an immediate 
effect. For again he saw himself. He was older 
now,—a man in the prime of life. 

He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair 
young girl in a black dress, in w r hose eyes there were 
tears. 

“It matters little,” she said softly to Scrooge’s 
former self. “To you, very little. Another idol 
has displaced me ; and if it can comfort you in time 
to come as I would have tried to do, I have no just 
cause to grieve.” 

“ What Idol has displaced you ? ” 

“A golden one. You fear the world too much. 


I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by 
one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you. 
Have I not ? ” 

“ What then ? Even if I have grcwn so much 
wiser, what then ? I am not changed towards you. 
Have I ever sought release from our engagement?” 

“ In words, no. Never.” 

“ In what, then ? ” 

“ In a changed nature ; in an altered spirit; in 
another atmosphere of life ; another Hope as its 
great end. If you were free to-day, to-morrow, 
yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose 
a dowerless girl ; or, choosing her, do I not know 
that your repentance and regret would surely follow ? 
I do ; and I release you. With a. full heart, for the 
love of him you once were.” 

“ Spirit! remove me from this place.” 

“ I told you these were shadows of the things that 
have been,” said the Ghost. “ That they are what 
they are, do not blame me ! ” 

“ Remove me ! ” Scrooge exclaimed. “ I cannot 
bear it ! Leave me ! Take me back ! Haunt me 
no longer ! ” 

As he struggled with the Spirit he was conscious 
of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible 
drowsiness ; and, further, of being in his own bed¬ 
room. He had barely time to reel to bed before he 
sank into a heavy sleep. 

STAVE THREE.—THE SECOND OF THE THREE 
SPIRITS. 

Scrooge awoke in his own bedroom. There was 
no doubt about that. But it and his own adjoining sit¬ 
ting-room, into which he shuffled in his slippers, 
attracted by a great light there, had undergone a 
surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling 
were so hung with living green that it looked a per¬ 
fect grove. The leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy 
reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors 
had been scattered there ; and such a mighty blaze 
went roaring up the chimney as that petrifaction of 
a hearth had never known in Scrooge’s time, or 
Marley’s, or for many and many a winter season 
gone. Heaped upon the floor, to form a kind of 
throne, were turkeys, geese, game, brawn, great 
joints of meat, sucking pigs, long wreaths of sausa¬ 
ges, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, 
red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy 
oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and 
great bowls of punch. In easy state upon this couch 
there sat a Giant glorious to see ; who bore a glow¬ 
ing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty’s horn, and 
who raised it high to shed its light on Scrooge, as 
he came peeping round the door. 

“ Come in,—come in ! and know me better, man ! 

I am the ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon 
me ! You have never seen the like of me before ! ” 

“ Never.” 

“ Have never walked forth with the younger mem¬ 
bers of my family,—meaning (for I am very young) 









272 


Treasury of Tales. 


my elder brothers born in these later years ? ” pursued 
the Phantom. 

“ I don’t think I have, I am afraid I have not. 
Have you had many brothers, Spirit ? ” 

“ More than eighteen hundred.” 

“ A tremendous family to provide for ! Spirit, 
conduct me where you will. I went forth last night 
on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is work¬ 
ing now. To-night, if you have aught to teach me, 
let me profit by it.” 

“ Touch my robe ! ” 

Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast. 

The room and its contents all vanished instantly, 
and they stood in the city streets upon a snowy 
Christmas morning. 

Scrooge and the Ghost passed on, invisible, straight 
to Scrooge’s clerk’s ; and on the threshold of the door 
the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit’s 
dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. Think of 
that! Bob had but fifteen “ bob ” a week himself ; 
he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his 
Christian name ; and yet the Ghost of Christmas 
Present blessed his four-roomed house ! 

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed 
out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave 
in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show 
for sixpence ; and she laid the cloth, assisted by 
Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave 
in ribbons ; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a 
fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the 
corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (Bob’s private 
property, conferred upon his son and heir in honor 
of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself 
so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in 
the fashionable Parks. And now two smaller Cratch- 
its, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that 
outside the baker’s they had smelled the goose, 
and known it for their own ; and, basking in luxu¬ 
rious thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratch- 
its danced about the table, and exalted Master 
Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, al¬ 
though his collar nearly choked him) blew the fire, 
until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly 
at the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled. 

“ What has ever got your precious father, then ? ” 
said Mrs. Cratchit. “ And your brother, Tiny Tim ! 
And Martha warn’t as late last Christmas day by half 
an hour! ” 

“ Here’s Martha, mother ! ” said a girl, appearing 
as she spoke. 

“ Here’s Martha, mother ! ” cried the two young 
Cratchits. “ Hurrah ! There’s such a goose, Martha!’’ 

“Why bless your heart alive, my dear, how 
late you are ! ” said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her 
a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet 
for her. 

“We’d a deal of work to finish up last night,” re¬ 
plied the girl, “ and had to clear away this morning, 
mother ! ” 

“Well! Nevermind so long as you are come,” 


said Mrs. Cratchit. “ Sit down before the fire, my 
dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye ! ” 

“ No, no ! There’s father coming,” cried the two 
young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. 
“ Hide, Martha, hide ! ” 

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the 
father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive 
of the fringe, hanging down before him ; and his 
thread-bare clothes darned up and brushed, to look 
seasonable ; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas 
for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his 
limbs supported by an iron frame ! 

“ Why, where’s our Martha ? ” cried Bob Cratchit, 
looking round. 

“ Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit. 

“Not coming?” said Bob, with a sudden declen¬ 
sion of his high spirits, for he had been Tim’s blood- 
horse all the way from church, and had come home 
rampant,—“ not coming upon Christmas day ! ” 

Martha didn’t like to see him disappointed, if 
it were only in joke ; so she came out prematurely 
from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, 
while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, 
and bore him off into the wash-house that he might 
hear the pudding in the copper. 

“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. 
Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, 
and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart’s 
content. 

“ As good as gold,” said Bob, “ and better. Some¬ 
how he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, 
and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He 
told me, coming home, that he hoped the people 
saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and 
it might be pleasant to them to remember upon 
Christmas day who made lame beggars walk and 
blind men see.” 

Bob’s voice was tremulous when he told them 
this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim 
was growing strong and hearty. 

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, 
and back came Tiny Tim before another word was 
spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool 
beside the fire ; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs, 
—as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made 
more shabby,—compounded some hot mixture in a 
jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and 
round and put it on the hob to simmer, Master 
Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits 
went to fetch the goose, with which they returned 
in high procession. 

Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand 
in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter 
mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor ; Miss 
Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha 
dusted the hot plates ; Bob took Tiny Tim beside 
him in a tiny corner at the table ; the two young 
Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting 
themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, 
crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should 





A Christmas Carol. 


273 


shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. 
At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. 
It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. 
Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, 
prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she 
did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing is¬ 
sued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round 
the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the tw r o 
young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle 
of his knife, and feebly cried, Hurrah ! 

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t 
believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its 
tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the 
themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple¬ 
sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner 
for the whole family ; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said 
with great delight (surveying one small atom of a 
bone upon the dish) they hadn’t ate it all at last! 
Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest 
Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and 
onion to the eyebrows ! But now, the plates being 
changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the 
room alone—too nervous to bear witnesses—to take 
the pudding up, and bring it in. 

Suppose it should not be done enough ! Suppose 
it should break in turning out ! Suppose somebody 
should have got over the wall of the back yard, and 
stolen it, while they were merry with the goose—a 
supposition at which the two young Cratchits be¬ 
came livid ! All sorts of horrors were supposed. 

Hello ! A great deal of steam ! The pudding 
was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day ! 
That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house 
and a pastry-cook’s next door to each other, with a 
laundress’s next door to that! That was the pud¬ 
ding ! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered— 
flushed but smiling proudly—with the pudding, like 
a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in 
half of half a quartern of ignited brandy, and be- 
dight with Christmas holly stuck into the top. 

Oh, a wonderful pudding ! Bob Cratchit said, and 
calmly, too, that he regarded it as the greatest suc¬ 
cess achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. 
Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her 
mind, she would confess she had had her doubts 
about the quantity of flour. Everybody had some¬ 
thing to say about it, but nobody said or thought it 
was at all a small pudding for a large family. Any 
Cratchit would have blushe:d to hint at such a thing. 

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was 
cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. 
The compound in the jug being tasted and consid¬ 
ered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the 
table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. 

Then all the Cratchit family drew round the 
hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, and at 
Bob Cratchit’s elbow stood the family display of 
glass—two tumblers and a custard-cup without a 
handle. 

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, 


as well as golden goblets would have done ; and 
Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the 
chestnuts on the fire sputtered and crackled noisily. 
Then Bob proposed :— 

“ A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God 
bless us ! ” 

Which all the family re-echoed. 

“ God bless us every one ! ” said Tiny Tim, the 
last of all. 

He sat very close to his father’s side, upon his 
little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, 
as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by 
his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from 
him. 

Scrooge raised his head speedily, on hearing his 
own name. 

“Mr. Scrooge!” said Bob; “I’ll give you Mr. 
Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast! ” 

“ The Founder of the Feast, indeed ! ” cried Mrs. 
Cratchit, reddening. “ I wish I had him here. I’d 
give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope 
he’d have a good appetite for it.” 

“ My dear,” said Bob, “the children! Christmas 
day.” 

“ It should be Christmas day, I am sure,” said she, 
“ on which one drinks the health of such an odious, 
stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You 
know he is, Robert! Nobody knows it better than 
you do, poor fellow ! ” 

“ My dear,” was Bob’s mild answer, “ Christmas 
day.” 

“ I’ll drink his health for your sake and the day’s,” 
said Mrs. Cratchit, “ not for his. Long life to him ! 
A merry Christmas and a happy New Year ! He’ll 
be very merry, and very happy, I have no doubt! ” 

The children drank the toast after her. It was 
the first of their proceedings which had no hearti¬ 
ness in it. Tiny Tim drank it last of all, but he 
didn’t care two-pence for it. Scrooge was the Ogre 
of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark 
shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full 
five minutes. 

After it had passed away, they were ten times 
merrier than before, from the mere relief of Scrooge 
the Baleful being done with. Bob Cratchit told them 
how he had a situation in his eye for Master Peter, 
which would bring in, if obtained, full five and six¬ 
pence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed 
tremendously at the idea of Peter’s being a man of 
business ; and Peter himself looked thoughtfully at 
the fire from between his collars, as if he were de¬ 
liberating what particular investments he should favor 
when he came into the receipt of that bewildering 
income. Martha, who w r as a poor apprentice at a 
milliner’s, then told them what kind of work she 
had to do, and how many hours she worked at a 
stretch, and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow 
morning for a good long rest, to-morrow being a holi¬ 
day she passed at home. Also how she had seen a 
countess and a lord some days before, and how the 





2 74 Treasury 

lord “ was much about as tall as Peter”; at which 
Peter pulled up his collar so high that you couldn’t 
have seen his head if you had been there. All this time 
the chestnuts and the jug went round and round ; 
and by and by they had a song, about a lost child 
travelling in the snow, from Tiny Tim, who had a 
plaintive little voice, and sang it very well indeed. 

There was nothing of high mark in this. They 
were not a handsome family ; 'they were not well 
dressed ; their shoes were far from being water¬ 
proof ; their clothes were scanty ; and Peter might 
have known, and very likely did, the inside of a 
pawnbroker’s. But they were happy, grateful, 
pleased with one another, and contented with the 
time ; and when they faded, and looked happier yet 
in the bright sprinklings of the Spirit’s torch at part¬ 
ing, Scrooge had his eyes upon them, and especially 
on Tiny Tim, until the last. 

It was a great surprise to Scrooge, as this scene 
vanished, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much 
greater surprise to Scrooge to recognize it as his own 
nephew’s, and to find himself in a bright, dry, 
gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling by 
his side, and looking at that same nephew. 

It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of 
things, that while there is infection in disease and 
sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly 
contagious as laughter and good-humor. When 
Scrooge’s nephew laughed, Scrooge’s niece by mar¬ 
riage laughed as heartily as he. And their assembled 
friends, being not a bit behindhand, laughed out 
lustily. 

“ He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I 
live !” cried Scrooge’s nephew. “ He believed it 
too !” 

“More shame for him, Fred!” said Scrooge’s 
niece, indignantly. Bless those women! they 
never do anything by halves. They are always in 
earnest. 

She was very pretty, exceedingly pretty. With a 
dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face ; a ripe little 
mouth that seemed made to be kissed,—as no doubt 
it was ; all kinds of good little dots above her chin, 
that melted into one another when she laughed ; and 
the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little 
creature’s head. Altogether she was what you 
would have called provoking, but satisfactory, too. 
O, perfectly satisfactory ! 

“ He’s a comical old fellow,” said Scrooge’s 
nephew, “ that’s the truth ; and not so pleasant as 
he might be. However, his offences carry their own 
punishment, and I have nothing to say against him. 
Who suffers by his ill whims ? Himself, always. 
Here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he 
won’t come and dine with us. What’s the conse¬ 
quence ? He don’t lose much of a dinner.” 

“ Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner,” 
interrupted Scrooge’s niece. Everybody else said 
the same, and they must be allowed to have been 
competent judges, because they had just had dinner ; 


of Tales. 

and, with the dessert upon the table, were clustered 
round the fire, by lamplight. 

“Well, I am very glad to hear it,” said Scrooge’s 
nephew, “because I haven’t any great faith in these 
young housekeepers. What do you say, Topper?” 

Topper clearly had his eye on one of Scrooge’s 
niece’s sisters, for he answered that a bachelor was a 
wretched outcast, who had no right to express an 
opinion on the subject. Whereat Scrooge’s niece’s 
sister—the plump one with the lace tucker, not the 
one with the roses—blushed. 

After tea they had some music. For they were a 
musical family, and knew what they were about, 
when they sung a Glee or Catch, I can assure you, 
—especially Topper, who could growl away in the 
bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins 
in his forehead, or get red in the face over it. 

But they didn’t devote the whole evening to 
music. After awhile they played at forfeits ; for it 
is good to be children sometimes, and never better 
than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a 
child himself. There was first a game at blind- 
man’s-buff, though. And I no more believe Topper 
was really blinded than I believe he had eyes in his 
boots. Because the way in which he went after that 
plump sister in the lace tucker was an outrage on 
the credulity of human nature. Knocking down the 
fire-irons, tumbling over the chairs, bumping up 
against the piano, smothering himself among the 
curtains, wherever she went there went he ! He 
always knew where the plump sister was. He 
wouldn’t catch anybody else. If you had fallen up 
against him, as some of them did, and stood there, 
he would have made a feint of endeavoring to seize 
you, which would have been an affront to your un¬ 
derstanding, and would instantly have sidled off in 
the direction of the plump sister. 

“ Here is a new game,” said Scrooge. “ One half- 
hour, Spirit, only one !” 

ItwasaGamecalled“Yesand No,” where Scrooge’s 
nephew had to think of something, and the rest must 
find out what ; he only answering to their questions 
yes or no, as the case was. The fire of questioning 
to which he was exposed elicited from him that he 
was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a 
disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that 
growled and grunted sometimes, and talked some¬ 
times, and lived in London, and walked about the 
streets, and wasn’t made a show of, and wasn’t led 
by anybody, and didn’t live in a menagerie, and was 
never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an 
ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, 
or a cat, or a bear. At every new question put to 
him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter; 
and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged 
to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last the plump 
sister cried out,— 

“ I have found it out! I know what it is, Fred ! 

I know what it is !” 

“ What is it ?” cried Fred. 





A Christmas Carol. 


2 75 


“ It’s your uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge !” 

Which it certainly was. Admiration was the uni¬ 
versal sentiment, though some objected that the 
reply to “ Is it a bear ?” ought to have been “ Yes.” 

Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay 
and light of heart, that he would have drunk to the 
unconscious company in an inaudible speech. But 
the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last 
word spoken by his nephew ; and he and the Spirit 
were again upon their travels. 

Much they saw, and far they went, and many 
homes they visited, but always with a happy end. 
The Spirit stood beside sick-beds, and they wtre 
cheerful ; on foreign lands, and they were close at 
home ; by struggling men, and they were patient in 
their greater hope ; by poverty, and it was rich. In 
almshouse, hospital, and jail, in misery’s every 
refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority 
had not made fast the door, and barred the Spirit 
out, he left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his 
precepts. Suddenly, as they stood together in an 
open place, the bell struck twelve. 

Scrooge looked about him for the Ghost, and saw 
it no more. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he 
remembered the prediction of old Jacob Marley, 
and, lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, 
draped and hooded, coming like a mist along the 
ground towards him. 

STAVE FOUR—THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS. 

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. 
When it came near him, Scrooge bent down upon 
his knee ; for in the air through which this Spirit 
moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. 

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which 
concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing 
of it visible save one outstretched hand. He knew 
no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved. 

“ I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas 
Yet To Come? Ghost of the Future! I fear you 
more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know 
your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live 
to be another man from what I was, I am prepared 
to bear you company, and do it with a thankful 
heart. Will you not speak to me ? ” 

It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed 
straight before them. 

“ Lead on ! Lead on ! The night is waning fast, 
and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, 
Spirit ! ” 

They had scarcely seemed to enter the city ; for 
the city rather seemed to spring up about them. 
But there they were in the heart of it; on ’Change, 
amongst the merchants. 

The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of busi¬ 
ness men. Observing that the hand was pointed 
to them, Scrooge advanced to listen to their talk. 

“ No,” said a great fat man with a monstrous chin, 


“ I don’t know much about it either way. I only 
know he’s dead.” 

“ When did he die ? ” inquired another. 

“ Last night, I believe.” 

“ Why, what was the matter with him ? I thought 
he’d never die.” 

“God knows,” said the first, with a yawn. 

“ What has he done with his money ? ” asked a 
red-faced gentleman. 

“ I haven’t heard,” said the man with the large 
chin. “ Company, perhaps. He hasn’t left it to 
me. That’s all I know. By-by ! ” 

Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that 
the Spirit should attach importance to conversation 
apparently so trivial ; but feeling assured that it 
must have some hidden purpose, he set himself to 
consider what it was likely to be. It could scarcely 
be supposed to have any bearing on the death of 
Jacob, his old partner, for that was Past, and this 
Ghost’s province was the Future. 

He looked about in that very place for his own 
image ; but another man stood in his accustomed 
corner, and though the clock pointed to his usual 
time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of 
himself among the multitudes that poured in through 
the Porch. It gave him little surprise, however ; 
for he had been revolving in his mind a change of 
life, and he thought and hoped he saw his new-born 
resolutions carried out in this. 

They left this busy scene, and went into an ob¬ 
scure part of the town, to a low shop where iron, 
old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal were 
bought. A gray-haired rascal, of great age, sat 
smoking his pipe. 

Scrooge and the Phantom came into the presence 
of this man, just as a woman with a heavy bundle 
slunk into the shop. But she had scarcely entered, 
when another woman, similarly laden, came in too ; 
and she was closely followed by a man in faded 
black. After a short period of blank astonishment, 
in which the old man with the pipe had joined them, 
they all three burst into a laugh. 

“ Let the charwoman alone to be the first ! ” cried 
she who had entered first. “ Let the laundress alone 
to be the second ; and let the undertaker’s man 
alone to be the third. Look here, old Joe, here’s a 
chance ! If we haven’t all three met here without 
meaning it ! ” 

“ You couldn’t have met in a better place. You 
were made free of it long ago, you know ; and the 
other two ain’t strangers. What have you got to 
sell ? What have you got to sell ? ” 

“ Half a minute’s patience, Joe, and you shall see.” 

“ What odds then ! What odds, Mrs. Dilber ? ” 
said the woman. “ Every person has a right to 
take care of themselves. He always did ! Who’s 
the worse for the loss of a few things like these ? 
Not a dead man, I suppose.” 

Mrs. Dilber, whose manner was remarkable for 
general propitiation, said, “ No, indeed, ma’am.” 





276 


Treasury of Tales . 


“ If he wanted to keep ’em after he was dead, the 
wicked old screw, why wasn’t he natural in his life¬ 
time ? If he had been, he’d have had somebody to 
look after him when he was struck with Death, in¬ 
stead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by 
himself.” 

“ It’s the truest word that ever was spoke ; it’s a 
judgment on him.” 

“ I wish it was a little heavier judgment, and it 
should have been, you may depend upon it, if I 
could have laid my hands on anything else. Open 
that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of 
it. Speak out plain. I’m not afraid to be the first, 
nor afraid for them to see it.” 

Joe went down on his knees for the greater con¬ 
venience of opening the bundle, and dragged out a 
large and heavy roll of some dark stuff. 

“ What do you call this ? Bed-curtains ! ” 

“ Ah ! Bed-curtains ! Don’t drop that oil upon 
the blankets, now.” 

“ His blankets ! ” 

“ Whose else’s, do you think ? He isn’t likely to 
take cold without ’em, I dare say. Ah ! You may 
look through that shirt till your eyes ache ; but you 
won’t find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It’s 
the best he had, and a fine one too. They’d have 
wasted it by dressing him up in it, if it hadn’t been 
for me.” 

Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. 

“ Spirit! I see, I see. The case of this unhappy 
man might be my own. My life tends that way 
now. Merciful Heaven, what is this ? ” 

The scene had changed and now he almost touched 
a bare, uncurtained bed. A pale light, rising in the 
outer air, fell straight upon this bed ; and on it, un¬ 
watched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this 
plundered unknown man. 

“ Spirit, let me see some tenderness connected 
with a death, or this dark chamber, Spirit, will be 
forever present to me.” 

The Ghost conducted him to poor Bob Cratchit’s 
house,— the dwelling he had visited before,— and 
found the mother and the children seated around 
the fire. 

Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits 
were as still as statues in one corner, and sat looking 
up at Peter, who had a book before him. The 
mother and her daughters were engaged in needle¬ 
work. But surely they were very quiet! 

“ And he took a child, and set him in the midst of 
them.” 

Where had Scrooge heard those words ? He had 
not dreamed them. The boy must have read them 
out, as he and the Spirit crossed the threshold. Why 
did he not go on ? 

The mother laid her work upon the table, and put 
her hand up to her face. 

“ The color hurts my eyes,” she said. 

The color ? Ah, poor Tiny Tim ! 

“ They’re better now again. It makes them weak 


by candle-light ; and I wouldn’t show weak eyes to 
your father when he comes home, for the world. It 
must be near his time.” 

“ Past it, rather,” Peter answered, shutting up his 
book. “ But I think he has walked a little slower 
than he used, these few last evenings, mother.” 

“ I have known him walk with—I have known 
him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast 
indeed.” 

“ And so have I,” cried Peter. “ Often.” 

“ And so have I,” exclaimed another. So had 
all. 

“ But he was very light to carry, and his father 
loved him so, that it was no trouble,—no trouble. 
And there is your father at the door ! ” 

She hurried out to meet him ; and little Bob in his 
comforter—he had need of it, poor fellow—came in. 
His tea was ready for him on the hob, and they all 
tried who should help him to it most. Then the two 
young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each 
child, a little cheek against his face, as if they said 
“ Don’t mind it, father. Don’t be grieved ! ” 

Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleas¬ 
antly to all the family. He looked at the work upon 
the table, and praised the industry and speed of Mrs. 
Cratchit and the girls. They would be done long 
before Sunday, he said. 

“ Sunday ! You went to-day, then, Robert ? ” 
“Yes, my dear,” returned Bob. “I wish you 
could have gone. It would have done you good to 
see how green a place it is. But you’ll see it often. 

I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. 
My little, little child ! My little child ! ” 

He broke down all at once. He couldn’t help it. 
If he could have helped it, he and his child would 
have been farther apart, perhaps, than they were. 

“ Spectre,” said Scrooge, “ something informs me 
that our parting moment is at hand. I know it, but 
I know not how. Tell me what man that was, with 
the covered face, whom we saw lying dead ? ” 

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed 
him to a dismal, wretched, ruinous churchyard. 

The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed 
down to One. 

“ Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you 
point, answer me one question. Are these the 
shadows of the things that Will be, or are they 
shadows of the things that May be only ? ” 

Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by 
which it stood. 

“ Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to 
which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the 
courses be departed from, the ends will change. 
Say it is thus with what you show me ! ” 

The Spirit was immovable as ever. 

Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; 
and, following the finger, read upon the stone of 
the neglected grave his own name— Ebenezer 
Scrooge. 

“ Am I that man who lay upon the bed ? No, 






A Christinas Carol. 


2 77 


Spirit! Oh, no, no ! Spirit! hear me ! I am not 
the man I was. I will not be the man I must have 
been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, 
if I am past all hope ? Assure me that I yet may 
change these shadows you have shown me by an 
altered life.” 

For the first time the kind hand faltered. 

“ I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to 
keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Pres¬ 
ent, and the Future. The Spirits of all three shall 
strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons 
that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the 
writing on this stone ! ” 

Holding up his hands in one last prayer to have 
his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phan¬ 
tom’s hood and dress. It shrank, collapsed, and 
dwindled down into a bedpost. 

Yes, and the bedpost was his own. The bed was 
his own, the room was his own. Best and hap¬ 
piest of all, the Time before him was his own, to 
make amends in ! 

He was checked in his transports by the churches 
ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. 

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out 
his head. No fog, no mist, no night ; clear, bright, 
stirring, golden day. 

“ What’s to-day ? ” cried Scrooge, calling down¬ 
ward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had 
loitered in to look about him. 

“ Eh ?” 

“ What’s to-day, my fine fellow ? ” 

“To-day ! Why, Christmas day.” 

“ It’s Christmas day ! 1 haven’t missed it. Hello, 
my fine fellow ! ” 

“ Hello ! ” 

“ Do you know the Poulterer’s, in the next street 
but one, at the corner ? ” 

“ I should hope I did.” 

“ An intelligent boy ! A remarkable boy ! Do 
you know whether they’ve sold the prize Turkey 
that was hanging up there? Not the little prize 
Turkey—the big one ? ” 

“ What, the one as big as me ? ” 

“ What a delightful boy ! It’s a pleasure to talk 
to him. Yes, my buck ! ” 

“ It’s hanging there now.” 

“ Is it ? Go and buy it.” 

“ Walk-ER ! ” exclaimed the boy. 

“ No, no, I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell 
’em to bring it here, that I may give them the direc¬ 
tion where to take it. Come back with the man, and 
I’ll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less 
than five minutes, and I’ll give you half a crown ! ” 
The boy was off like a shot. 

“ I’ll send it to Bob Cratchit’s ' He sha’n’t know 
who sends it. It’s twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe 
Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob’s 
will be ! ” 

The hand in which he wrote the address was not 
a steady one ; but write it he did, somehow, and 


went down stairs to open the street door, ready for 
the coming of the poulterer’s man. 

It was a Turkey ! He never could have stood 
upon his legs, that bird. He would have snapped 
’em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax. 

Scrooge dressed himself “ all in his best,” and at 
last got out into the streets. The people were by 
this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with 
the Ghost of Christmas Present ; and, walking with 
his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every one 
with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistibly 
pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humored 
fellows said, “ Good morning, sir ! A merry Christ¬ 
mas to you ! ” And Scrooge said, often afterwards, 
that, of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those 
were the blithest in his ears. 

In the afternoon, he turned his steps towards his 
nephew’s house. 

He passed the door a dozen times, before he had 
the courage to go up and knock. But he made a 
dash, and did it. 

“ Is your master at home, my dear ? ” said Scrooge 
to the girl. “ Nice girl ! Very.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Where is he, my love ? ” 

“ He’s in the dining-room, sir, along with mis¬ 
tress.” 

“ He know r s me,” said Scrooge, with his hand 
already on the dining-room lock. “ I’ll go in here, 
my dear.” 

“ Fred ! ” 

“ Why, bless my soul ! ” cried Fred, “ who’s that ? ” 

“It’s I. Your Uncle Scrooge. I have come to 
dinner. Will you let me in, Fred ?” 

Let him in ! It is a mercy he didn’t shake his arm 
off. He was at home in five minutes. Nothing 
could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. 
So did Topper when he came. So did the plump 
sister when she came. So did every one wffien they 
came. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonder¬ 
ful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness ! 

But he was early at the office next morning. Oh, 
he was early there ! If he could only be there first, 
and catch Bob Cratchit coming late ! That w r as the 
thing he had set his heart upon. 

And he did it. The clock struck nine. No Bob. 
A quarter past. No Bob. Bob was full eighteen 
minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat 
with his door wide open, that he might see him come 
into the Tank. 

Bob’s hat was off before he opened the door ; his 
cdmforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy ; driv¬ 
ing away with his pen, as if he were trying to over¬ 
take nine o’clock. 

“ Hello ! ” growled Scrooge in his accustomed 
voice, as near us he could feign it. “What do you 
mean by coming here at this time of day ? ” 

“ I am very sorry, sir. I am behind my time.” 

“You are? Yes. I think you are. Step this 
way, if you please.” 




278 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ It’s only once a year, sir. It shall not be re¬ 
peated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir.” 

“ Now, I’ll tell you what, my friend. I am not 
going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And 
therefore,” Scrooge continued, leaping from his 
stool, and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat 
that he staggered back into the Tank again—“and 
therefore I am about to raise your salary ! ” 

Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. 

“ A merry Christmas, Bob ! ” said Scrooge, with 
an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he 
clapped him on the back. “ A merrier Christmas, 
Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for 
many a year ! I’ll raise your salary, and endeavor 
to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss 
your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas 
bowl of smoking bishop, Bob ! Make up the fires, 
and buy a second coal-scuttle before you dot another 
i, Bob Cratchit ! ” 

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, 
and infinitely more ; and to Tiny Tim, who did not 
die, he was a second father. He became as good a 
friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the 
good old city knew, or any other good old city, 
town, or borough in the good old world. Some 
people laughed to see the alteration in him ; but his 
own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for 
him. 

He had no further intercourse with spirits, but 
lived in that respect upon the total abstinence prin¬ 
ciple ever afterward ; and it was always said of him, 
that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any 
man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be 
truly said of us, and all of us ! And so, as Tiny 
Tim observed, God bless us, every one ! 


SIMPSON OF BUSSOIJA. 

BY JAMES PAYN. 

HAVE a profound distrust of all travellers. 
Not because they are prone to tell me untruths 
about their experiences, for that has in a great 
measure become a dangerous experiment: where- 
ever they may have been, other people have now 
also been, and it is easy, if I may use a professional 
expression, to “correct their proofs.” No, my dis¬ 
trust arises from the ideas in my own mind of the 
experiences that they do not tell me. When they 
get away from the regions of civilization, and out of 
the influence of public opinion, think I to myself, 
what is it these people do not do ? For the very fa£t 
of a man’s being a traveller is, between ourselves, 
by no means a good sign. Why does he not stop at 
home in the bosom of his family, or, if he has no 
family, acquire one ? It is his duty as a citizen. 

My mind is, I think, a tolerably fair one, and I 
have never entertained suspicions against those who 
are compelled to visit distant latitudes against their 
wills. Queen’s messengers, convicts, sailors, etc., 


etc., may be very respectable persons in their way, 
notwithstanding where they may have been to. 

Such was my charitable belief until within the last 
few days ; since which I have seen some reason to 
change it. One of the quietest and best fellows I 
ever knew—and I have known him all my life—was 
Simpson of Bussora. I was at school with him five- 
and-forty years ago, and though his house of busi¬ 
ness is at the distant spot just mentioned, I had met 
him from time to time during his periodical visits to 
this country, and always found him unchanged— 
gentle, unassuming, modest, and orthodox in his 
opinions. Our house does a little business with him 
in shawls and carpets, but our acquaintance is mainly 
social. My wife and daughters are very partial to 
him, and delight in his Persian tales, which are pict¬ 
uresque and full of local color. He brings them 
little bottles of scent which perfume the whole 
neighborhood, and now and then a scarf that is the 
envy of their friends. 

I never, however, entertained any idea of Simpson 
as a son-in-law until my wife put it into my head. 
He lived too far away for me to picture him in such 
a relation, and though I knew he had made money, 
I did not think he had made enough to return home 
and settle. His income was a very handsome one ; 
but living at Bussora, he had given me to under¬ 
stand, was dear and did not admit of much saving. 
Above all, Simpson struck me as by no means a 
marrying man. Whenever the subject of matrimony 
was mooted, he always smiled in that dry, cynical 
way which proclaims the confirmed bachelor. 
Household matters did not interest him ; he did 
not take much to children ; he would smoke until 
the small hours of the morning, and raise his eye¬ 
brows when one said it was late, and perhaps one’s 
wife might be sitting up. He would say, “ Really ! ” 
as though such an idea as one’s wife sitting up for 
one was preposterous, but could never concern him. 

I need not go into the causes which led to my 
conversing with Simpson on the subject of matrimony. 
Suffice it to say that I did not do so of my own free 
will. I had received instructions from my wife to 
“ sound ” Simpson on the matter, with relation to 
some “ ideas ” that she had got into her head with 
respect to our second daughter Jane, and “to hear 
was to obey,” as they say at Bussora. 

“ My dear Simpson,” said I, as we were cracking 
our walnuts together after a little dinner under my 
own roof, “ I often wonder why a man like you, with 
a large income and a fine house, as you describe 
your home to be at Bussora, has never married. It 
must be rather wretched living out there all alone.” 

“Well, it would be, no doubt,” said Simpson in 
his quiet way. “ But, Lord bless you ! I’ve been 
married these twenty years.” 

You might have knocked me down with a feather. 
“ Married these twenty years ! You astound me. 
Why, how was it you never spoke about it ? ” 

“ Oh, I don t know ; I thought it wouldn’t interest 






Simpson of Bussora. 


279 


you. She was a Persian, you know. If she had 
been a European, then I should have told you.” ' 

“ A Persian wife ! Dear me,” said I, “ how funny 
it seems ! ” I said “ funny,” but at the same time 
all the suspicions that I entertained (and now enter¬ 
tain more than ever) respecting travellers and per¬ 
sons who abjure civilization, crowded into my mind. 
“ Now, what color, my dear Simpson, if I may put 
the question without impertinence, are your chil¬ 
dren ? ” 

“Well, we’ve got no children,” said Simpson, in 
his usual imperturbable tone. “ We never had any.” 

I don’t quite know why, but somehow or other I 
thought this creditable to Simpson. It was very 
wrong in him to have married a Persian, perhaps a 
fire-worshipper, or at best a Mohammedan, but it 
was a comfort to think that the evil had, so to speak, 
stopped there. To think of Simpson with a heap of 
parti-colored children, professing, perhaps, their 
mother’s outlandish faith as they grew up, would 
have been painful to me, in connection with the fact 
that Simpson was at that moment under my roof, the 
same roof with my wife and daughters, and that I 
was the churchwarden of our district church. I for¬ 
sook at once the particular subject of Simpson’s 
wife to discuss the general subject of polygamy. 

“ The Persians have more wives than one, have 
they not ? ” inquired I. 

“ Those who can afford it have,” said he ; “ but it 
is not so usual as you may imagine.” 

“ I need not ask how so profligate a system must 
needs work,” said I. “ It is a domestic failure, of 
course ? ” 

“You need not ask the question, as you say,” 
replied Simpson, cracking a walnut. “ But if you do 
ask, I am bound to say it is so far like marriage in 
this country—it is sometimes a domestic failure and 
sometimes not. Perhaps it requires more judgment 
in selection ; you have not only to please yourself, 
you know, but to please your other wives.” 

“ Goodness gracious ? ” said I, “ how coolly you 
talk about it! I hope no European who happens to 
be resident in this strange community ever gives in 
to the custom ? ” 

“ Some do and some don’t,” was the reply of 
Simpson. “ I lived in Persia with one wife for fif¬ 
teen years before I gave in.” 

“ What! you married a second wife, your first 
wife being alive ? ” 

“Just so,” was the unabashed rejoinder. 

Simpson swept the walnut-shells into a corner of 
his plate, and helped himself to sherry. “ I have 
now four wives.” 

“ Bless my soul and body!” said I. “Fourwives?” 

“Yes. The story of my little ine'nage may seem 
in your ears rather curious. If it will not bore you, 
I’ll tell you about it.” 

I had no words to decline the offer, even if I 
wished it. My breath was fairly taken away by 
Simpson’s four wives. The traveller who once told 


me that he liked his food uncooked (human flesh) 
had given me rather a turn, but that was nothing to 
this revelation of my present companion : a man we 
had always considered of the highest respectability, 
and who my wife had even thought would have 
suited our Jane. 

“Well, it was at a picnic party on the plains near 
Bussora that the thing first came about. My wife 
and I were both present at it ; and my European 
notions preventing my believing there could be the 
least misunderstanding about it, since I was already 
married, I made myself very agreeable to a certain 
Persian lady. She was neither young nor pretty— 
just like what my wife herself, indeed, had grown to 
be by that time—and I no more thought of making 
her my No. 2 than—dear me !—of embracing Mo¬ 
hammedanism. 

“ My attentions, however, were misconstrued ; 
and her brother, being a violent man in the Shah’s 
cavalry, and knowing I had a fairish income, in¬ 
sisted on my becoming his brother-in-law. I believe 
Irish marriages are often brought about in the same 
way, so there was nothing in that ; the peculiarity of 
the case lay in my having a wife already, and one 
who was very resolute indeed to prevent my having 
another. I spare you the troubles that ensued. 
Between my No. 1 wife on the one hand, and her 
sharp tongue, and the officer of Spahis on the other, 
with his sharp sword, I was placed in a very 
unpleasant position, I promise you ; but in the end 
I married Khaleda. 

“ I am sorry to say the two ladies got on extremely 
ill together. It was said by a great English wit tha-t 
when one’s wife gets to be forty, one ought to be 
allowed to change her for two twenties, like a forty- 
pound note, and I dare say that would be very nice ; 
but, unhappily, I had now two wives, each forty, if 
they were a day, and there was no prospect of 
getting them changed, or parting from them in any 
way. 

“ Pirouze and Khaleda led me a most unhappy 
life. They quarrelled from morning to night, and so 
far from being able to play off one against the other 
as I had secretly hoped, I was treated with great 
unkindness by both of them. They were a matter 
of very considerable expense, of course, and very 
little satisfaction. My position, in fact, became 
intolerable ; and as I could please neither of them, I 
resolved to please myself by marrying No. 3.” 

“ A twenty, I suppose ? ” said I, interested in 
spite of myself in this remarkable narration. 

“ Well, yes ; that is, she would have been a twenty 
in England, but in Persia young ladies marry a 
good deal earlier. She was a charming creature, 
and cost me-” 

“ What! did you buy her ? ” cried I, in astonish¬ 
ment and horror. 

“ Well, no, not exactly; her father, however, 
insisted upon something handsome, and there were 
heavyish fees to be paid to her mother aifd sisters, 





28 o 




Treasury of Tales. 


and to the Governor of Bussora. The custom of 
the country is curious in that respect. After one’s 
second wife a considerable tax is levied by the gov¬ 
ernment upon marrying men. However, Badoura 
was worth all the money ; she sang, she played 
divinely ; that is, she would have done so if she had 
not been always crying. Pirouze and Khaleda 
made her life utterly miserable. Hitherto they had 
been at daggers drawn with one another, but now 
they united together to persecute the unhappy 
Badoura. Her very life was scarcely safe with 
them. Wretched as my former lot had been, it was 
now become unendurable, for one can bear one’s 
own misery better than that of those we love. 

Here Simpson took out his handkerchief, of a 
beautiful Persian pattern, and pressed it to his 
eyes. 

“Yes, my dear friend, they led my Badoura a 
dog’s life—did those two women. I felt myself 
powerless to protect her, for I was never physically 
strong ; and though I did not understand one-half 
of the epithets they showered upon her, I could see 
by the effect they had upon her that they were most 
injurious—what I have no doubt would in this 
country be considered actionable. For her, how¬ 
ever, there was no remedy, and I think she would 
have sunk under their persecution had I not mar¬ 
ried Zobeide.” 

“ No. 4?” cried I, aghast. “What on earth did 
you do that for ? ” 

“ I married Zobeide solely and wholly for Ba- 
doura’s sake. I chose her, not for her beauty, nor 
her virtues, nor her accomplishments, but entirely 
for her thews and sinews. I said to her, ‘ Zobeide, 
you are a strong and powerful young woman ; if I 
make you my wife, will you protect my lamb ? ’ and 
she said ‘ I will.’ It was the most satisfactory in¬ 
vestment—I mean, the happiest choice—I ever made. 
My home is now the abode of peace. In one wing 
of the house abide Pirouze and Khaleda, in the other 
Zobeide and Badoura : two on the east side and two 
on the west. Each respects the other ; for although 


Pirouze and Khaleda are strong females, and could 
e£ch wring the neck of my dear Badoura, Zobeide is 
stronger than both of them put together, and pro¬ 
tects her. Thus the opposing elements are, as it 
were, neutralized : the combatants respect one an¬ 
other and I am the head of a united house. I got 
letters from all of my four wives this morning, each 
of them most characteristic and interesting : Badoura 
forgot to pay the postage—she has a soul above 
pecuniary details—and her letter was the dearest of 
all.” 

“Don’t cry, Simpson,” said I — “don’t cry, old 
fellow. The steamer goes on Tuesday, and then 
you will see all your wives again. They will wel¬ 
come you with outstretched arms—eight outstretched 
arms, like the octopus.” 

I confess I was affected by my friend’s artless 
narration at that time, though, since I have reflected 
upon the matter, my moral sense has reasserted 
itself, and is outraged. I state the matter as fairly as 
I can. I have been to picnics myself, as a married 
man, and made myself agreeable to the ladies. Well, 
in Persia this might have cost me my life, or the 
expense of a second establishment. So far, there is 
every excuse for Simpson. But, on the other hand, 
the astounding fact remains that there are four Mrs. 
Simpsons at Bussora. Whenever I look at his 
quiet, business-like face, or hear him talking to my 
wife and the girls about Persian scenery, this reve¬ 
lation of his strikes me anew with wonder. Of course 
I have not told them about his domestic relations ; it 
would be too great a shock to their respective sys¬ 
tems ; yet the possession of such a secret all to my¬ 
self is too hard to bear, and I have therefore laid it 
before the public. 

The whole thing resolves itself into a rule-of-three 
sum. If even a quiet respectable fellow like Simp¬ 
son, residing at Bussora, has four wives, how many 
wives—well, I don’t mean exactly thatj but how 
much queerer things must people do who are not 
so quiet and respectable as Simpson, and who live 
still farther off. 



i 






Epistolary Crazy-Work. 


281 



EPISTOLARY CRAZY-WORK. 

BY FERD. C. VALENTINE. 

I. 

Auburn, August 2d, ’83. 

My own dear Jennie. 

It is very simple. All I did was to write 
to several dry-goods houses requesting samples of 
evening silks at from $2 to seven $ a yard. Lots 
of them came ; some mean people did not answer, 
others who were inexpressibly mean and sent their 
samples glued to stiff card-board, are not worth 
mentioning. My pieces are nearly used up, there¬ 
fore I sent out a new batch of letters yesterday. 
My quilt will be finished before October. The 
work is very easy, and the material costs only post¬ 
age. Cheap, eh ?—Any new conquests ? 

With much love, 

Eulalia. 

II. 

Robert Anderson. James Dudley. 

ANDERSON & DUDLEY, 



8310 BROADWAY, 


IV. 

ANDERSON & DUDLEY. 8310 Broadway. 

New York , Aug. 6th, ’83. 

Dear Jim, 

Just this postal-card to tell you 
that since writing you yesterday , have 
received another request for “ samples." 
This one is from Miss Jennie Reron, 

Bridgeport. Will the nuisance ever stop ? 

% 

—I will send pieces , but hope that you 
will make it your biz. to look her up 
and do what you can. 

Yours , 

Bob. 


My dear Jim. 

Your order 1404 rec’d. Really am 
glad you went on the road. Also glad your health 
has improved. 

By the way, am awfully bothered by girls writing 
for samples. Three days ago rec’d enclosed letter 
from Miss Eulalia Eccles, Auburn, N.Y. Sent sam¬ 
ples. As you see by it, she is daughter of Hon. 
Jeremiah Eccles. When you go to Auburn see if 
you cannot make an example of her. 

Your partner and friend, 

Bob. 


III. 

My own dear Eulalia :— 

You are a genius. I have not “booked 
the idea ” but put it into immediate execution. I 
will inform you what success I have. 

Your devoted 

Jennie. 

Bridgeport, Saturday, Aug. 4 , ’ 83 . 


V. 


On the Road, Aug. 8, ’83. 

Dear Bob :— 

Yours of 5th and 6th rec'd. Will look 
up the sample young ladies. Expect large orders 
next week. Regards to all. Write me to Auburn. 

Yours, 

Jim. 


VI. 



JEREMIAH ECCLES, 


Attorney and (§>ounsellor-at-Law. 


In answer to yours of ... Auburn, A r . Y., _ j 88 

Oh Jennie- 

Did you ever feel like a murderer, or 
a thief, or a dynamiter or some other wicked thing ? 
And know you were guilty ? Oh, what shall I dof 












































282 


Treasury of Tales. 


You know, even if Papa is a lawyer and was a judge, 
of course he can’t keep me out of prison if I am 
guilty, can he ? This is terrible. Let me tell you 
all about it. 

I wanted just three skeins more of shaded floss for 
that awful crazy quilt, and went to Bodenheimer’s 
to get it. When I went in, there was, what I then 
thought, rather a handsome man talking with Mr. 
Bodenheimer. 

Young Jimpson, that ugly thing with freckles all 
over his face, waited on me, and was as affably obtru¬ 
sive and as disagreeably polite as only such an article 
can be. And then the stupid thing said : “ Miss 
Eccles, shall I send them ? Anything else, Miss 
Eccles ? Is your crazy - work quilt finished, Miss 
Eccles ? ” 

I did not answer him, could not move, for I saw 
the man who was talking with Mr. Bodenheimer look 
at me, take a letter from his pocket (just as some¬ 
body in Esmeralda did) and ask Mr. Bodenheimer 
something. 

Mr. Bodenheimer glanced at me and said : “Yes, 
Mr. Dudley.” 

Now I am sure that that horrible Mr. Dudley is 
something to Anderson and Dudley, and that the 
letter he had, was my letter asking for samples. 

I am frightened to death; he looks like a man who 
would stop at nothing,—still I cannot tell, you see, 
my dear Jennie, I am not as good a judge of the 
genus homo as you are. 

I stood in the store, looking at the show-cases as 
a person who is about to be hung might be looking 
at the gallows, I presume. -I soon felt that I was 
making a show of myself, so I exercised our preroga¬ 
tive, pricing, or do you spell it priceing ?—somehow 
neither of them looks exactly right to me. 

I woke to consciousness through an exclamation 
of surprise from that stupid Jimpson, whose freckles 
disappeared for once under intense blushes—his red 
neck-tie looked pale compared to his face. I do not 
know what I asked for, cavalry boots it may have 
been, or pistols, or, perhaps, even pantaloons. 

All I know is that I am here, at Papa’s office, and 
have not the remotest idea of what brought me. 
Fortunately Papa is out—oh, if he discovers the 
matter I am ruined—he’ll make me pay for the 
samples or—horrors—he may compel me to apol¬ 
ogize ! 

Do you think that that Mr. Dudley—he has very 
large brown eyes and is somewhat pale—I just hate 
pale men—do you think that Mr. Dudley will have 
me arrested ? Would not that be dreadful ! 

Jennie, I wish you were here. Write to me im¬ 
mediately and tell me what I shall do. You are 
three months older than I, and have more know¬ 
ledge of the world. Help your distressed 

Eulalia. 

P.S. I will not return the pieces of silk, would 
you ? I think I am feverish. I will go home and 
have Ma send for Dr. Brinner. 


VII. 




Office Hours : 

8 to 10 A.M. 
4 to 6 F.M. 


Physician and Surgeon. 

rrtuhum, _ i o - 7883. 



Tr. Valerian .f § j 

“ Asa foetid .f 3 iij 

Spls. aeth. comp.... f 3 v 
Elix. simpl. .f 5 'j 


M.D.S. 

Teaspoonful every half hour. 


<2 


For 


Miss Eulalia Eccles. 


VIII. 




>— 

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<c ^ 

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cc. % 




3C £ 

| 

Q_ K 


... b 

§ 

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UJ S 

— 1 i 

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THIS PAPER HAS THE LARGEST CIRCULATION OF ANY 
PAPER IN THE NEW ENGLAND STATES. 


SEE ADVERTISING 
RATES ON BACK OF 
THIS SHEET. 


JOHN Q. RERON, 

Editor and Proprietor. 

Bridgeport , Conn., . 18S3. 


Saturday night. 

Mv poor, dear Eulalia : 

Your yesterday’s letter was evidently 
written under great excitement, or else you would 
not have forgotten yourself so far as to say that I 
am three months older than you.- I did not like to 
tell you so before, but when we were in N. Y. last 
winter, everybody thought that you looked fully two 
years my senior. But I will forgive you, owing to 
your trouble. 

Of course I want to advise you as to the best 
course to be pursued, and, therefore, I took your 
letter to Mrs. Bradely, whom I like, although she 
does dress better than I, and I laid the whole mat¬ 
ter before her. 

After mature consideration, we have concluded 
that the pale Mr. Dudley, with the large, brown 
eyes, may not have thought of the samples, and 
that his glance at you, which your conscience mis¬ 
construed, was nothing but—ah, well, Eulalia dear, 
you are not accustomed to being admired. 

















Epistolary Crazy - Work. 


283 


However, supposing that he really is insane 
•enough to annoy you about such a trifle, there are 
several ways for you to checkmate him. One you 
might try first—have your Papa swear out a war¬ 
rant, or a habeas corpus or a caveat —he will know 
what is best—and then have Mr. Dudley locked up 
as a dangerous lunatic. If you do not like the pub¬ 
licity, although I do not see why a lawyer’s daughter 
should fear anything, then try to buy him off, and 
if that cannot be done, there will be but one way 
left to get rid of him—marry him. The latter is an 
extreme measure, to be adopted only when all else 
fails, and providing that he presents no serious 
obstacle, such as a wife or other encumbrance, a 
hunch or a crooked nose, or some kindred variance 
from the ordinary run of mortals. 

Hoping, my dearest Eulalia, that I will receive 
immediately a recital of how you got rid of the 
horrid nightmare, I am, with much love, your true 
and devoted friend, 


Dudley’s pale complexion. He is quite ill and I 
have induced him to spend his summer vacation 
here, which he will do. 

He is out with Papa now, attending to some im¬ 
portant law-matters, and as I expect them in to late 
tea, I will close, hoping that you will be very care¬ 
ful in the future how you express yourself about a 
gentleman you have never seen. 

Your friend, 

Eulalia. 


Anderson & Dudley, 

Dry Goods, 

8810 BROADWAY, 


X. 

MEMORANDUM. 

y 0 Miss Jennie Reron, 
Bridgeport, 

Conn. 


SVew %/'orlcj _ Au g. T 5 >. 7883. 


Jennie. 

P. S. If they should bother me about the sam¬ 
ples, I will give them a very extensive piece of my 
mind. How can they expect to do business if they 
will not be obliging ? I will get Papa to abuse them 
terribly in the Nutmeg. 

J. 


Dear Miss:— 

If you have determined to make no 
selection from the samples of silk mailed you Aug. 
6th, will you please to return them to 

Yours, very respectfully, 

Anderson & Dudley. 


IX. 


XI. 



Monday eve. 

Dear Jennie : 

I hardly know how to designate your letter 
of Saturday. I have often deplored your tendency 
to frivolity, but this letter exceeds anything you have 
over perpetrated. Only delicacy on my part has 
prevented my telling you that when we were out to¬ 
gether last, everybody commented upon your good 
appearance by remarking how young you looked to 
have a daughter as old as myself. 

Your showing my letter to Mrs. Bradely is nothing 
less than a breach of trust, a very serious charge, 
which only my affection for you prevents me from 
pressing. The idea! that Mrs. Bradely, who has 
nothing in her favor except her pretty face and a 
very fair taste in dressing, and a sweet baby, that 
dear little honey-bug Ethel. I wonder how in the 
world Mr. Bradely ever married her! I know him 
very well; Papa foreclosed a mortgage for him at 
Mount Vernon last year and I went with him. 

But Jennie, I am more than surprised at the dis¬ 
respectful manner in which you speak of Mr. Dudley 
of Anderson and Dudley. I know that he is a 
gentleman and, if I can forgive your disagreeable 
reflections upon me, I can only say that I am very 
sorry tha. you should make sport of poor Mr. 


✓ v ;* 
* 




Bridgeport, Aug. 17, ’Sj. 

Messrs. Anderson 6° Dudley. 

Gentlemen : If you will send 
me your bill for the samples of silk kindly sent 
me on the sixth, I will take pleasure in send¬ 
ing you a money-order for the amount, as I 
wish to keep the samples. 

Yours, etc., 

fennie Reron. 


XII. 


Anderson & Dudley, 

Dry Goods, 

8 810 BROADWAY, 


MEMORANDUM. 

Jq Mr. James Dudley, 
Auburn, 


N. Y. 

SVew S/orlc, A u g. T 9 >_ 7883. 


Dear Jim: 

Have heard nothing from you since your 
telegram of the 9th. What is the matter? If you 
are dead say so, but break it to me gently. Joking 
aside, I hardly think it is quite the thing to leave me 
in ignorance. Do not, my dear fellow, imagine for 




























284 


Treasury of Tales. 


a moment that I am displeased at receiving no orders 
from you, but I am anxious about your health. 
Please to answer on receipt. 

Yours aff., 

Bob. 


XIII. 


Aug. 27, 


1883. 


Auburn, JV\ T. 


Telegram fo Anderson & Dudley, 8370 D’dw’y. 

_ Memorandum nineteenth ?'eceived. Am 

perfectly well. Susy making example of 
sample fend. ‘Particulars by mail. 


75 Paid. 


James Dudley. 


XIV. 


QUICK SALES and SMALL PROFITS. 


BODENHEIMER & CO. 

(No connection with any house of a similar name.) 

Dry Goods, Fancy Goods, Boots and Shoes, Cutlery. 

AGENTS FOR DEMOREST'S PATTERNS. 

Auburn, N. Y., 

_.A u ?:_. 2 3l_ 

Messrs. Anderson & Dudley, 

N. Y. 

Gentlemen :— 

Enclosed please find order sheets 
1405, 1406, 1407 and 1408, to which you will give 
immediate attention. 

Yours, &c., 

James Dudley. 

[Personal to R. Anderson.] 


I was deeply pained to hear that she was ill, could 
not receive visitors—and Bob, had you seen her, you 
would have agreed with me that though she might 
steal samples, she would not lie. I left my address, 
c/ 0 Bodenheimer ; why I did so I do not know. But, 
Bob, it is better to tell the whole truth, and, there¬ 
fore, I will confess to you that I wrote on the card : 
“ Hope that Miss Eccles will soon recover.” This, 
of course, was wrong in me, both as a business man 
and as a man of society. But one will sometimes 
do absurd things, especially when dealing with a 
thief so very pretty as my thief. 

How little I have attended to biz. is shown by the 
very few orders I send—I will not attempt to say 
how I have spent my time. 

On the following Monday (13th) I received a note, 
which, being from a lady, it would be wrong for me 
to show even you. The result was that at 2 P.M. I 
called on Miss Eccles. 

She came into the parlor, and was so filled with the 
fear that I came to do terrible things to her, that I 
forgot all about the object of my visit and went 
vigorously to work consoling her. 

To cut the matter short, I have concluded that 
Miss Eulalia Eccles is a consummate thief, for she 
has stolen 

Your partner, 

Jim. 

By the way, Bob, the above conclusion is some¬ 
what premature. I confess that I am captivated— 
that does not mean that she is—I wish she were. 
Now you will understand my silence. I expect a 
derisive letter from you ; pitch in, old fellow, I will 
bear your abuse calmly—no, I will take it to Miss. 
Eccles, perhaps she will console me. 

J- 


XV. 


My dear Bob : 

I really do not know how to begin 
this letter; for the first time since our boyhood do I 
feel hesitancy in expressing myself to you—you who 
have always been my confidant. Yet, I presume that 
the only way to do a thing is to do it, therefore I 
will attempt to be as succinct as possible. 

I arrived here on the 10th and, of course, looked 
up Bodenheimer first. Order 1405 shows what I did 
with him. While I was talking to him, I heard one 
of his clerks mention Miss Eccles ; I looked up and 
saw—well I will not attempt a description. Boden¬ 
heimer told me that this vision was Miss Eulalia, our 
fair sampler. 

For the first time in my life did I feel annoyed at 
being seen in traveling garb ; yet I determined that 
I would allow no foolish idea to interfere with busi¬ 
ness, and I agreed with you thoroughly, that though 
this sampling is a small matter in itself, in the aggre¬ 
gate it amounts to something. Therefore, I set aside 
all considerations, and after making myself as pre¬ 
sentable as possible, called on the young lady. 


Robert Anderson. James Dudley. 

ANDERSON & DUDLEY, 

8310 BROADWAY, 

Mr. James Dudley, 

Auburn. 

Dear Sir : 

We are in receipt of your favor of the 
23d, enclosing order sheets Nos. 1405, 1406, 1407 
and 1408, which will receive our immediate atten¬ 
tion. While we cannot but deplore the paucity of 
business in Auburn, we fully appreciati 1- 

stances which have prevented it, as wi V| in 

private note to you by our Mr. R. An e on ch 
is enclosed with this, and we are, 

Yours, &c., 

Anderson 



















Epistolary Crazy - IVork. 


285 


[Personal to James Dudley.] 


XVII. 


My dear Jim : 


FOR SADDLES GO TO BODENHEIMERS'. 

6m 


The intense heat which prevails would 
prevent my answering your private note of 23d were 
it not that it contains a matter of surpassing impor¬ 
tance. 

And therefore I take off my collar, which is 
as wilted as yesterday’s flower, look at the ice-cooler 
(what an asinine name—as if it were destined to 
cool ice), plant myself before my desk and answer 
you at length. 

1. This is a serious matter and requires time, 
therefore, if you will send back your samples (except 
such as Miss Eccles may wish) and will take your 
summering at Auburn, it will do you much good, 
and you will return here a new man. 

2. I will, if you so desire, express you your other 
clothes—shall I send your ulster ? 

3. You need not go to Bridgeport; delicate mat¬ 
ters, such as fair sample-pirates, will be looked after 
by the senior partner of Messrs. A. & D. 

4. No biz. here. You need not hurry back. 

5. Bradstreet reports your future father-in-law at 
$1,800,000. 

6. Bye-bye. 

Bob. 

I received an impudent little note from Bridge¬ 
port. I will show you how business -men manage 
these matters. 


XVI. 



This Evening the Rev. Mr. P. R. Day, President of the 
Columbian Institute for the Cure of (’hronic Diseases, 
and Pastor of the Seventh Presbyterian Church of New 
York, will lecture at the Atheneum on 

BIBLICAL POETIC THOUGHTS, 
for the benefit of the Charity Department of the Colum¬ 
bian Institute. Tickets, at Boaenheimer & Co.’s and 
at the door, 50c; Reserved seats, 75c. ltd. 


PUBLIC WEAL. 

T. XENOPHON SIBBRY, - - Editor. 


Auburn, N. Y., August 29tli, 1883. 


A BRAVE MAN. 

We spare our readers an editorial repetition 
of the details of the accident which threatened 
to rob our fair city of one of its fairest 
daughters yesterday afternoon, but take great 
pleasure in signalizing the unexampled 
bravery of Mr. James Dudley, junior partner 
of the well-known New-York dry-goods 
merchants, Anderson & Dudley, whose adver¬ 
tisement appears on our last page. 

From the news columns of Public Weal our 
readers will learn that as Mr. Dudley was leav¬ 
ing the house of the Hon. J. Eccles, in a buggy 
in which he and Miss Eulalia Eccles were to 
take a drive, a youth rushed towards the 
horse, which became frightened and ran off. 
With rare skill, Mr. Dudley directed the un¬ 
manageable animal towards a tree on Main 
street and in such a manner as to throw the 
weight of the left side of the buggy, on which 
he sat, against the tree. 

The vehicle was demolished, hut Mr. Dud¬ 
ley grasped Miss Eccles and shielded her from 
harm, while he received some very severe 
bruises on the left side of his head, his left 
arm and side. He was carried to Mr. Eccles’ 
house and is being carefully nursed there. 
Dr. Brinner assures us that none of Mr. 
Dudley’s bones are broken, and that he will be 
able to enjoy all of the diversions which our 
city offers within a week or ten days. 

The unfortunate youth who was the cause 
of the accident is Morris Jimpson, one of the 
clerks of Messrs. Bodenheimer & Co., who 
seems, from his record, to have a special 
genius for getting himself and others into 
trouble. It appears that he noticed that a 
rein had become detached from the horse’s bit 
and blustered up to replace it. 

We hope that our comment on young Jimp- 
son’s erratic conduct will not be attributed to 
the fact that he is the son of the editor of an 
alleged daily paper, which we believe is pub¬ 
lished in this city; but as we never stoop to 
personalities we feel safe in informing all that 
we shall take no notice of any vulgar attacks 
made on us because of the truthful manner 
in which we publish the news. 

Yet it might be pro bono publico if the afore¬ 
said editor were to tie up his scion with a 
short rope, and thus prevent him from fright¬ 
ening horses and endangering the lives of 
respectable and respected people. 
















286 


Treasury of Tales. 


xv III. 

Bridgeport, Friday. 

My dear Eulalia. 

I was too angry with you to answer 
your last letter, but now that a misfortune has be¬ 
fallen you, as I see by the Public Weal of the 29th, 
I feel that I can do nothing less than go to help 
you nurse poor Mr. Dudley. I give you my word, 
my dear Eulalia, that I am very glad that Mr. Dudley 
is not severely injured. 

Were it not my duty to go to you now, I would 
remain at home, for I received a postal card from Mr. 
Anderson a few days ago, in which he threatened to 
call on me about those samples. His writing is so 
pretty that I am quite anxious to see him. 

Expect me by the afternoon train. 

Your true friend, 


James of a few samples, but I am neither ashamed 
nor repentant for having stolen your partner. For 
the latter I can make restitution. My dear friend 
Miss Jennie Reron is here, helping me nurse James, 
the poor darling; I am sure you will like her. 

Wc want you to come here. James says there 
is no reason for your remaining in New York during 
the hot weather, and you promised him to make an 
example of the other sample thief. She is here. 

My dear James says that Dr. Brinner deserves to 
be caned for divulging that he was conscious when 
I thought that he was dying, and therefore wishes 
you to get the finest gold-headed walking-stick you 
can and have it engraved 



ej 


H'yisyi-e. 




FROM HIS GRATEFUL 


Jennie. 


JEwlalia and Dames Dudley. 


P.S.—If Mr. Anderson should go to Auburn to 
look after his injured partner, would it not be just 
too peculiar ? 


XIX. 


Auburn, Sept. 3, ’83. 

I am a bruised man (for details see Public 

Weal which I send with this) and-let me tell you 

the whole story. 

When the buggy struck the tree, or shortly there¬ 
after, I lost consciousness and came to myself in 
this room in Mr. Eccles’s house; Eulalia was hold¬ 
ing my head in her arms and weeping. I heard her 
sweet voice say: “You must not die, my darling. 
Oh, my love,” and I did not—to oblige her. I did 
not become conscious, that is to say, I allowed no 
one to discover that I knew what was going on, un¬ 
till that wretch, Dr. Brinner, lifted my eyelids and 
after staring at me a moment, winked in a most 
atrocious manner. 

I then endeavored to take Eulalia’s hand, but 
found that I could barely move—I did not care to 
move. 

Eulalia, my angel, says that she will report me to 
the Doctor if I continue writing, therefore I will 
leave the rest to her. 

Yours, 

Jim. 



Dear Mr. Anderson: 

James insists that I shall call you “Bob,” or 

at least Robert, but I cannot do that-yet. It 

would not be at all proper, would it ? 

Will you forgive me, Mr. Anderson? I did not 
think what I was doing when I defrauded you and 


We will present it to him on our wedding-day. 
Please to bring it with you—the cane I mean. 

Papa sends you his compliments, and says that 
you must come directly to our house and remain 
with us until your return to New York. 

James says that you can rely upon Mr. Collins 
to conduct the business, and that you are to be 
here by next Saturday. We expect no answer from 
you otherwise than in person. 

Your happy friend, 

Eulalia Eccles. 

* 

XX. 


Eccles—Dudley.— At the residence of the bride’s father, 
on Thursday, Sept. 20th, 1883, by the Rev. P. R. Day of New 
York, Mr. James Dudley of New York to Miss Eulalia Eccles, 
daughter of the Hon. Jeremiah Eccles of Auburn, N.Y. 






















The Purloined Letter. 


287 


XXI. 


ROBERT ANDERSON, > New HON. J. ECCLES, Auburn. ) - 
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8308, 8310, 8312, 8314, 8316 AND 8318 BROADWAY, 
New York. 


THE PURLOINED LETTER. 

BY EDGAR A. POE. 

A T Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the 
autumn of 1833, I was enjoying the twofold 
luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in 
company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his 
little back library, or book-closet, au troisihne, No. 
33, Rue Dunot, Faubourg St. Germain. For one 
hour at least we had maintained a profound silence ; 
while each, to any casual observer, might have 
seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the 
curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmos¬ 
phere of the chamber. For myself, however, I was 
mentally discussing certain topics which had formed 
matter for conversation between us at an earlier 
period ^e evening ; I mean the affair of the 
Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the mur¬ 
der of Marie Roget. I looked upon it, therefore, 
as something of a coincidence, when the door of 
our apartment was thrown open and admitted our 
old acquaintance, Monsieur Gaston, the Prefect of 
the Parisian police. 

We gave him a hearty welcome ; for there was 
nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the 
contemptible about the man, and we had not seen 
him for several years. We had been sitting in the 
dark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of light¬ 
ing a lamp, but sat down again, without doing so, 
upon Gaston's saying that he had called to consult 
us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend, about 
some official business which had occasioned a great 
deal of trouble. 

“If it is any point requiring reflection,” observed 
Dupin, as he forbore to enkindle the wick, “we 
shall examine it to better purpose in the dark.” 
“That is another of your odd notions,” said the 


Prefect, who had a fashion of calling everything 
“ odd ” that was beyond his comprehension, and thus 
lived amid an absolute legion of “oddities.” 

“Very true,” said Dupin, as he supplied his visi¬ 
tor with a pipe, and rolled toward him a comfort¬ 
able chair. 

“ And what is the difficulty now ? ” I asked. “ Noth¬ 
ing more in the assassination way, I hope ? ” 

“ Oh no ; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the 
business is very simple indeed, and I make no doubt 
that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves: 
but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the 
details of it, because it is so excessively odd.” 

“ Simple and odd,” said Dupin. 

“ Why, yes; and not exactly that, either. The 
fact is, we have all been a good deal puzzled be¬ 
cause the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us al¬ 
together.” 

“Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing 
which puts you at fault,” said my friend. 

“ What nonsense you do talk ! ” replied the Pre¬ 
fect, laughing heartily. 

“ Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain,” said 
Dupin. 

“Oh, good heavens ! who ever heard of such an 
idea ?” 

“ A little too self-evident.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !—ha ! ha ! ha—ho ! ho ! ho ! ” 
roared our visitor, profoundly amused ; “oh, Dupin, 
you will be the death of me yet!” 

“And what, after all, is the matter on hand?” I 
asked. 

“Why, I will tell you,” replied the Prefect, as he 
gave a long, steady, and contemplative puff, and set¬ 
tled himself in his chair. “I will tell you in a few 
words ; but, before I begin, let me caution you that 
this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and 
that I should most probably lose the position I now 
hold, were it known that I confided it to any one.” 

“ Proceed,” said I. 

“Or not,” said Dupin'. 

“Well, then ; I have received personal informa¬ 
tion, from a very high quarter, that a certain docu¬ 
ment of the last importance, has been purloined from 
the royal apartments. The individual who purloined 
it is known ; this beyond a doubt; he was seen to 
take it. It is known, also, that it still remains in 
his possession.” 

“ How is this known ? ” asked Dupin. 

“ It is clearly inferred,” replied the Prefect, “ from 
the nature of the document, and from the non-ap¬ 
pearance of certain results which would at once arise 
from its passing out of the robber’s possession ; — 
that is to say, from his employing it as he must de¬ 
sign in the end to employ it.” 

“ Be a little more explicit,” I said. 

“Well, I may venture so far as to say that the 
.paper gives its holder a certain power in a certain 
quarter where such power is immensely valuable.” 
The Prefect was fond of the cant of diplomacy. 






















288 


1 reasury 

“Still I do not quite understand,” said Dupin. 

“No? Well; the disclosure of the document to a 
third person, who shall be nameless, would bring in 
question the honor of a personage of most exalted 
station ; and this fact gives the holder of the docu¬ 
ment an ascendancy over the illustrious personage 
whose honor and peace are so jeopardized.” 

“But this ascendancy,” I interposed, “would de¬ 
pend upon the robber’s knowledge of the loser’s 
knowledge of the robber. Who would dare-” 

“The thief,” said Gaston, “is the Minister D-, 

who dares all things, those unbecoming as well as 
those becoming a man. The method of the thief 
was not less ingenious than bold. The document 
in question—a letter, to be frank—had been re¬ 
ceived by the personage robbed while alone in the 
royal boudoir. During its perusal she was suddenly 
interrupted by the entrance of the other exalted per¬ 
sonage from whom especially it was her wish to con¬ 
ceal it. After a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust 
it in a drawer, she was forced to place it, open as 
it was, upon a table. The address, however, was up¬ 
permost, and, the contents thus unexposed, the letter 
escaped notice. At this juncture enters the Minister 

D-. His lynx eye immediately perceives the 

paper, recognizes the handwriting of the address, 
observes the confusion of the personage addressed, 
and fathoms her secret. After some business trans¬ 
actions, hurried through in his ordinary manner, he 
produces a letter somewhat similar to the one in 
question, opens it, pretends to read it and then 
places it in close juxtaposition to the other. Again 
he converses, for some fifteen minutes, upon the 
public affairs. At length, in taking leave, he takes 
also from the table the letter to which he had no 
claim. Its rightful owner saw, but, of course, dared 
not call attention to the act, in the presence of the 
third personage, who stood at her elbow. The min¬ 
ister decamped ; leaving his own letter—one of no 
importance—upon the table.” 

“ Here, then,” said Dupin to me, “ you have pre¬ 
cisely what you demand to make the ascendancy 
complete—the robber’s knowledge of the loser’s 
knowledge of the robber.” 

“Yes,” replied the Prefect; “and the power thus 
attained has, for some months past, been wielded, 
for political purposes, to a very dangerous extent. 
The personage robbed is more thoroughly con¬ 
vinced, every day, of the necessity of reclaiming 
her letter. But this, of course, cannot be done 
openly. In fine, driven to despair, she has com¬ 
mitted the matter to me.” 

“ Than whom,” said Dupin, amid a perfect whirl¬ 
wind of smoke, “ no more sagacious agent could, I 
suppose, be desired, or even imagined.” 

“You flatter me,” replied the Prefect; “but it is 
possible that some such opinion may have been en¬ 
tertained.” 

“It is clear,” said I, “as you observe, that the 
letter is still in possession of the minister ; since it 


of Tales. 

is this possession, and not any employment of the 
letter, which bestows the power. With the employ¬ 
ment the power departs.” 

“True,” said Gaston ; “and upon this conviction 
I proceeded. My first care was to make thorough 
search of the minister’s hotel; and here my chief 
embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching 
without his knowledge. Beyond all things, I have 
been warned of the danger which would result from 
giving him reason to suspect our design.” 

“ But,” said I, “ you are quite au fait in these in¬ 
vestigations. The Parisian police have done this 
thing often before.” 

“ O yes ; and for this reason I did not despair. 
The habits of the minister gave me, too, a great ad¬ 
vantage. He is frequently absent from home all 
night. His servants are by no means numerous. 
They sleep at a distance from their master’s apart¬ 
ment, and, being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily 
made drunk. I have keys, as you know, with which 
I can open any chamber or cabinet in Paris. For 
three months a night has not passed, during the 
greater part of which I have not been engaged, per¬ 
sonally, in ransacking the D-Hotel. My honor 

is interested, and, to mention a great secret, the re¬ 
ward is enormous. So I did not abandon the search 
until I had become fully satisfied that the thief is a 
more astute man than myself. I fancy that I have 
investigated every nook and corner of the premises 
in which it is possible that the paper can be con¬ 
cealed.” 

“ But is it not possible,” I suggested, “ that although 
the letter may be in possession of the minister, as 
it unquestionably is, he may have concealed it else¬ 
where than upon his own premises ? ” 

“ This is barely possible,” said Dupin. “ The pe¬ 
culiar condition of affairs at court, and especially of 
those intrigues in which D-is known to be in¬ 

volved, would render the instant availability of the 
document—its susceptibility of being produced at a 
moment’s notice—a point of nearly equal impor¬ 
tance with its possession.” 

“ Its susceptibility of being produced ? ” said I. 

“ That is to say, of being destroyed ,” said Du¬ 
pin. 

“True,” I observed; “the paper is clearly then 
upon the premises. As for its being upon the per¬ 
son of the minister, we may consider that as out of 
the question.” 

“ Entirely,” said the Prefect. “ He has been twice 
waylaid, as if by foot-pads, and his person rigorously 
searched under my own inspection.” 

“You might have spared yourself this trouble,” 

said Dupin. “D-, I presume, is not altogether 

a fool, and, if not, must have anticipated these way- 
layings, as a matter of course.” 

“Not altogether a fool,” said Gaston ; “but then 
he’s a poet, which I take to be only one remove 
from a fool.” 

“True,” said Dupin, after a long and th uMitful 












The Purloined Letter. 


28 9 


whiff from his meerschaum, “ although I have been 
guilty of certain doggerel myself.” 

“ Suppose you detail,” said I, “ the particulars of 
your search.” 

“Why the fact is, we took our time, and we 
searched everywhere. I have had long experience in 
these affairs. I took the entire building, room by 
room ; devoting the nights of a whole week to each. 
We examined, first, the furniture of each apartment. 
We opened every possible drawer ; and I presume 
you know that, to a properly trained police agent, 
such a thing as a secret drawer is impossible. Any 
man is a dolt who permits a ‘ secret ’ drawer to es¬ 
cape him in a search of this kind. The thing is so 
plain. There is a certain amount of bulk—of space 
—to be accounted for in every cabinet. Then we 
have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of aline could 
not escape us. After the cabinets we took the chairs. 
The cushions we probed with the fine long needles 
you have seen me employ. From the tables we re¬ 
moved the tops.” 

“ Why so ? ” 

“ Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly 
arranged piece of furniture, is removed by the per¬ 
son wishing to conceal an article ; then the leg is 
excavated, the article deposited within the' cavity, 
and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bed¬ 
posts are employed in the same way.” 

“ But could not the cavity be detected by sound¬ 
ing ? ” I asked. 

“ By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a 
sufficient wadding of cotton be placed around it. 
Besides, in our case, we were obliged to proceed 
without noise.” 

“ But you could not have removed—you could 
not have taken to pieces all articles of furniture in 
which it would have been possible to make a deposit 
in the manner you mention. A letter may be com¬ 
pressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in 
shape or bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in 
this form it might be inserted into the rung of a 
chair, for example. You did not take to pieces all 
the chairs ? ” 

“ Certainly not ; but we did better—we examined 
the rungs of every chair in the hotel, and, indeed, 
the jointings of every description of furniture, by 
the aid of a most powerful microscope. Had there 
been any trace of recent disturbance we should not 
have failed to detect it instantly. A single grain of 
gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as ob¬ 
vious as an apple. Any disorder in the gluing— 
any unusual gaping in the joints—would have sufficed 
to insure detection.” 

“ I presume you looked to the mirrors, between 
the boards and the plates, and you probed the beds 
and the bedclothes, as well as the curtains and car¬ 
pets.” 

“ That of course ; and when we had absolutely 
completed every particle of the furniture in this 
we examined the house itself. We di- 

* 


vided its entire surface into compartments, which we 
numbered, so that none might be missed ; then we 
scrutinized each individual square inch throughout 
the premises, including the two houses immediately 
adjoining, with the microscope, as before.” 

“ The two houses adjoining ! ” I exclaimed ; “you 
must have had a great deal of trouble.” 

“We had ; but the reward offered is prodigious.” 
“ You include the grounds about the houses ? ” 

“ All the grounds are paved with brick. They 
gave us comparatively little trouble. We examined 
the moss between the bricks, and found it undis¬ 
turbed.” 

“You looked among D-’s papers, of course, 

and into the books of the library ? ” 

“ Certainly ; we opened every package and parcel; 
we not only opened every book, but we turned over 
every leaf in each volume, not contenting ourselves 
with a mere shake, according to the fashion of some 
of our police officers. We also measured the thickness 
of every book-cover, with the most accurate ad¬ 
measurement, and applied to each the most jealous 
scrutiny of the microscope. Had any of the bind¬ 
ings been recently meddled with, it would have been 
utterly impossible that the fact should have escaped 
observation. Some five or six volumes, just from 
the hands of the binder, we carefully probed, longi¬ 
tudinally, with the needles.” 

“ You explored the floors beneath the carpets ? ” 

“ Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and 
examined the boards with the microscope.” 

“ And the paper on the walls ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ You looked into the cellars ? ” 

“We did.” 

“Then,” I said, “you have been making a mis¬ 
calculation, and the letter is not upon the premises, 
as you suppose.” 

“I fear you are right there,” said the Prefect. 
“ And now, Dupin, what would you advise me to do ? ” 
“To make a thorough re-search of the premises.” 
“ That is absolutely needless,” replied Gaston. “ I 
am not more sure that I breathe than I am that the 
letter is not at the Hotel.” 

“ I have no better advice to give you,” said Dupin. 
“You have, of course, an accurate description of the 
letter ? ” 

“ Oh yes ! ”—And here the Prefect, producing a 
memorandum-book, proceeded to read aloud a mi¬ 
nute account of the internal, and especially of the 
external, appearance of the missing document. Soon 
after finishing the perusal of this description, he 
took his departure, more entirely depressed in spirits 
than I had ever known the good gentleman before. 

In about a month afterward he paid us another 
visit, and found us occupied very nearly as before. 
He took a pipe and a chair and entered into some 
ordinary conversation. At length I said— 

“ Well, but, Gaston, what of the purloined letter ? 
I presume you have at last made up your mind 










290 


Treasury 

that there is no such thing as overreaching the min¬ 
ister ? ” 

“ Confound him, say I—yes ; I made the re-ex¬ 
amination, however, as Dupin suggested—but it was 
all labor lost, as I knew it would be.” 

“ How much was the reward offered, did you say ? ” 
asked Dupin. 

“ Why, a very great deal—a very liberal reward— 
I don’t like to say how much, precisely ; but one 
thing I will say, that I wouldn’t mind giving my 
individual check for fifty thousand francs to any 
one who could obtain me that letter. The fact is, it 
is becoming of more and more importance every 
day ; and the reward has been lately doubled. If 
it were trebled, however, I could do no more than I 
have done.” 

“ Why, yes,” said Dupin, drawlingly, between the 
whiffs of his meerschaum, “ I really—think, Gaston, 
you have not exerted yourself—to the utmost in 
this matter. You might—do a little more, I think, 
eh?” 

“ How ?—in what way ? ” 

“Why”—puff, puff—“you might”—puff, puff— 
“ employ counsel in the matter, eh ?”—puff, puff, puff. 
“ Do you remember the story they tell of Abernethy ? ” 

“ No ; hang Abernethy ! ” 

“ To be sure ! hang him and welcome. But, once 
upon a time, a certain rich miser conceived the de¬ 
sign of sponging upon this Abernethy for a medical 
opinion. Getting up, for this purpose, an ordinary 
conversation in a private company, he insinuated his 
case to the physician, as that of an imaginary indi¬ 
vidual. 

“AVe will suppose,’ said the miser, ‘that his 
symptoms are such and such ; now, doctor, what 
would you have directed him to take ? ’ 

“ ‘ Take ! ’ said Abernethy, ‘ why, take advice , to 
be sure.’ ” 

“ But,” said the Prefect, a little discomposed, “ I 
am perfectly willing to take advice, and to pay for it. 
I would really give fifty thousand francs to any one 
who would aid me in the matter.” 

“ In that case,” replied Dupin, opening a drawer, 
and producing a check-book, “ you may as well fill 
me up a check for the amount mentioned. When 
you have signed it, I will hand you the letter.” 

I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely 
thunder-stricken. For some minutes he remained 
speechless and motionless, looking incredulously at 
my friend with open mouth, and eyes that seemed 
starting from their sockets ; then, apparently re¬ 
covering himself in some measure, he seized a pen, 
and after several pauses and vacant stares, finally 
filled up and signed a check for fifty thousand 
francs, and handed it across the table to Dupin. 
The latter examined it carefully and deposited it in 
his pocket-book ; then, unlocking an escritoire , took 
thence a letter and gave it to the Prefect. This 
functionary grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, 
opened it with a trembling hand, cast a rapid glance 


of Tales. 

at its contents, and then, scrambling and struggling 
to the door, rushed at length unceremoniously from 
the room and from the house, without having ut¬ 
tered a syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill 
up the check. 

When he had gone, my friend entered into some 
explanations. 

“ The Parisian police,” he said, “ are exceedingly 
able in their way. They are persevering, ingenious, 
cunning, and thoroughly versed in the knowledge 
which their duties seem chiefly to demand. Thus, 
when Gaston detailed to us his mode of searching 
the premises at the Hotel D-, I felt entire confi¬ 

dence in his having made a satisfactory investigation 
—so far as his labors extended.” 

“ So far as his labors extended ? ” said I. 

“ Yes,” said Dupin. “ The measures adopted were 
not only the best of their kind, but carried out to 
absolute perfection. Had the letter been deposited 
within the range of their search, these fellows would, 
beyond a question, have found it.” 

I merely laughed—but he seemed quite serious 
in all that he said. 

“ The measures, then,” he continued, “ were good 
in their kind, and well executed ; their defect lay in 
their being inapplicable to the case and to the man. 
A certain set of highly ingenious resources are, with 
the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, to which he 
forcibly adapts his designs. But he perpetually errs 
by being too deep or too shallow for the matter in 
hand ; and many a school-boy is a better reasoner 
than he. I knew one about eight years of age, 
whose success at guessing in the game of ‘ even and 
odd ’ attracted universal admiration. This game is 
simple, and is played with marbles. One player 
holds in his hand a number of these toys, and de¬ 
mands of another whether that number is even or 
odd. If the guess is right, the guesser wins one ; if 
wrong, he loses one. The boy to whom I allude 
won all the marbles of the school. Of course he had 
some principle of guessing ; and this lay in mere ob¬ 
servation and admeasurement of the astuteness of his 
opponents. For example, an arrant simpleton is his 
opponent, and, holding up his closed hand, asks, 

‘ are they even or odd ? ’ Our school-boy replies, 
‘odd,’ and loses ; but upon the second trial he wins, 
for he then says to himself, ‘ the simpleton had them 
even upon the first trial, and his amount of cunning 
is just sufficient to make him have the modd upon 
the second ; I will therefore guess odd ; ’—he guesses 
odd, and wins. Now, with a simpleton a degree 
above the first, he would have reasoned thus: ‘ This 
fellow finds that in the first instance I guessed odd, 
and, in the second, he will propose to himself, upon 
the first impulse, a simple variation from even to 
odd, as did the first simpleton ; but then a second 
thought will suggest that this is too simple a variation, 
and finally he will decide upon putting it even as 
before. I will therefore guess even ; ’—he guesses 
even, and wins. Now this mode of reasoning in the 





The Purloined Letter. 


291 


school-boy, whom his fellows termed ‘ lucky,’—what, 
in its last analysis, is it?” 

“It is merely,” I said, “an identification of the 
reasoner’s intellect with that of his opponent.” 

“It is,” said Dupin ; “and upon inquiring of the 
boy by what means he effected the thorough identi¬ 
fication in which his success consisted, I received 
answer as follows: ‘ When I wish to find out how 
wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any 
one, or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion 
the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, 
in accordance with the expression of his, and then 
wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my 
mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the 
expression.’ This reponse of the school-boy lies at 
the bottom of all the spurious profundity which has 
been attributed to Rochefoucault, to La Bougive, to 
Machiavelli, and to Campanella.” 

“ And the identification,” I said, “ of the reasoner’s 
intellect with that of his opponent, depends, if I un¬ 
derstand you aright, upon the accuracy with which 
the opponent’s intellect is admeasured.” 

“ For its practical value it depends upon this,” re¬ 
plied Dupin ; “and the Prefect and his cohort fail so 
frequently, first, by default of this identification, and, 
secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or rather through 
non-admeasurement, of the intellect with which they 
are engaged. They consider only their own ideas 
of ingenuity ; and, in searching for anything hidden, 
advert only to the modes in which they would have 
hidden it. They are right in this much—that their 
own ingenuity is a faithful representative of that of 
the mass: but when the cunning of the individual 
felon is diverse in character from their own, the felon 
foils them, of course. This always happens when it 
is above their own, and very usually when it is be¬ 
low. They have no variation of principle in their 
investigations ; at best, when urged by some unusual 
emergency—by some extraordinary reward—they 
extend or exaggerate their old modes of practice, 
without touching their principles. What, for ex¬ 
ample, in this case of D-, has been done to vary 

the principle of action ? What is all this boring and 
probing, and sounding, and scrutinizing with the mi¬ 
croscope, and dividing the surface of the building 
into registered square inches—what is it all but an 
exaggeration of the application of the one principle, 
or set of principles, of search, which are based upon 
the one set of notions regarding human ingenuity, 
to which the Prefect, in the long routine of his duty, 
has been accustomed ? Do you not see he has taken 
it for granted that all men proceed to conceal a 
letter—not exactly in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair- 
leg—but, at least, in some out-of-the-way hole or cor¬ 
ner suggested by the same tenor of thought which 
would urge a man to secrete a letter in a gimlet-hole 
bored in a chair-leg ? And do you not see, also, that 
such recherchd nooks for concealment are adapted only 
for ordinary occasions, and would be adopted only 
by ordinary intellects ; for, in all cases of conceal¬ 


ment, a disposal of the article concealed—a disposal 
of it in this recherche manner,—is, in the very first 
instance, presumable and presumed ; and thus its 
discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but al¬ 
together upon the mere care, patience, and determi¬ 
nation of the seekers ; and where the case is of im¬ 
portance—or, what amounts to the same thing in the 
policial eyes, when the reward is of magnitude,— 
the qualities in question have never been known to 
fail. You will now understand what I meant in sug¬ 
gesting that, had the purloined letter been hidden 
anywhere within the limits of the Prefect’s exami¬ 
nation—in other words, had the principle of its con¬ 
cealment been comprehended within the principles 
of the Prefect—its discovery would have been a 
matter altogether beyond question. This function¬ 
ary, however, has been thoroughly mystified ; and 
the remote source of his defeat lies in the supposi¬ 
tion that the minister is a fool, because he has ac¬ 
quired renown as a poet. All fools are poets ; this 
the Prefect feels; and he is merely guilty of a non 
distributio medii in thence inferring that all poets are 
fools.” 

“ But is this really the poet ? ” I asked. “ There 
are two brothers, I know ; and both have attained 
reputation in letters. The minister, I believe, has 
written learnedly on the Differential Calculus. He 
is a mathematician, and no poet.” 

“You are mistaken; I know him well; he is 
both. As poet and mathematician, he would reason 
well ; as mere mathematician, he could not have 
reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the 
mercy of the Prefect.” 

“You surprise me,” I said, “by these opinions, 
which have been contradicted by the voice of the 
world. You do not mean to set at naught the well- 
digested idea of centuries. The mathematical rea¬ 
son has long been regarded as the reason par excel¬ 
lence." 

“ ‘ It is a safe bet,’ ” replied Dupin, quoting from 
Chamfort, “ ‘ that every popular idea, every conven¬ 
tional opinion, is a stupidity because it is common to 
the greatest number.’ The mathematicians, I grant 
you, have done their best to promulgate the popular 
error to which you allude, and which is none the 
less an error for its promulgation as truth. With an 
art worthy a better cause, for example, they have 
insinuated the term ‘ analysis ’ into application to 
algebra. The French are the originators of this par¬ 
ticular deception ; but if a term is of any importance 
—if words derive any value from applicability—then 
‘ analysis ’ conveys ‘ algebra ’ about as much as, in 
Latin, ‘ ambitus ’ implies ‘ ambition,’ ‘ religio ’ ‘ relig¬ 
ion,’ or ‘homines honesti ’ a set of ‘ honorable men.’ ” 

“You have a quarrel on hand, I see,” said I, 
“ with some of the algebraists of Paris ; but pro¬ 
ceed.” 

“ I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of 
that reason which is cultivated in any especial form 
other than the abstractly logical. I dispute, in par- 







292 


Treasury of Tales. 


ticular, the reason educed by mathematical study. 
The mathematics are the science of form and quan¬ 
tity ; mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied 
to observation upon form and quantity. The great 
error lies in supposing that even the truths of what 
is called pure algebra, are abstract or general truths. 
And this error is so egregious that I am confounded 
at the universality with which it has been received. 
Mathematical axioms are not axioms of general 
truth. What is true of relation —of form and quan¬ 
tity—is often grossly false in regard to morals, for 
example. In this latter science it is very usually un- 
true that the aggregated parts are equal to the 
whole. In chemistry also the axiom fails. In the 
consideration of motive it fails ; for two motives, 
each of a given value, have not necessarily a value 
when united equal to the sum of their values apart. 
There are numerous other mathematical truths 
which are only truths within the limits of relation. 
But the mathematician argues, from his finite truths , 
through habit, as if they were of an absolutely 
general applicability—as the world indeed imagines 
them to be. Bryant, in his very learned 1 Mythol¬ 
ogy,’ mentions an analogous source of error, when 
he says that ‘ although the Pagan fables are not be¬ 
lieved, yet we forget ourselves continually, and make 
inferences from them as existing realities.’ With 
the algebraists, however, who are Pagans themselves, 
the ‘ Pagan fables ’ are believed, and the inferences 
are made, not so much through lapse of memory, as 
through an unaccountable addling of the brains. In 
short, I never yet encountered the mere mathemati¬ 
cian who could be trusted out of equal roots, or one 
who did not clandestinely hold it as a point of his 
faith that x 2 +px w r as absolutely and unconditionally 
Qqual to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of 
Experiment, if you please, that you believe occasions 
may occur where x 2 -\-px is not altogether equal to 
q , and, having made him understand what you mean, 
get out of his reach as speedily as convenient, for, 
beyond doubt, he will endeavor to knock you down. 

“ I mean to say,” continued Dupin, while I merely 
laughed at his last observations, “ that if the minister 
had been no more than a mathematician, the Prefect 
would have been under no necessity of giving me 
this check. I knew him, however, as both mathe¬ 
matician and poet, and my measures were adapted 
to his capacity, with reference to the circumstances 
by which he was surrounded. I knew him as a 
courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a man, 
I considered, could not fail to be aware of the or¬ 
dinary policial modes of action. He could not have 
failed to anticipate—and events have proved that 
he did not fail to anticipate—the waylayings to which 
he was subjected. He must have foreseen, I re¬ 
flected, the secret investigations of his premises. 
His frequent absences from home at night, which 
were hailed by the Prefect ascertain aids to his suc¬ 
cess, I regarded only as ruses , to afford opportunity 
for thorough search to the police, and thus the 


sooner to impress them with the conviction to which 
Gaston, in fact, did finally arrive—the conviction 
that the letter w r as not upon the premises. I felt, 
also, that the whole train of thought, which I was at 
some pains in detailing to you just now, concerning 
the invariable principle of policial action in searches 
for articles concealed—I felt that this whole train of 
thought would necessarily pass through the mind of 
the minister. It would imperatively lead him to 
despise all the ordinary nooks of concealment. He 
could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to see that 
the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel 
would be as open as his commonest closets to the 
eyes, to the probes, to the gimlets, and to the micro¬ 
scopes of the Prefect. I saw, in fine, that he would 
be driven, as a matter of course, to simplicity , if not 
deliberately induced to it as a matter of choice. 
You will remember, perhaps, how desperately the 
Prefect laughed when I suggested, upon our first in¬ 
terview, that it was just possible this mystery troubled 
him so much on account of its being so very self-evi¬ 
dent.” 

“Yes,” said I, “ I remember his merriment well. 
I really thought he would have fallen into convul¬ 
sions.” 

“ The material world,” continued Dupin, “ abounds 
with very strict analogies to the immaterial; and 
thus some color of truth has been given to the 
rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or simile, may be 
made to strengthen an argument, as well as to em¬ 
bellish a description. The principle of the vis 
inertice, for example, seems to be identical in physics 
and metaphysics. It is not more true in the former, 
that a large body is with more difficulty set in motion 
than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum 
is commensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the 
latter, that intellects of the vaster capacity, while 
more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in 
their movements than those of inferior grade, are 
yet the less readily moved, and more embarrassed 
and full of hesitation in the first few steps of their 
progress. Again : have you ever noticed which of 
the street signs, over the shop doors, are the most 
attractive of attention ? ” 

“ I have never given the matter a thought,” I 
said. 

“ There is a game of puzzles,” he resumed, “ which 
is played upon a map. One party playing requires 
another to find a given word—the name of town, river, 
state or empire—any word, in short, upon the motley 
and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the 
game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents 
by giving them the most minutely lettered names ; 
but the adept selects such words as stretch, in large 
characters, from one end of the chart to the other. 
These, like the over-largely lettered signs and pla¬ 
cards of the street, escape observation by dint of 
being excessively obvious ; and here the physical 
oversight is precisely analogous with the moral in¬ 
apprehension by which the intellect suffers to pass 




The Purloined Letter . 


293 


unnoticed those considerations which are too obtru¬ 
sively and too palpably self-evident. But this is a 
point, it appears, somewhat above or beneath the 
understanding of the Prefect. He never once 
thought it probable, or possible, that the minister 
had deposited the letter immediately beneath the 
nose of the whole world, by way of best preventing 
any portion of that world from perceiving it. 

“ But the more I reflected upon the daring, dash¬ 
ing, and discriminating ingenuity of D-; upon 

the fact that the document must always have been 
at hand, if he intended to use it to good purpose ; 
and upon the decisive evidence, obtained by the 
Prefect, that it was not hidden within the limits of 
that dignitary’s ordinary search—the more satisfied 
I became that, to conceal this letter, the minister 
had resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious 
expedient of not attempting to conceal it at all. 

“ Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a 
pair of green spectacles, and called one fine morn¬ 
ing, quite by accident, at the Ministerial hotel. I 

found D- at home, yawning, lounging, and 

dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last 
extremity of ennui. He is, perhaps, the most really 
energetic human being now alive—but that is only 
when nobody sees him. 

“To be even with him, I complained of my weak 
eyes, and lamented the necessity of the spectacles, 
under cover of which I cautiously and thoroughly 
surveyed the whole apartment, while seemingly in¬ 
tent only upon the conversation of my host. 

“ I paid especial attention to a large writing-table 
near which he sat, and upon which lay confusedly 
some miscellaneous letters and Other papers, with 
one or two musical instruments and a few books. 
Here, however, after a long and very deliberate 
scrutiny, I saw nothing to excite particular suspi¬ 
cion. 

“ At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the 
room, fell upon a trumpery filigree card-rack of 
paste-board, that hung dangling by a dirty blue rib¬ 
bon from a little brass knob just beneath the middle 
of the mantel-piece. In this rack, which had three 
or four compartments, tvere five or six visiting cards 
and a solitary letter. This last was much soiled 
and crumpled. It was torn nearly in two, across the 
middle—as if a design, in the first instance, to tear 
it entirely up as worthless had been altered, or 
stayed, in the second. It had a large black seal, bear¬ 
ing the D-cipher very conspicuously, and was ad¬ 
dressed, in a diminutive female hand, to D-, the 

minister, himself. It was thrust carelessly, and 
even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the 
uppermost divisions of the rack. 

“ No sooner had I glanced at this letter, than I 
concluded it to be that of which I was in search. 
To be sure, it was, to all appearance, radically dif¬ 
ferent from the one of which the Prefect had read 
us so minute a description. Here the seal was large 
and black, with the D- cipher ; there it was 


small and red, with the ducal arms of the S- 

family. Here, the address, to the minister, was 
diminutive and feminine ; there the superscription, 
to a certain royal personage, was markedly bold and 
decided ; the size alone formed a point of corre¬ 
spondence. But, then, the radicalness of these differ¬ 
ences, which was excessive ; the dirt, the soiled and 
torn condition of the paper, so inconsistent with the 

true methodical habits of D-, and so suggestive 

of a design to delude the beholder into an idea of the, 
worthlessness of the document; these things, to¬ 
gether with the hyper-obtrusive situation of this 
document, full in the view of every visitor, and thus 
exactly in accordance with the conclusions to which 
I had previously arrived ; these things, I say, were 
strongly corroborative of suspicion, in one who 
came with the intention to suspect. 

“ I protracted my visit as long as possible, and, 
while I maintained a most animated discussion with 
the minister, upon a topic which I knew well had 
never failed to interest and excite him, I kept my 
attention really riveted upon the letter. In this 
examination, I committed to memory its external 
appearance and arrangement in the rack ; and also 
fell, at length, upon a discovery which set at rest 
whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. In 
scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed 
them to be more chafed than seemed necessary. 
They presented the broken appearance which is 
manifested when a stiff paper, having been once 
folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a 
reversed direction, in the same creases or edges 
which had formed the original fold. This discovery 
was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter 
had been turned, as a glove, inside out, re-directed, 
and re-sealed. I bade the minister good morning, 
and took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff¬ 
box upon the table. 

“ The next morning I called for the snuff-box, 
when we resumed, quite eagerly, the conversation 
of the preceding day. While thus engaged, how¬ 
ever, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard im¬ 
mediately beneath the windows of the hotel, and was 
succeeded by a series of fearful screams, and the 

shoutings of a terrified mob. D-rushed to a 

casement, threw it open, and looked out. In the 
mean time, I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, 
put it in my pocket, and replaced it by a facsimile 
(so far as regards externals), which I had carefully 

prepared at my lodgings—imitating the D- 

cipher very readily by means of a seal formed of 
bread. 

“ The disturbance in the street had been occasioned 
by the frantic behavior of a man with a musket. He 
had fired it among a crowd of women and children. 
It proved, however, to have been without ball, and 
the fellow was suffered to go his w r ay as a lunatic or 

a drunkard. When he had gone, D-came from 

the window, whither I had followed him immediately 
upon securing the object in view. Soon afterward 














2 94 


Treasury of Tales. 


I bade him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a 
man in my own pay.” 

“But what purpose had you,” I asked, “ in re¬ 
placing the letter by a facsimile 1 Would it not 
have been better, at the first visit, to have seized it 
openly, and departed ? ” 

“ D-,” replied Dupin, “ is a desperate man, and 

a man of nerve. His hotel, too, is not without at¬ 
tendants devoted to his interests. Had I made the 
wild attempt you suggest, I might never have left 
the Ministerial presence alive. The good people of 
Paris might have heard of me no more. But I had 
an object apart from these considerations. You 
know my political prepossessions. In this matter, 
I act as a partisan of the lady concerned. Tor 
eighteen months the minister has had her in his 
power. She has now him in hers—since, being 
unaware that the letter is not in his possession, he 
will proceed with his exactions as if it was. Thus 
will he inevitably commit himself, at once, to his 
political destruction. His downfall, too, will not be 
more precipitate than awkward. It is all very well 
to talk about the facilis descensus Avernij but in all 
kinds of climbing, as Catalani said of singing, it is 
far more easy to get up than to come down. In the 
present instance I have no sympathy—at least no 
pity—for him who descends. He is that monstrum 
horrendum, an unprincipled man of genius. I con¬ 
fess, however, that I should like very well to know 
the precise character of his thoughts, when, being 
defied by her whom the Prefect terms ‘ a certain 
personage,’he is reduced to opening the letter which 
I left for him in the card-rack.” 

“ How ? did you put anything particular in it ? ” 

“ Why—it did not seem altogether right to leave 
the interior blank—that would have been insulting. 

D-, at Vienna, once did me an evil turn, which 

I told him, quite good-humoredly, that I should re¬ 
member. So, as I knew he would feel some curiosity 
in regard to the identity of the person who had out¬ 
witted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a 
clue. He is well acquainted with my MS., and I 
just copied into the middle of the blank sheet the 
words— 

“ ‘ Un dessein si funeste, 

S’il n’est digne d’Atrde, est digne deThyeste.’ 

They are to be found in Crebillon’s ‘ Atree.’ ” 


EQUALIZED. 

BY FLORENCE B. HALLOWELL. 

M ISS SOPHIE FARLEY, having made a call 
on a neighbor, was taking a short cut home¬ 
ward, through a cotton field, when she hap¬ 
pened to remember that she needed some eggs. 

The cabin of Aunt Sylvie, an ancient negress, who 
made a living by selling fat pullets, eggs, okra, and 
small garden truck, was near by, and Miss Sophie 


turned at once into a path which led to it, sure of 
having her need supplied. 

Aunt Sylvie lived alone, for her husband was dead, 
and her children had left her for homes of their own ; 
but she never seemed at all lonely, and was always 
chanting to herself snatches of soul-inspiriting hymns 
learned in the New Bell church, of which she was an 
active member. But she was not singing to-day, and 
her face wore a very doleful expression as she sat in 
the doorway of her cabin, her fat hands crossed idly 
in her lap. 

“ What’s the matter, Aunt Sylvie ? ” asked Sophie. 
“You look as grave as a Turk.” 

“ I don’ know nuffin ’bout Turks,” said Aunt Syl¬ 
vie, with a long sigh, “ but I’se got reason to look 
grave, child ; I’se thinkin’ ’bout my horgs.” 

“ Those precious hogs ! ” laughed Sophie. “ They’ll 
bring your grey hairs in sorrow to the grave, yet, if 
you don’t train them better. What is the trouble 
now ? ” 

“ Dey’s done gone, chile ; dat’s de trubble.” 

“ Gone ! ” repeated Sophie ; “ where ?” 

“ Dat’s zackly what I’d like ter know my own self, 
Miss, an’ it’s what I’se gwine ter fine out ’fo’ I’se 
much older.” 

“.They broke out of the pen, I suppose,” said So¬ 
phie. “ I told you last week that it needed a stronger 
door.” 

“ I laid out ter fix it, honey, but Satan tem’ted me 
off, I s’pose. His ways is awful aggravatin’ some¬ 
times. He lays in wait all de time for such unwary 
niggahs as me. An’ I did tell dat Monkey Lewis 
ter fix de do’; but boys is so triflin’ nowadays. Dere 
aint no ’pendence ter be placed in ’em, pears like. 
But if the Lawd spares me, an’ I lib, an’ gits de time 
to-morrer, I’se gwine ter fix dat pen myself, an’ be 
beholden ter nobody.” 

“ But what is the use of fixing it, now the hogs are 
gone ? ” asked Sophie. 

“ T’aint no use, I reckon. Well, I aint gwine ter, 
then, less’n I gits dem horgs back ; an’ I means ter 
hab ’em, too, or deir worf. You jes’ b’ar dat in min’, 
chile.” 

“You surely don’t think any one has stolen them, 
Aunt Sylvie ?” 

Aunt Sylvie compressed her lips and looked very 
wise. 

“Yer aint agwine ter git me ter say nuffin’agin 
myneighbah,”she said, impressively. “I don’ ’cuse 
nobody. All I say is dat dose horgs was h’yar night 
’fo las’, when I went ter meetin’, an’ dey was gone 
when I got back. I don’ trus’ nobody, an’ I don’ 
’cuse nobody. De fac’ jes’ stan’s.” 

“ But your private opinion is that Tony Jackson 
took them ? ” 

Aunt Sylvie moved uneasily. 

“ Well, I will ’low dat I ’membered dat Tony 
were’nt ter church, an’ it did seem cur’ous, mighty 
cur’ous. I nebah did hab no use fer Tony, nohow.” 

“ Have you spoken to him on the matter ? ” 









Equalized. 


295 


“Well, I sorter mentioned de subjec’ ter him dis 
mornin’, but he ’lowed as he hadn’t seed no horgs 
’cept his own. He’s an ign’ant feller, an’ his manners 
don’ do him no credit. I ’spises such niggahs. He 
wo’n’ feel so peart when he’s called up in de ’quiry 
meetin’ ter-night.” 

“ You don’t mean to say that you are going to lay 
the loss of those hogs before the church ?” cried So¬ 
phie. 

“ I nebah flings sideways, Miss Sophie. I goes 
straight at de heart of a fing. An’ I means ter know 
whar dose fo’ horgs is, no matter who suffers fur it. 
Yes, de matter’s ter be ’quired inter ter-night, if we 
all lib, an’ de Lawd spares us.” 

“ Well, I hope you’ll get some satisfaction out of 
the inquiry,” said Sophie ; “ and now give me a dozen 
eggs, if you have them, and let me go. I shall be 
late to supper if I don’t start home at once.” 

“ Dese is mighty fine eggs,” said Aunt Sylvie, as 
she filled a small basket. “ 1 kin brag on my hens 
widout showin’ vanity.” 

Sophie laughed to herself as she went home with 
the basket of eggs on her arm. Aunt Sylvie’s four 
hogs had been a source of trouble to the neighbor¬ 
hood ever since she had bought them as shotes, and 
their occasional disappearance had invariably result¬ 
ed in a coolness between her and her nearest neigh¬ 
bor, Tony Jackson, who had been rash enough to 
admire the old woman’s live stock in no stinted 
terms. 

“ He’s covetous, dat niggah is,” Aunt Sylvie would 
say, with a solemn shake of her turbaned head ; “ I 
don’ put no trus’ in him, nohow. Horgs is his weak¬ 
ness, an’ dey’ll be his ruin, yit.” 

That evening, after the regular religious exercises 
at the New Bell Baptist Church—thus named from 
the fact of a new bell having been put upon it some 
ten years before—were concluded, the meeting was 
called to order, and Brother Parker, a very old man 
with woolly hair a snowy white, and leather-colored 
skin crinkled in numberless wrinkles, rose and an¬ 
nounced that “ a few minutes would now be utilized 
irf’quirin’ inter de question of Sister Mack’s horgs.” 

“ De business ob dis soci’ty is ter maintain de truf’ 
wherebber foun’,” he said, “ an’ it’s ’quested dat 
Brudder Jackson will stan’ up.” 

Brother Jackson stood up at once, and every eye 
was immediately riveted upon him. 

“ Brudder Jackson, it’s my painful pleasure to 
’quire ob you whar you was las’ Monday night.” 

“I had de neuraljy,” said Brother Jackson, who 
was very little and very old, “ an’ I staid away from 
church on ’count ob it. I cotched cold dis day two 
weeks a-wadin in de creek after minners. I had on 
my bes’ pants, an’ I took ’em off ’count o’ spilin’ ’em, 
an’ my legs bein’ ’s’posed-” 

“ De explanation is pleasin’ and satisfact’ry to 
all,” interrupted Brother Parker, as several of the 
younger members of the congregation giggled and 
covered their faces with their hands ; “ the pertic’lers 


ob de transaction is onnecessary. We will now 
perceed to de nex’ question ’fo’ de board : Did you 
see Sister Mack’s horgs dat night ? ” 

“Yes, I did,” answered Jackson, looking confused. 
“ I went ober ter see Sister Mack, ter git suffin’ fer 
my neuraljy ; an’ I looked in de horg pen as I went 
by, but-” 

“ An’ you let ’em outer de pen, I knows you did,” 
interrupted Aunt Sylvie, rising to her feet. “ It aint 
no us’n my tryin’ ter keep horgs, nohow. Dat cabin 
ob yourn’s got de plague. De las’ man what lib’d 
in it had a pow’ful leanin’ to’rds horgs, too. He’s 
dead now, an’ I aint de one ter ’cuse de dead ; but 
I had fo’ or five horgs while he was dere, an’ dey 
dwindled down ter one. I don’ say what ’came ob 
em. De man’s dead, an’ aint h’yar ter speak fer his- 
self; but dose horgs got sca’ce oncommon fas’. 
Folks in dis h’yar neighbahood’s got de horg fever, 
’pears like. I saw Brudder Pole a-carryin’ ’long a 
fat shote las’ night, an’ it looked pow’ful like-” 

“ Ef dis h’yar meetin’s gwine ter ’low a mizerble 
niggah ’oman ter frow mud at de brudders, I baigs 
ter be ’lowed ter leave,” interrupted a cadaverous 
looking individual, turning uneasily in his seat. “ Ef 
de church has got enny ’quiries ter make, I’se ready 
an’ willin’ ter answer ’em ; but I won’ sit still in de 
Lawd’s house an’ take no ’oman’s tongue. I ain’t 
h’yar fer dat, nohow.” 

“ Dis h’yar ’quiry meetin’s called to git de pertic’- 
lars ’bout Sister Mack’s horgs,” said Brother Parker, 
with dignity, “ an’ we don’ wanter take up fresh 
questions at present. Sister Mack will please ter 
confine herself to de matter in han’. Now, dose 
horgs must ’a’ gone somehow, an’ it stan’s to rea-” 

He was interrupted by a loud grunting outside the 
church, and the next instant four lean black hogs 
rushed into the midst of the congregation, closely 
pursued by a small black boy, whose face wore a 
decidedly jubilant expression. 

“ H’yar’s yer horgs, Aunt Sylvie,” he cried, as the 
old woman started from her seat in surprise and ut¬ 
tered a loud exclamation. “ I foun’ ’em down in Mr. 
Jackson’s ’tater patch, rootin’ roun’ like mad. Dey’d 
bus’ frough de fence, an’ I reckons dey’s ’bout spiled 
dat ’tater crap.” 

Aunt Sylvie’s face was a study. Chagrin was 
plainly painted on it. 

She turned to Brother Jackson. 

“ Ef you railly’ specks me ter fall on yer neck 
like de Probable Son, an ask you ter fergib me, you’s 
countin’ out’n de way consid’ble,” she said, stiffly. 
“ But I’se free ter own I’se been in de wrong, dough 
from fus’ ter las’ I nebah ’cused nobody.” 

“ I tries ter be a follerer in de straight an’ narrer 
path,” sa'd Brother Jackson, meekly, “an’ I don’ 
b’ar no malice ’gainst Sister Mack. But I hopes de 
brudders an’ sisters c’lected h’yar dis ebenin’ will ’gree 
wid me dat a ’quiry meetin’s necessary ter settle de 
questions ob damages ter my tater crap.” 

“ Dat’s all foolishness,” said Aunt Sylvie. “ Horgs 









296 


Treasury of Talcs. 


is horgs de worl’ ober, an is boun’ ter git inter tater 
patches ef dey kin. An’ dough I don’ ’cuse Brother 
Jackson ob laz’ness, I mus’ say as he do’n keep his 
fences any too tight. But I ain’t one ob dese h’yar 
stubborn folks dat won’ see no sense, an’ ef you 
choose ter call on me ter-morrer we’ll talk de matter 
ober peaceable.” 

“ I accepts de invitation in de sperit dat it’s offer¬ 
ed,” said Brother Jackson ; and the inquiry meeting 
broke up at once, Aunt Sylvie, with the aid of the 
small boy, driving the pigs from the church and 
turning their heads homeward. 

A week later, when Miss Sophie, surprised by 
company to tea, went to Aunt Sylvie’s for spring 
chickens, she found the old woman tricked out with 
long ear-rings, a yellow bead necklace, and a new 
turban. 

‘•You look unusually fine, Aunt Sylvie,” she said. 
“ What is going to happen ? One would imagine you 
were dressed for a wedding.” 

“ You’s ’bout right chile. I is gwine ter a 
weddin’.” 

“And how are the hogs?” inquired Sophie, 
smiling. 

“ Dey’s tol’ble well, thank’y, Miss.” 

“ The potatoes didn’t prove too much for them 
then. I’m glad of that,” said Sophie, facetiously. 
“But how have you settled with Tony about the 
damages he wanted ? ” 

“ Oh, dere aint no hard feelin’s either side now. 
Mr. Jackson an’ me’s ekalized dat horg business 
widout ’pealin ter de ’ciety.” 

“ Equalized it ? ” 

“Yes,” and Aunt Sylvie examined her shining 
new shoes in an embarrassed manner. “We’s come 
ter terms—such as dey is. He’s ’suaded me to mar¬ 
ry ’im. He says he am all alone an’ no ’oman 
ter take k’yar ob ’im, an’ it ’peared like it was de bes’ 
way ter ekalize de horgs an’ de taters. But de trufe 
is,” sinking her voice confidentially, “ he wanted dose 
horgs , an’ he was boun' ter hab ’em.” 


A NIGHT OF TEIJJJOI^. 

BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID. 

I. 

T had been a bright and bitterly cold day. 
Toward sunset, however, clouds gathered, and 
the wind, which grew every hour more intense 
in its icy chill, soon spread these clouds over the 
upper part of the sky, and banished the brightness 
which had made the cold seem more endurable. 

A lad about twelve years old was standing on 
the ridge that crested one side of a steep valley. 
He drew up the fur collar of his coat about his ears 
and pulled his fur cap down over his face before he 
began to descend to the river, which almost circled 


the town of Freitenberg standing on the heights op¬ 
posite. 

Behind him the sun was still shining in fitful 
splendor; ten minutes ago, before the clouds 
spread over its brightness, the old town, with its 
walls and numerous gate-towers, had been bathed in 
gold. Now this had changed to a deep grey, gilded 
by the vanes of the Rathhaus and those of the twin 
church spires, and against this massive background 
carts and horses and figures hurrying out of the city 
by the Regen Thor showed with startling distinct¬ 
ness. While the boy on the opposite hill gazed at 
the multitude which came thronging out of the gate, 
he saw that they all took the same road—that which 
led down the steep cliff to the one-arch bridge, and 
so on to the road below where he stood. 

“ What can have happened since I went away ? ” 
he said to himself. “ It is only a week ago.” 

The way to the town took him out of the field, 
where he had been standing, to a wood on the side 
of the descent j- river and road were alike hidden 
from view by the close-growing tree-stems ; and 
the boy hurried on, eager to learn what this con¬ 
course meant. 

“ There is no fair till Easter,” he thought; “ and 
it is not even market-day.” 

Then he smiled, for he well knew that market- 
day never brought such a throng of people into 
Freitenberg. 

Long before he left the wood his ears told him 
that the crowd was passing along the road below, 
and when he at last reached the gate leading into 
this, he saw with increased wonder that these hurry¬ 
ing people were not strangers, but fellow-townsmen 
and townswomen. He looked first at one face, then 
at another, of those who were hurrying by, and 
there was the same look on every face—a look of 
terror. 

“Hullo, Heinrich,” he called out, “what is the 
matter, and where are you all going ? ” 

The man, a big brawny-limbed smith, shook his 
head, and pointed to the cart beside which he 
walked. In it were his wife, two children, and a 
heap of household goods that seemed to have been 
flung anyhow into the cart. 

Franz turned to walk beside the smith. 

“No time for words, my lad ; have you not heard 
the French are marching on Freitenberg. They 
will be here to-night. Get in if you will.” 

The woman in the cart began to sob. 

“ The French are butchers,” she cried, and she 
hugged her little ones closely. 

“ Thank you, Heinrich,” the boy said ; “ I must go 
home at once to see after my grandmother.” 

“ Lorenz Imhoff will see to her,” the smith an¬ 
swered. “You are foolish if you go into Freiten¬ 
berg.” 

“ How long has this been known ? ” the boy asked. 

“To-day,” said Heinrich briefly, and he whipped 
up his horse. 





A Night of Terror. 


297 


Franz left him, and went rapidly toward the 
bridge. Everywhere he saw sullen, sometimes terri¬ 
fied men and sobbing, despairing women. Those he 
asked had but one answer to his questions. 

“The French are coming—they are even now at 
the gates—that devil’s crew—the worst of all that 
came out of Moscow.” 

In spite of his excitement, the boy was slow in 
climbing the opposite hill, for the severe frost had 
made the steep road slippery. The gate was so 
thronged that he passed on along the road outside 
the walls until he came to a smaller gate, a sort of 
postern, and through this he entered the town. 

Here all was hurry and bustle, making a strange 
contrast with the leaden-colored sameness of the 
sky ; and by this time the clouds had drooped so 
low that they seemed almost to touch the high-peaked 
roofs of Freitenberg. Under this canopy the red 
roofs looked taller than ever, and every detail of 
carved wooden gable, of sculptured stone dormer, 
and the plaster ornament between the multiform and 
irregularly placed windows, showed out vividly. 
Many of the houses of this small city seemed made 
for princely habitation—they were so lofty and 
stately ; though the lower stories were chiefly made 
up of courtyards, or Hofs, as they were called. 

These larger houses were in the Herrengasse—a 
broad, handsome street, with the Rathhaus at one 
corner, leading down to the small gate by which 
Franz had come in. The market-place was at its 
farther end, in front of the Rathhaus ; and Franz 
ran on to this, for, though the Herrengasse was de¬ 
serted, he saw a crowd of people at the corner of the 
market-place, and as he reached it the councillors 
came out, and one of them stood on the steps of the 
Rathhaus and said a few words to the crowd. Then 
he, too, hurried away, and Franz went back into the 
Herrengasse. 

Presently he turned out of it into a much narrower 
street on the right, and then into a curiously twisting 
alley leading into one rather wider. Here some of 
the houses were large, too; all had high-pitched 
gable ends, but few of them had large Hofs, and the 
living-rooms were on the ground floor. Scarcely 
two houses were alike in either of the narrow streets. 
At the angle they made stood a house remarkable 
for the carving on the gable and on the oriel at one 
side ; two angels were used as brackets, to support 
this window ; in a niche above the nail-studded door 
was a figure of Our Lady with the Holy Child in her 
arms. The windows were low and square, protected 
by ornamental iron-work. 

Franz opened a little door made in the large car¬ 
riage-gates, and went into a small covered courtyard. 
He stopped and looked round, but there was no sign 
of departure here. Then he closed the door behind 
him. The courtyard was dark, only lighted by the 
window of a great stone staircase at its further end ; 
and on this murky afternoon, if Franz had not known 
his way well, he must have stumbled against the steps 


leading up to a door on the left of the entrance ; but 
ever since the death of his parents, some years ago, 
he had been reared in his grandmother’s old house. 
He hurried up the steps and opened the heavy door, 
pushed away the curtains that screened its inner 
side, and went in. 

The large, low room looked gloomy, but it felt 
warm and comfortable to the lad who had been 
walking so many miles. Dark woollen curtains were 
drawn in front of the windows, and a fire of logs 
blazed upon the broad chimney, showing the dark 
recesses, the projecting oak-beams, and the white ceil¬ 
ing between them. The cumbrous table and chairs 
were all of dark oak ; so were the floor and the walls. 
This room was the cooking as well as the living 
room, and, although a closed stove stood in the cor¬ 
ner, there was a broad open hearth. Beside the 
hearth an old woman sat in a three-cornered wood¬ 
en chair. Behind her was a huge folding black 
screen ; her spinning-wheel was at her side. She 
was not spinning ; her withered hands were folded 
together on her knees, and she sat quite still and 
silent. When the door opened, however, she gave a 
quick glance toward it ; but she smiled when she 
saw her grandson. 

Franz went up to her and kissed her forehead. 

“ Well, my boy, has your time passed pleasantly ? ” 
she said. 

As the fire-light shone on his fair hair and sun- 
browned face her smile vanished, for there was such 
a sad seriousness in his bright blue eyes. 

“What is it, my child?” she said. “Tell me, 
Franz, what has happened to you ? ” 

The boy looked round the room, and then he said, 
abruptly, “ Nothing has happened to me, and I left 
my uncle well; but I have to tell the worst news 
you ever heard. Grandmother, where’s Magda¬ 
lena ? ” 

“ She will be here presently—she is with Gretch- 
en up-stairs. But what is the bad news, my 
boy ? ” 

“ Every one is running out of Freitenberg, out of 
the way of the French. They are going down the 
hill and across the bridge like a flock of frightened 
sheep. I saw all the councillors leaving the Rath¬ 
haus as I came up the Herrengasse.” 

Frau Herber raised herself; she drew herself up 
by grasping the arms of her chair, and sat erect, 
looking earnestly at Franz. “What do you mean, 
child ? The Raths do not hold council at this 
time of day.” 

“ But, grandmother, don’t you see,” he began, im¬ 
patiently ; then, checked by the pale still face so 
near his own, he went on more quietly : “ I had bet¬ 
ter begin at the beginning, and then you will under¬ 
stand. I heard this as I came along. Some hours 
ago a man came riding through the Spital Thor, his 
horse was covered with foam and ready to fall with 
fatigue, and it stopped at the Goldner Hirsch. ‘ The 
French are coming ! ’ the man cried ; and then the 




298 


Treasury of Tales . 


Herr Walters and the Herr Standschen, who were 
standing by, took the man into the inn.” 

“ Well ? ” said the grandmother. 

“Well ; he came to bring news of the French. 
Only last week Lorenz Imhoff was telling how the 
great French army had been defeated, and he said 
the soldiers that were left would perish on the way 
from Moscow ; but they are alive, grandmother, 
and,” the boy’s eyes were round with excitement, 
“ that regiment—the worst of all—that calls itself 
‘ Sans Merci ’ is coming here to ruin Freitenberg.” 

His grandmother did not speak, but she clasped 
her hands together as she looked up, and her lips 
moved. 

“ Now do you not see why the Raths called a 
council ? One man said the gates must be closed 
and the towers over them filled with fighting men ; 
but, grandmother, that puzzled me, for we have no 
soldiers in Freitenberg, and there are two gaps in 
the walls which have never been filled up since Tilly 
made them.” 

“I have heard a stir,” the Frau Herber said; 
“ but Magdalena has been busy all day with Gretch- 
en. She has not been out. Yes, it would be im¬ 
possible to defend Freitenberg.” 

Franz patted her shoulder. “You ought to be a 
Rath,” he said ; “that is just what they decided. 
Louis Werner came out into the Herrengasse, and 
said this to the people.” 

“ Is this all you heard, dear child ? ” 

“Yes, grandmother.” 

“ It is very terrible news. God help us ! ” she 
said, shuddering. She knew that the treatment 
given to unoffending citizens by French soldiery was 
at that time burning in the minds of all classes. 
“ Did you say many people are leaving the town ? ” 

“ Every one, I think. Heinrich, the smith, said 
the French would be here very soon ; they will stop 
the night, and take all they can get and go on again 
in the morning ; but I shall not let them rob you, 
grandmother,” he said, proudly. “ I shall bar the 
gates and fire at them with my father’s fowling- 
piece.” 

She stroked his hair with her withered hand. 
“ You are a brave boy, Franz ; but you must not dis¬ 
obey orders, and if the Raths say no resistance is to 
be offered, we must all submit.” 

Franz stood looking at her. 

“ I saw women crying fit to break their hearts, 
grandmother ; but you do not seem frightened.” 

“ I am an old woman, and it does not much matter 
what happens to me. I shall stay quietly here ; but 
you and Magdalena may find a securer shelter.” 
She paused. “ And yet, perhaps, it is better for you 
to stay. See how far we are from the main streets. 
The French will keep to them, for they will be worn 
>ut with cold and hunger and fatigue. God can 
keep us as safely here as anywhere else.” 

Franz shook his head. 

“ We must not stay here to be murdered on our 


own hearth. No, no, grandmother ; if you will not 
let me fight, we must find some way of escape. If 
Lorenz Imhoff would let you stay here I will not.’’ 

A door on one side of the fire-place opened, and 
a woman came into the deeply shadowed corner. 
Her black dress made her at first indistinct, but as 
she advanced, a fair young face, with golden hair like 
her brother’s, showed plainly. 

This was Franz’s sister, Magdalena Herber. She 
looked at the boy’s flushed cheeks, and then she 
saw that her grandmother was unusually serious. 

“ Something has been happening,” she said. “ Tell 
me what it is.” 

Franz broke in before Frau Herber could speak— 

“ Magdalena, if you knew some one was coming 
here to rob the house, and perhaps murder you, 
what should you do ? ” 

She laughed. “To begin with, there is nothing 
in the house worth stealing, and there has not been 
a murder in Freitenberg since I can remember. 
What has excited you, Franz ? Have you been read¬ 
ing fairy tales ? You have not even kissed me.” 

Franz, went up to her and kissed her forehead. 

Of late he had grown impatient of her playful 
raillery. When he was her Franz, and felt sure that 
he had no rival in her affections, then Magdalena 
might do as she pleased ; but for some months this 
had been changed, and Franz felt secretly uneasy. 
Lorenz Imhoff, the son of one of the wealthiest citi¬ 
zens of Freitenberg, often came to the house, and 
Franz noticed that Magdalena blushed when Lorenz 
came. Besides, his school-fellows had jeered him, 
and had asked him when the wedding was going to 
happen. 

“ I am not more excited, as you call it, than Herr 
Walters is, or Heinrich Tafel, or Louis Werner, or 
any good citizen of Freitenberg. Ah ! well, laugh 
away ! Grandmother does not think it a laughing 
matter. You will.not laugh when the French soldiers 
are in the town—and they are on the road ; and the 
Town Council says we are to sit still while the 
butchers rob and murder us.” 

Magdalena’s pale face turned very white, her eyes 
distended, and she went close to her grandmother 
and put her arm around her. “ Can this be true ? ” 
she said. 

Frau Herber bent her head. 

“I fear it is true, my child. Still, when the 
French soldiers come they may not harm us. They 
cannot do more than they are permitted to do.” 
She said the last words in a low voice, but her grand¬ 
children heard them. The girl’s face brightened, 
and Franz looked a little less confident. 

“ Is there anything to be done ? ” said Magda¬ 
lena. 

A minute ago Franz would have told her to pack 
what she most valued, in readiness for their flight ; 
but now he waited and let Frau Herber speak. 

“ It seems to me,” she said, “ that we may safely 
stay here ; but if Lorenz Imhoff should come and 






A Night of Terror. 


299 


propose to take you both away, then we will con¬ 
sider what he says. Still, it is best to be prepared, 
and it may not be safe to go out later to purchase 
provisions, my dear child.” 

“ That is what I mean,” the girl said. “ Come 
with me now, Franz ; or shall I take Gretchen ? She 
has just been telling me of something she will need 
to-morrow.” 

She went out of the room quickly, to fetch her 
hood and cloak. 

II. 

The gates of the Imhoff House in the Herren 
Strasse stood slightly ajar, though not wide enough 
to permit entrance. Any one who had peered into 
the opening thus made would have seen a large cov¬ 
ered courtyard, large enough to allow more than one 
carriage to drive in and deposit its occupants at 
the foot of a splendid stone staircase on the right of 
the entrance. Beyond this first court was another, 
much longer but narrower, open to the sky, and sur¬ 
rounded on three sides by two tiers of galleries sup¬ 
ported on pillars, and open on one side to the court. 
Both the inner and the outer Hofs were paved with 
round stones, and on this bitter winter’s day these 
were covered with household articles of all kinds 
waiting to be packed in a long narrow cart, to which 
three stout horses were harnessed. Two men in flat 
cloth caps and jackets and a bareheaded woman with 
full skirts were packing with the most reckless haste, 
almost throwing one thing after another into the 
hay winch lined the sides and bottom of the cart, as 
if they were working for a wager. ( Every now and 
then they stopped to stamp their feet and rub their 
hands, for the icy wind whirled into the courtyard 
as if it was bent on freezing the workers, and on 
dispersing the hay which lay heaped ready to pack 
with. 

Above, in the lowest of the galleries, stood a young 
man about twenty-five years old, leaning over the 
carved paneling. He had a frank, handsome face 
and a well-grown figure ; at this moment he looked 
very impatient. 

“ Be careful, Jehan,” he called out, as one of the 
two men below caught up a chased metal goblet and 
pitched it into the cart. “ As well leave the valuables 
here for the French as damage them by your reck¬ 
lessness. Maria, take that out again, and see that 
it is carefully wrapped up, and place everything 
more gently, if you can.” 

The woman shook her head. 

“ Yes, Master Lorenz, it is well said ‘ if you can.’ 
Time presses ; we do not know how soon the French 
may be here ”- 

“ Yes, yes,” the older man said. “ We ought to 
have been away from here before now. Hans Boh- 
mer says they are but three leagues off; by now the 
Herr Rath and the Frau Imhoff are safe at Ahnborn. 
We do not follow the orders of your worshipful 
father.” 


“ I believe the whole town is leaving,” the young 
fellow said to himself, and then he hurried down 
the carved staircase and out through the large 
double doors, which had been unbbrred for the exit 
of the cart, and went into the street. This Herren- 
gasse—so called because the finest houses of the 
town stood in it—was silent as the grave. This, 
indeed, was its normal state. Grass grew here and 
there between its pointed paving-stones ; for except 
on market day, or on the occasion of any public fes¬ 
tival, life and movement were shut in behind the 
great doors of the houses. This afternoon the 
street which crossed it from the market-place was 
full of bustle. A line of carts and trucks was passing 
along on its way to the Regen Thor, on the oppo¬ 
site side of the town to that by which the French 
soldiers, in full retreat from Moscow, were expected 
to enter. Women and children and household 
goods were heaped into these vehicles, while men 
walked beside them with sulky, downcast faces, as if 
they were going against their will. 

The young fellow looked at them, and then he 
went quickly up a turning at the end of the street. 
This brought him, as we know, among houses of a 
different character. Very soon—for the twisted 
alley was a long one—he stood before the quaint 
old gabled house with the carved oriel. 

He turned the handle of the entrance-door, but 
it did not yield ; he tried again, and then he rang 
the long wire bell-pull with a wooden handle 
which hung beside the gate-post 

The door was opened by Franz—but as soon as 
Lorenz entered the boy bolted and barred the gate. 
Lorenz looked round him impatiently ; there were 
no signs of packing ; everything looked quiet and 
undisturbed. 

“ Your grandmother has not taken alarm, then,” 
he said, angrily, “nor Magdalena either.” He went 
on without waiting for an answer and lifted the latch 
of the inner door. 

As he entered he saw Frau Herber sitting before 
the fire : she gave him a startled glance, but she did 
not move. 

Lorenz said abruptly, “ But did you not get the 
message I sent you just now ? I hoped to find you 
all ready to start. I only waited to see my own 
people off, and I have come to fetch you. We have 
not a moment to lose. Where is Magdalena ? I 
have a carriage and two good horses waiting.” 

While he spoke she stretched out her hand, and 
he paused. 

“Yes, I got your message. Take the young ones 
if you will, Lorenz Imhoff. I cannot move.” 

“You need not. You shall be carried ; and when 
you reach Ahnborn you will not know that you have 
made the journey.” 

She feebly shook her head. 

“ I have not stirred across the threshold since 
winter began, and to-day it seems to me that the 
cold is bitter enough to freeze me as I sit by the 






Treasury of Tales. 


300 

fire. No, Lorenz, I must take my chance. My 
trust is,” she said, “that in this by-street our house 
may escape notice. And,” she added, “ God will 
watch over me.” • 

“ If you stay here,” he said angrily, “you will be 
butchered by these Frenchmen. I tell you they are 
the very pick of devils that are on their way here 
—that regiment that has dipped its name in blood 
by its cruelties. Their creed is that the old must be 
rich, and that all means are lawful which can ex¬ 
tort gold.” 

Frau Herber grew a little paler, but she kept her 
faded blue eyes fixed on his glowing face. 

“ Lorenz, my son—for I think you will be my son 
if you come safe out of these troubles—do not waste 
time with me. Call Magdalena and Franz, and go 
away with them to Ahnborn. Do not fear for me.” 

“ They will not go without you ; I am sure they 
will not.” Then he bent and kissed one of the 
withered hands that lay on her black gown. Fie 
was touched by her fortitude. “ Grandmother, is 
it not selfish of you to sacrifice these two young 
lives ? ” 

Her lips trembled, but soon she looked serene 
again. 

“ Well,” he said, “ you will come ? ” 

She shook her head. “ I agree with King David,” 
she said, pleasantly. “I prefer to fall into God’s 
hands rather than into those of men. I stay here in 
full trust that He will watch over me ; and look you, 
Lorenz, these men, merciless though they be, will be 
footsore and exhausted—perishing with cold and 
hunger. You say they will pass the night here ; be¬ 
lieve me, they will keep to the beaten track. They 
will need food, warmth, and speedy shelter from this 
icy wind ; they will not come into the by-ways of 
the city.” 

“ Perhaps that is true,” said Lorenz. “ Certainly 
this is a by-street, and the house is not so tall as 
some of the others are, but the oriel makes it notice¬ 
able. You will not come ; then think of Magda¬ 
lena, and urge her to fly with me ; ” and his anxiety 
sounded in his voice. 

She gave him a smile full of tender pity. “ Even 
if she stays I do not fear for her as you do,” she 
cried ; “ but call her, my friend, and let her decide 
for herself.” 

Lorenz hurried across the room into the outer 
court, and, running up some of the steps of the huge 
stone staircase at its farther end, he called out— 

“ Magdalena ! ” 

III. 

Magdalena had not at first believed in the panic 
which had seized on the little town ; but when she 
went out with Gretchen the sight of hurrying men 
and women, the sad, tearful faces, the reckless con¬ 
fusion in which people whom she had always seen 
calm and collected were leaving their houses as if 
they were in flames, thrilled through the girl’s sym¬ 


pathetic nature. Two women came hurrying along, 
and one of them fell down at her feet in an agony of 
hysterics, shrieking and tearing at the ground ; so 
convulsed was she that two strong men could 
scarcely hold her. But at last she was lifted up and 
placed in a wagon ready to start for Ahnborn. 

At this Gretchen burst into violent sobbing. 

“ I must go,” she said. “ I will not stay to be mur¬ 
dered, and worse, by those brutes of Frenchmen., 
Come with me, Fraulein—let us go to Ahnborn.” 

She began to run along the street, heedless that 
she had taken the wrong direction. 

The two men who had lifted the shrieking woman 
into the cart came up to Magdalena. 

“ You are Fraulein Herber,” said one of them: 
“ this wagon belongs to Herr Walters—there is 
\still room for you and for your maid, and you will be 
safe at Ahnborn—you will not be safe in Freiten- 
berg, Fraulein,” he said significantly. 

Magdalena shuddered with fear, but she shook 
her head. 

“You are very kind ; but I cannot leave the others 

—perhaps if Gretchen could go”-Then, looking 

after her maid, she saw that she was almost out of 
sight. “Wait,” she said, and she ran swiftly away. 

Terror so possessed Gretchen that when she felt 
her skirt pulled vigorously she thought herself at¬ 
tacked by a French soldier, and gave a despairing 
scream. It took some minutes to assure her that 
her young mistress had stopped her. 

“ Hush, Gretchen,” the girl said, “ I am ashamed 
of you. Suppose every one behaved as you do—you 
must quiet yourself.” 

“ I can’t,” sobbed Gretchen ; “ there is no use in 
bidding me come home, Fraulein ; I will not stay to 
be slaughtered like a lamb by those wicked men.” 

It seemed to the girl that they would be well rid 
of this excited, frantic creature. 

“You are not much like a lamb,” she said. “I 
think you had better go to Ahnborn. There is a 
place for you in the wagon of Herr Walters.” 

And when she had seen Gretchen placed in the 
wagon, Magdalena went home. She did not tell in 
detail what she had seen, or the terror it had aroused 
in her. Her grandmother’s calm, sweet face, and 
the smile of pity she bestowed on the account of 
Gretchen’s alarm quieted this terror. After all, 
God could save them if He willed to do so ; and if 
He did not will it, then they might run into equal 
danger by flight. 

Gretchen’s absence kept the young girl well em¬ 
ployed ; but, though she had not told her fears to 
her grandmother, Magdalena’s heart trembled, and 
spite of her efforts she could not quiet hgr terror. 
All at once, like a message of joy, Lorenz’s call 
reached her ears. 

“ Magdalena ! ” he called again. 

There was a pause of waiting silence ; then a door 
opened and shut overhead, and light steps sounded, 
and Magdalena came tripping down the massive 






A Night of Terror. 


301 


staircase, paneled so high up that only a glimpse 
of fair hair could be seen moving down the upper 
flight. In a few moments she appeared on the land¬ 
ing ; her fair sunny hair showed golden as she passed 
the window, and her sweet young face was full of 
brightness. She looked very lovely when a faint 
tinge of color rose in her pale face, and a corre¬ 
sponding glow in her dark eyes, at the sight of Lorenz 
Imhoff. 

She held out her hand, and her lover held it be¬ 
tween both his while he talked with her. They were 
not yet formally betrothed, so he did not offer her a 
warmer greeting, and something in the atmosphere 
of the coming peril gave a certain restraint to his 
manner. In the face of such danger he could not 
indulge himself in a caress. It seemed to him that 
his nerves ought to be made of steel to-day. 

“ Magdalena ”—her smile made him think she was 
unprepared—“ have you not heard the bad news ? 
I sent to warn your grandmother ; did she not tell 
you about the French ? ” 

The smile faded out of Magdalena’s deep-brown 
eyes and carried away with it the pretty shell-like 
pink from her cheek. “ Yes,” she said softly, “ Franz 
has told us.” 

“You will go with me, then ; there is no time to 
lose.” 

Magdalena drew back from him. 

“ Oh, Lorenz, I could never leave grandmother. 
We have sent away the maid because she was out of 
her wits with fear, and she has gone in Herr Walters’ 
wagon. How could my grandmother stay here 
alone ? ” 

“Well, but, dearest ”—he again took possession of 
her hand, as if he felt that that gave him greater 
power over her—“ when she sees that you and Franz 
are ready and willing to go with me, she will come 
too.” 

Magdalena shook her head. 

“ She could not, she must not. I believe she 
ought to be in bed in this bitter cold ; even I can¬ 
not keep myself warm. If she were to go ever so 
short a journey we should find her dead when we 
arrived,” the girl said, with a shiver of horror at 
herself for using the word in connection with her 
grandmother. 

Lorenz hesitated. He was warmly attached to 
Frau Herber, but it was to him simply impossible 
that this young lovely girl should remain in Freiten- 
berg to fall into the hands of French soldiers. And 
of what use would his protection be against a band 
of brutal ruffians ? He stood thinking. All the 
friends on whom he could have relied for help had 
by this time left the city ; they dwelt either in the 
Herrengasse or in the main thoroughfare, and as the 
houses along this and the rich-looking dwellings 
so near it would be certainly invaded by the French 
soldiers, it had been resolved in the brief council 
held that afternoon in the Rathhaus, that, although 
no resistance should be offered, the inhabitants 


most likely to be molested would act wisely in 
taking themselves and their valuables to some place 
of refuge out of the line of the French retreat. 

“ Listen, Magdalena,” he said ; it seemed to him 
that any reasoning was justifiable which would make 
her consent to leave Freitenberg. “ No doubt it 
would be dangerous to move your grandmother in 
this bitter cold. Let us, then, wrap her warmly in 
her chair, and make up a large fire. We will leave 
her all the food she can want; it is supposed that 
the French will only halt here a few hours, for they 
believe the Russians are in pursuit, and I promise 
that you shall return the moment danger is over. 
Come, my dearest love, you will come with me ? ” 

Magdalena’s lips trembled, and the tears started 
to her eyes ; but her answer was to step down the 
last stair on which she had been standing, and to 
cross the Hof towards the sitting-room. “ Stop.” 
Lorenz caught her arm. “You have only looked at 
one side of the matter—if you persist in staying here, 
I stay also—I can at least take the same risk as you 
do, a risk to which you will not open your eyes.” 

At this a sudden flush—a qurvering of the eye¬ 
lashes as the sweet eyes opened in wild terror— 
showed him how wrongly he had been reading her. 
He saw through the folds of her gown that Magda¬ 
lena’s heart was violently agitated ; all her pulses 
fluttered with fear, and her lips parted with agitation. 

She turned away from the door and faced him. 
“You must not stay here, Lorenz ; it would take 
away all my courage to know that you were in dan¬ 
ger ; and then, think of your father and your mother ; 
you are the only child they have—your duty is to 
be with them now.” 

She saw that she had touched him, for he turned 
his head aside. Indeed, his mother’s last words 
sounded in his ears : 

“Yes, my Lorenz—you may bring the dear Frau 
Herber and her grandchildren to us ; but come with¬ 
out delay. I shall have no peace till I see you arrive 
at Ahnborn.” 

“ Come in here,” said Magdalena. She opened 
the door and went up to her grandmother. Franz 
stood beside her, and when he saw Lorenz he 
frowned. 

“Franz,” the young man said, “a time like this 
gives every one a responsibility ; you are old enough 
to feel that Magdalena ought not to stay here. **We 
must take her away.” 

It seemed to the boy that he was being cajoled. 
“ If Lorenz loves Magdalena, then he ought to stay 
and defend her ; if he goes away, he is a coward,” 
said Franz to himself. “ I see how it is ; he wants us 
to go so that he may not have to stay behind.” 

“ Magdalena will not leave my grandmother,” he 
said, coldly ; “ and she ”—he stroked one of Frau 
Herber’s hands—“ cannot travel in weather like this.” 

“ Well, then,” said Lorenz, quickly, “ stay you, 
then, with your grandmother ; it is better to risk one 
life than two ; and probably, even if they find you, 






302 


Treasury of Tales. 


the French will not ill-treat you, my boy.” He 
turned to Magdalena and took her hand. 

“You ”-Franz broke out angrily. 

But his grandmother pressed his arm, warningly. 
“ Peace, my child,” she said ; “ you are the youngest; 
you must let Magdalena decide.” 

“ I cannot leave you, grandmother,” the girl said. 
“ If no harm comes to this house, then I need never 
have left it; and if harm does come,” she went on 
slowly, “ then I could never be happy again if I had 
left you.” 

She put both arms round Frau Herber’s neck and 
tenderly kissed her. Franz bent down too, and 
rubbed his face against his sister’s hair. 

“You’re a brave girl,” he whispered, “and I’ll 
never tease you again. Now, Lorenz Imhoff, I am 
going to bar and bolt the gates,” he said, with an 
important air. 

Lorenz smiled. 

“ By all means. I will come and help you, 
Franz.” 

“You! Are you going to stay?” And Franz 
looked at his tall visitor with a troubled face. 

“ If Magdalena will not go with me, do you think 
I am going away alone ? ” said Lorenz. 

At this the girl came forward, and put her hand 
on his arm. 

“ Remember your mother, Lorenz ; even now she 
must be anxious.” 

Lorenz took both her hands. 

“ If this news had not come,” he said, “ I should 
to-day have asked your grandmother to consent to 
our betrothal—if we escape this trial you will be my 
wife, will you not, Magdalena ? Frau Herber and 
you, Franz, are witnesses to our promise, and you 
know a man may not desert his wife even for his 
mother, and you are my wife, dear one.” 

“No, she is not!” said Franz, impetuously—he 
could hardly keep himself'from pulling his sister’s 
hands away from her lover’s clasp. 

Lorenz looked at him in angry surprise. 

“ Lorenz, she is not yet your wife,” Frau Herber 
said ; “ if she were, it would be different. Listen to 
me. When your message came I was sorely troubled, 
for I foresaw this conflict ; but soon peace came to 
me—something seemed to tell me to trust, and I fell 
asleep in my chair. While I slept I thought I 
wakened, and your mother stood beside me. ‘ Where 
is Lorenz ? ’ she said. * What have you done with my 
son?’ While I tried to answer her she went. After 
this I roused, and found that I had been dreaming; 
but the dream meant something, Lorenz. You must 
go to your mother. A good son makes a good hus¬ 
band, you know,” she smiled. 

“ I cannot stay in this house against your will, 
but I shall remain in Freitenberg,” the young fellow 
said, doggedly. 

“You must go to Ahnborn, indeed you must,” 
she said, entreatingly. 

Lorenz smiled, kissed her hand, and bade her 


adieu, then he nodded at Franz, and went out of the 
room. 

Magdalena followed him, and, as soon as the door 
closed behind her, Lorenz took her in his arms. 

“I shall be near you, my beloved,” he said ; “and 
if harm comes we can at least die together.” 

“ Do not stay for me, Lorenz ; it would make me 
happier to know you were safe. If you stay, you 
will make your parents wretched, and I shall be full 
of fears ; if you go, I shall at least know that your 
honorable parents are content.” 

He kissed her fondly. 

“ I would do much to please you, dearest girl, but 
not this ; where you are, there must I be also for 
evermore.” 

At this Franz opened the door of the sitting- 
room. 

“ I must begin to bolt and bar all the doors and 
windows,” he said, with grave importance. “ The 
French may come sooner than we expect.” 

Once more the lovers clasped hands, and then 
they parted. Franz closed and barred the gate at 
once, so that Magdalena had no chance of a last 
look. 

IV. 

The evening wore on slowly. Soon the noise of 
departure subsided ; and when Franz came in—for 
he had said he could not stay cooped indoors like a 
chicken—he reported that the town seemed asleep. 

“Are there any signs of the French soldiers?” 
Frau Herber asked. 

“ No ; I went out by the Wolfgang Thor, and 
looked over the country, but I could not see them. 
But it is so strangely dark, grandmother. I fancy 
there will be a heavy snow-fall.” 

“ Then I hope our poor fugitives will reach Ahn¬ 
born before it begins. It was the snow that did so 
much damage in the French army. Lorenz told me 
that thousands of frozen bodies are lying unburied 
along the line of retreat. The snow and the cold 
have worked far more destruction than the Russians 
have.” 

“Yes,” said Franz ; and he stood thinking. 

Magdalena kept aloof—she was glad to have 
plenty to do, for the parting from her lover had 
tried her sorely. It had been so very hard to this 
tender, loving girl to disobey his wish. Long before 
she knew that Lorenz cared for her, Magdalena had 
indulged in a secret worship of the tall, dark-eyed 
man who, to her, seemed so wise and so like a hero. 

He was so brave, too ; she was sure of that, and 
yet he had begged her to leave Freitenberg. And 
now he was gone, and she asked herself whether she 
had been right or wrong. But, in a loyal nature, 
beliefs are deep-rooted, and Magdalena could not 
shake off her firm trust in her grandmother—she was 
so young when her parents died that Frau Herber 
had been her sole guide—she could not, all at once, 
put Lorenz entirely in her place. “ His fears for me 








A Night of Terror. 


303 


trouble his judgment,” she thought. “ Grandmother 
sees it all more calmly.” But, though she tried not 
to feel disquieted, it was impossible to go about the 
house in her usual light-hearted fashion. The 
thought of Lorenz hiding away somewhere near, so 
as to watch over her safety, instead of following his 
parents, disturbed her. If anything happened to 
him, then she would have been the cause of it. 
Would anything happen to any one ? Was it not all 
a false alarm, and might not the French have taken 
the upper road, which would lead them some miles 
north of Freitenberg ? She was at the top of the 
house when this thought came, and she hurried up a 
ladder that led to the loft, only lighted by some slit¬ 
like dormers in the roof. She crossed the dark loft, 
and, taking down a bar, opened a door just under 
the gable. Beside this door was the crane used for 
raising wood and other stored articles to the loft. 
From this opening, spite of the darkness, Magdalena 
could see beyond the city walls; but she could 
scarcely make out the hard, dry road stretching 
away to the east. Nothing stirred on it. Below her 
was the silent city ; not a sound came from it—not 
even a wreath of smoke from one of the huge chim¬ 
ney-stacks. The darkness was unnatural, and the 
clouds looked even more heavy than they had looked 
yesterday. All at once something fell upon her face ; 
—it was a snowflake. 

Magdalena closed the door again, shivering ; for 
the keen wind had rushed in, almost blinding her 
with its icy force, and the sense of loneliness was 
almost awful ; she groped her way slowly down to 
the sitting-room ; she had done all she could find to 
do ; she might now go in and sit waiting patiently for 
what would happen. Who could say if she should 
ever go up those stairs again ? 

When she joined the others, her grandmother was 
sitting in her old place by the fire ; but Franz was 
looking out of the window. 

“ I’ll wager they’ll not light the street lamps to¬ 
night,” he said. “ There never is one here ; but 
there will not be one lighted in the Herrengasse or 
on the market-place. There is no need to light the 
Frenchmen about. Perhaps the lampman has gone 
away with the rest. Hullo ! here comes the snow ; 
do you hear, Magdalena ? ” he called to his sister. 

She had knelt down before the fire, trying to warm 
herself; for she felt half frozen. She got up now 
and felt her grandmother’s hands. “ I shall go and 
get your warm cloak,” she said ; “ you cannot be too 
much wrapped.” 

“ How slowly the snow comes down,” said Franz. 
“ Great flakes as big as little white birds. Do come 
and look, Magdalena.” 

But she had gone for a cloak, and now she was 
wrapping the old woman carefully and tenderly 
within it. “ You look drowsy, dear,” she said ; “close 
your eyes and sleep.” 

Frau Herber smiled. “ I am not sleepy,” she said. 
“ Go and look at the snow, my child.” 


And while the grandmother prayed silently beside 
the fire that her darlings might be spared the com¬ 
ing peril, Franz and Magdalena watched at the 
window. 

At first the snow came, as if unwillingly, in large 
solemn flakes, through the still air ; but these seemed 
to spread into downy feathers as they reached the 
ground, and soon the street below the window was 
white. Now the flakes were thicker ; and the wind, 
which had completely lulled for a brief space, 
whirled them round and round, here and there, in 
twisting veils of silver, till even Franz’s eyes ached 
with gazing at it. Now it drove against the window, 
but so softly that it made no sound. 

“ Come away, Magdalena,” said Franz. “ I have 
heard that it blinds people to gaze too long at snow.” 

He began to pull the curtain across the window, 
and then burst out laughing as a strange figure 
passed along the street—a man so covered with snow 
that he looked gigantic. 

“ How the snow drifts ! ” Franz said, and he went 
back to the fireside ; but the girl lingered. 

“ How dark it is ! ” she said, presently. “ The air 
seems thick with snow.” 

“ The room will be much warmer if you come 
away and draw the curtain,” her brother said. 

Magdalena turned slowly from the window, and 
then she paused and stood still, with parted lips. 

“ Did you hear ? ” she said, in a low, startled voice, 
while she fastened the curtain closely. 

Franz started up and ran to the window ; but the 
girl stood still, her face white and set, and one hand 
raised to keep him silent. 

As they listened, there came from some way off 
the muffled notes of a trumpet. 

“It is the French—they are in the town,” said 
Franz. “We could not hear that from outside. The 
snow deadens the sound, or it would be plainer.” 
He went back to the fire-place, and, standing on tip¬ 
toe, took down his father’s gun. 

At this his grandmother sat upright in her chair. 

“ Leave the gun alone, Franz,” she said firmly. 
“ Resistance is absolutely useless. You might shed 
blood, but that is all you could do. You could not 
hinder these men. We have only one weapon, my 
child—we can pray.” 

And then she began slowly to repeat a hymn. 

At first Franz listened doggedly. He still had the 
gun, and gave impatient glances at the curtained 
window ; but the feeble voice went on, and presently 
Magdalena sank on her knees beside her grand¬ 
mother and joined in her supplication. Franz put 
the gun down on the table and tried to listen to 
them ; but his ears were strained to catch other 
sounds, and when the hymn was ended he beckoned 
to Magdalena. 

“We must cover the fire,” he said, “and pull the 
screen close round it.” 

“ The light does not show outside,” she said ; “ I 
looked when I came in ; ” but still she did as he 






304 


Treasury 

asked. Between them they moved Frau Herber 
close to the broad chimney-breast, and then drew 
the many-leaved Indian screen completely across it. 

“ Hark !” said Magdalena. There was a distant 
shouting, then a subdued but continued murmur ; 
and this went on and on. Now it came nearer, and 
then it paused. 

The three watchers held their breath—pale and 
open-eyed, fixed in the posture in which the sounds 
had surprised them. Soon there came again shouts, 
muffled, but still sounds not to be mistaken, and the 
eager listeners could picture to themselves that some 
treasure had been discovered by the plunderers. 
The time passed slowly ; the air grew more and 
more chill ; for, though the fire still burned on the 
hearth, they did not dare to add fresh fuel so as to 
kindle a blaze. Now and then the grandmother 
prayed aloud ; but scarcely a word was spoken. 
There was no talk of going to bed. Grouped close 
together, one on each side of the venerable figure in 
the chair, they seemed to find strength and comfort 
in union. 

All at once c^me a louder sound ; it rang out 
through the packed air and reached them at their 
hearthstone, thrilling through their blood. 

A sound of singing—many voices joined in what 
seemed to be a drunken chorus. 

Then Magdalena flung both arms tightly round 
Frau Herber’s neck. 

“ They must be near—quite near,” she said. 

Franz went up to the table ; he had cleaned the 
gun and loaded it. He knew he could depend on it. 
Frau Herber pressed the girl’s cold hand in her 
own. 

“ He is nearer than they are,” she said ; “ and 
those who trust in Him shall not be confounded.” 

But to Magdalena it seemed that the singingcame 
nearer still, and her terror almost conquered her 
trust. 

Y. 

Lorenz Imhoff had first gone back to his father’s 
house in the Herrengasse to make sure that the doors 
were securely fastened, and then he wandered about 
that quarter of the deserted town. 

He wished to find a refuge between the main thor¬ 
oughfare and Magdalena’s house, so that he might 
give her timely warning of the approach of the 
French, and also mount guard before the doorway. 
More than one house in the small streets which led 
in this direction had not been deserted—the inhab¬ 
itants being either too poor or too infirm to think of 
taking the long, cold journey. Some, too, were utterly 
' incredulous. The French had been for so many 
years a bugbear that they believed this was but an¬ 
other false alarm. 

Lorenz talked to some of these unbelievers, but 
he refused their hospitality. He shrank from finding 
himself shut up with others. The deserted houses 


of Tales. 

— 

had closed doors and windows ; it was long before 
he could discover any place to shelter in, and the 
snow had begun to fell. 

At last, at the angle of a narrow alley, he saw a 
garden wall. The wall was low, and he easily 
climbed into the garden. By good fortune, the 
open courtyard of the house bounded the garden on 
one side. Below the overhanging gallery of this 
Hof he found a small door left unlocked. 

But when he had passed into the room to which it 
led he found a range of offices ending in a kitchen, 
barred off from the actual house ; the windows 
looked only into the Hof and garden—he was com¬ 
pletely shut off from the street. 

However, the garden wall was close by, and by its 
help he could reach the street in a moment. 

There was a fire still burning on the hearth of the 
first room he had entered. He made this up, and 
then he went back to the garden and paced up and 
down, straining his ears to listen through the falling 
snowflakes. 

They fell thicker and thicker, faster and faster, till 
they came upon him with such driving force that, 
staggering under the weight he now carried, he 
turned to seek shelter indoors. 

The wind whirled the snow with so much fury 
against the wall of the Hof, that in the darkness 
Lorenz had some trouble in finding the door by 
which he had first entered, and when at last he 
opened it, the snow followed him in like a white 
phantom, in spite of the bulwark offered by the pro¬ 
jecting gallery overhead. He was so chilled that he 
could scarcely move ; but he heaped more wood on 
the fire, shook his cloak with some difficulty free of the 
snow which covered it, and stamped to free his boots 
from the huge clumps of snow that almost prevented 
him from moving; then he placed himself near the 
window, though he knew that outer sounds must be 
dulled before they reached him. He was strangely 
tired, but he felt too drowsy to allow himself to rest. 
All at once it seemed to him that he was turning into 
stone. His limbs were stiff, his jaws clung together, 
and a strange stupor began to steal over him. 

With difficulty he dragged himself near the fire, 
which was now burning cheerfully ; and then he re¬ 
membered that he had taken no food since early 
morning. 

He sat down before the fire, and tried to find in 
the pocket of his coat some cordial which he had 
put there. All at once, he heard a sound outside. 
He struggled to his feet and listened. Through the 
still air came the muffled notes of a trumpet. 

Lorenz made a rush to the door. This was the 
moment for which he had waited. He could at least 
die for Magdalena. 

But he could not- reach the door ; he felt giddy, 
powerless, and he had to lean against the wall for 
support. Once more he dashed forward. This time 
he reached the door, but though he pulled as hard 
as he could, it did not yield. Dimly he saw a mass 





A Night of Terror. 


305 


of snow in front of it, then the ground seemed to 
slip from under his feet. 

* Lorenz started ; he shivered, and 
opened his eyes. 

What was this? He was lying on the floor of a 
strange room. Daylight faintly showed in the 
gray outline of a window ; and, as his eyes became 
accustomed to the dim light, he saw a burnt-out fire 
on the hearth, and a mound of snow near .where he 
was lying. 

Then he remembered, and he struggled to rise. 
But this was not easy ; he found that his limbs had 
stiffened with the cold—he could not move. And 
with this loss of power came the certainty that he 
must have been lying there for hours. What had 
happened ? Had the French come to Freitenberg, 
or were they still expected ? Then flashed the re¬ 
membrance of that trumpet note ; but it seemed to 
Lorenz that he had dreamed it. 

But if not ? Had the night he so dreaded passed 
away while he lay sleeping ? 

The thought gave him strength beyond his pow¬ 
ers ; he forced himself up from the ground. It was 
fortunate the wall was close by, or he must have 
fallen. His head reeled ; his brain felt sick. He 
knew that in his present state he could not hope to 
reach Magdalena. He stood against the wall, try¬ 
ing to think calmly ; some sound must have roused 
him from his heavy sleep. What was it ? Then all 
at once, and near to him, a trumpet rang out ; it 
was the call for departure. Lorenz had served 
against the French, and he knew well the meaning 
of the loud, braying notes. But no murmur of move¬ 
ment followed. It was true, then, that the French 
were actually in Freitenberg ; and he had slept, and 
left Magdalena to their mercy ! 

He roused out of his agony ; his numbed blood 
stirred and brought back the power of movement. 
He pulled out his flask and drank from it, and then, 
guiding himself along by the wall, he kicked away 
some of the snow, and tried to open the door by 
which he had come in. 

He pulled at it with all the strength he had, but 
he had soon to give up, exhausted. Then he tried with 
his knife to remove the snow which had worked its 
way in all round ; but he found that this had frozen 
to the posts and lintels—it was hard ice. 

Lorenz looked about him with despairing eyes— 
he was a prisoner. He saw now that the window 
was quite snow-blocked, so that the morning was, 
perhaps, farther advanced than he had imagined. 
He went on through the offices till he had reached 
the kitchen. He might there find an axe or some in¬ 
strument with which to open the door; and then he 
saw—what had escaped him in the darkness last 
night—a door in the paneled wall beside the cooking- 
stove. 

He opened this door, and, as he expected, he 
found a narrow staircase leading to the house itself. 


This assurance of escape from his prison helped his 
strength. He was soon up the stairs, and then 
found himself at the end of the open gallery of the 
Hof. 

At the opposite end of this gallery was the great 
staircase of the mansion. The gallery was so full of 
snow that he was some time in making his way across 
it. In the corners, where it had drifted, it stood up 
in great white walls, and the staircase, when he came 
to it, was almost impassable. 

At last, panting and exhausted, he reached the 
bottom of the staircase, and found himself in a dry 
covered courtyard. Two huge entrance-gates were 
bolted and barred within. This house, then, had 
escaped. 

The snow had not penetrated into the courtyard, 
and Lorenz hoped to find the front clear, as it was 
evident that the drift had been against the side of 
the house. He unbolted and unbarred the gates, 
and, to his joy, they yielded. 

He opened them, and then he started, but not 
only at the sight of the street mantled in snowy 
whiteness—again the trumpet sounded, and from the 
western side of the town. Lorenz waited, intently 
listening ; then he heard sounds as if the word of 
command were given. 

They were departing ; this terrible scourge had 
been removed from Freitenberg. 

Lorenz’s dread overpowered his relief. Imagina¬ 
tion went on painting how this short and uncon¬ 
scious night to him had been spent by the French 
soldiers. 

The snow shone silver white ; it had drifted 
against the angle of the opposite house ; but, in the 
road between, the surface had been disturbed, foot¬ 
prints had sunk deeply in it, though these had been 
partially hidden by freshly fallen snow. On the 
opposite threshold footmarks had left a more distinct 
record—plunderers had passed that way. Lorenz 
was too keenly anxious to wonder why his retreat 
had been spared. As he trod on the frozen snow, 
the whole aspect of the place was so changed, that 
he w r ondered if he should find his way. No one w r as 
abroad in this quarter. The chains of the lamps 
suspended across the streets were snow r -laden ; the 
roofs and chimneys were shapeless under their silver- 
white mantle, and the windows and doors w r ere 
deeply framed in snow ; while every bit of carving, 
every projecting bracket, had taken colossal dimen¬ 
sions with the dazzling covering. 

As Lorenz went on, he saw more than one house 
w r here the open doorway and marks of footsteps 
showed that the invaders had not been idle ; but all 
W'as still. He shuddered to think that there might 
be silent witnesses with gaping w r ounds within some 
of those snow-framed windows. 

But he could not stay to seek for dead or dying ; 
for him Freitenberg held only Magdalena ; and at 
last, out of breath, and with snow-clogged feet, he 
reached the angle of the street she lived in. 











3°6 


Treasury of Tales . 


Lorenz stopped, and from his heart went up a cry 
of joy and thanksgiving. It seemed to him that he 
beheld a miracle. The silvery mass had drifted till 
a solid wall of snow reached not only the door and 
lower windows of the house, but covered even the 
oriel. 

A track of footsteps showed that the street had 
1 een visited during the night; but the snow had so 
blocked the house that the work of breaking through 
such a barrier had, no doubt, seemed too fatiguing to 
the tired Frenchmen. 

Lorenz went closer, and saw how thick and strong 
the wall was. 

“ I must get help,” he said. “ The snow may 
stand for days if the frost lasts.” \\ 

He turned away, and then looked back at the win¬ 
dows above the snow wall. The door beneath the 
gable was opening slowly. He held his breath, and 
then he saw Magdalena smiling down on him with 
shining eyes. 

“ Are you safe—quite safe ? Thank God ! ” she 
cried. And her tears fell like rain. 

He kissed his hand and waved it towards her. “ I 
go for help, my beloved,” he called out. 

But it took Lorenz some time to get the help he 
needed. 

When the trumpet notes told the people of Freit- 
enberg that the French were really in the town, they 
had hidden away in cellars and other places, and 
many of them had to be roused from deep sleep. 

At last Lorenz got some men to come with shovels 
and pickaxes, and the door into the courtyard was 
opened. 

Magdalena and Franz were waiting for him in the 
courtyard—and the boy’s eyes filled with tears as he 
threw his arms round Lorenz. 

“ How is Frau Herber ? ” the young man said. 

“ Quite well ; come in and see her ; she has been 
very anxious for you,” said Franz, laughing. “ Never 
mind about Magdalena.” 


THE BIT OF BI^EAD. 

BY FRANCOIS COPPEE. 

I. 

HE young Duke of Hardimont found himself 
at Aix, in Savoy, whither, for the benefit of 
the waters, he had sent his famous mare Peri- 
chole, because she had been coughing since a chill 
she caught at the Derby. The Duke was finishing his 
breakfast, when glancing carelessly at the news¬ 
paper he read in it the news of the disaster of 
Reichshoffen. 

He finished his glass of Chartreuse, put his nap¬ 
kin on the table of the restaurant, ordered his 
valet to pack up his things, and two hours after¬ 
ward took the express for Paris, and hastened to 
the recruiting-office to‘enlist in a regiment of the 
line. 


One may have led from nineteen to twenty-five 
the enervating life of a swell, one may have become 
demoralized in racing stables and the boudoirs of 
actresses, still there are circumstances where it is 
impossible to forget that Enguerrand de Har¬ 
dimont died of the plague at Tunis on the same 
day as St. Louis ; that Jean de Hardimont com¬ 
manded the “ Grandes Compagnies ” under Du 
Guesclin, and that Franqois Henri de Hardimont 
died charging at Fontenoi with the Royal House¬ 
hold. In spite of his life of dissipation, the young 
duke, when he learned that a battle had been lost 
by the French on French soil, felt the blood mount 
to his cheeks and felt the horrible sensation of 
having received a blow. 

This explains how, in the beginning of Novem¬ 
ber, 1870, on returning to Paris with his regiment r 
which formed part of Vinoy’s corps, Henri de Har¬ 
dimont, private in the third company of the second 
battalion and member of the Jockey Club, was in 
the grand guard with his company in front of the 
redoubt of Hautes Bruyeres, a hastily fortified post,, 
which was protected by the cannon of the fort of 
Bicetre. 

It was a wretched-looking spot: a road bordered 
with stunted trees that looked like broom-handles, 
and all cut up with muddy ruts, crossed the mangy 
fields of the suburb, and by the side of the road was 
an abandoned wine-shop, where the soldiers had 
established their post. Here there had been a com¬ 
bat a few days before ; the musketry fire had cut 
in two some of the roadside poplars, and all of them 
bore the white scars of rifle-balls. As to the house, 
it would make you shiver to look at it. The roof had 
been crushed by a shell, and the walls, of a wine-lees 
color, seemed to be plastered with blood. The 
empty casks under their net-work of black twigs, the 
upset shuffle-board, the swing through whose mouldy 
cords the wind whistled, the bullet-scarred sign¬ 
board—all recalled, with cruel irony, the popular 
amusements of by-gone Sundays. And over all this 
stretched a villanous winter sky, in which rolled 
heavy, leaden-colored clouds—a low, angry, hateful 
sky. 

At the door of the wine-shop the young duke 
stood motionless, with his chassepot slung over his 
shoulder, his cap over his eyes, and his numb 
hands in the pockets of his red pantaloons, shivering 
under his sheepskin. He had abandoned himself to 
gloomy thoughts—this soldier of defeat—and looked 
with a dull eye on the line of hills lost in the mist, 
from which, at every minute, there shot out, with 
a loud report, the white puff of smoke from a 
Krupp gun. 

All at once it struck him he was hungry. 

He knelt on one knee and took from his hav- 
sack, that lay near him against the wall, a big 
piece of commissariat bread ; then, as he had lost 
his knife, he bit it and ate it slowly. 

After a few mouthfuls, however, he had enough 







The Bit of Bread. 


307 


of it; the bread was hard and had a bitter taste. 
Nor would there be any fresh bread till it was 
served out next day, and that only in case the 
commissary should be in good humor. Well. It 
was sometimes pretty rough was this life of a 
soldier, and then—lo and behold !—he began to 
think of what he used to call his hygienic break¬ 
fasts, when on the morrow after a too-heating sup¬ 
per he sat at the window on the ground floor of the 
Cafe Anglais and ordered—the merest trifles—a 
cutlet and scrambled eggs aux pointes d’asperges, 
while the waiter, knowing his habits, placed on the 
table-cloth, and uncorked with care, a fine bottle of 
old Leoville, lying softly in its wicker basket. Con¬ 
found it all ! Those were good old times, and he 
would never get used to this bread of affliction. 

In a moment of impatience the young man flung 
the rest of his bread into the mud. 

II. 

At this very instant a soldier came out of the 
wine-shop; he stooped, picked up the piece of 
bread, walked a few steps off, wiped it on his 
sleeve, and began to devour it greedily. 

Henri de Hardimont was already ashamed of his 
action, and looked with pity on the poor devil who 
showed such a good appetite. He was a great, tall, 
ungainly lad, with feverish eyes and a hospital beard, 
and so thin that his shoulder-blades stuck out under 
the folds of his well-worn cloak. 

“ You are pretty hungry, comrade,” said De Hardi¬ 
mont, approaching the soldier. 

“ You may see that,” replied the other, with his 
mouth full. 

“ I beg your pardon, then ; if I had known that it 
could have done you any good, I would not have 
flung away my bread.” 

“ No harm done,” said the soldier ; “ I am not so 
easily put off my appetite.” 

“ No matter,” said the duke ; “ I did what was 
wrong, and regret it. But I do not want you to 
carry away a bad impression of me, and as I have 
some old cognac in my flask, by Jove, we’ll have a 
nip together.” 

The man had finished eating. The duke and he 
took a mouthful of brandy—acquaintanceship was 
formed. 

“ And your name ? ” said the soldier. 

“ Hardimont,” replied the duke, suppressing his 
title. “ And yours ? ” 

“ Jean-Victor. I have only just been sent back to 
the company. I am just out of the hospital. I was 
wounded at Chatillon. Ah ! it is a comfortable 
place is the hospital ; there the doctor gives you 
excellent horse-soup. But I had only a scratch ; the 
major signed my discharge, and, so much the worse, 
I begin again to die of hunger. For, you may 
believe me or not, comrade, I have been hungry all 
my life, just as I am now.” 

The declaration was appalling, uttered as it was to 


a voluptuary who had just detected himself regret¬ 
ting the cookery of the Cafe Anglais, and the Duke 
de Hardimont looked at his companion with an air 
of terrified astonishment. The soldier wore a sad 
smile, which disclosed his teeth, the teeth of a wolf, 
the teeth of a starving man, so white in that clay- 
colored face, and, as if he understood that an expla¬ 
nation was expected, he said : 

“ Look here. Let us walk up and down on tCe 
road to warm our feet, and I will tell you things 
of which I am sure you have never heard. 

“My name is Jean-Victor—simple Jean-Victor— 
for I was a foundling, and my only happy recollec¬ 
tions are those of my early childhood in the hospice. 
Our little beds in the dormitory had white curtains ; 
we used to play in the garden, under the big trees, 
and there was a good sister, quite young, pale as a 
wax-candle—she was going off in a consumption— 
whose pet I was, and I liked better to walk with her 
than to play with the other children, because she 
drew me close to her as she laid on my brow her 
thin, burning hand. 

“ But when I was twelve, after my first com¬ 
munion, nothing but want ! The trustees appren¬ 
ticed me to a chair-mender in the Faubourg St. 
Jacques. It is not a trade, you know, and no one 
can make a living at it. And so it was there that I 
began to suffer from hunger. The old master and 
his wife (who were afterward murdered) were terri¬ 
ble misers ; the very loaf of which they cut you a 
thin little slice at meal times was kept under lock 
and key the rest of the day ; and in the evening, at 
supper, you should have seen the mistress, with her 
black cap, sighing and groaning at every dip of the 
ladle into the soup-tureen. There were two other 
apprentice lads from the Blind Asylum, and they 
were less unhappy ; they had no more than I, but 
they, at least, did not see the reproachful looks of 
the wicked old woman when she held out my plate. 
But just here was the trouble ; I already had a fierce 
appetite. Was that my fault, I say ? 

“ I passed there three years of apprenticeship, 
ravenous all the time. Three years ! The business 
could be learned in a month, but the trustees cannot 
know everything, and never suspect that people 
make money out of the children. Ah ! you are as¬ 
tonished to see me pick bread out of the mud ! 
Why, I am used to it ; I have picked many a crust 
out of the ash-barrel, and when they were too dry 
I would let them soak all night in my water-basin. 

“ To be honest about it, however, I had some¬ 
times streaks of luck ; I would light on bits of 
bread nibbled at one end, such as the boys pull out 
of .their bags and throw on the foot-path when they 
come out of school. I made it a point always to 
pass that way when I went on errands. 

“And, then, when my apprenticeship was ended, 
I had only a trade which, as I told you, would not 
keep a man in food. Oh! I have tried other 
trades ; I am not afraid of work, look you. I have 






308 


Treasury of Tales. 


worked for the masons, been a shop-boy, sweeper ; 
what do I know besides ? Bah ! sometimes there 
was no work ; other times I lost my place. In short, 
I never had enough to eat. Ah ! confound it! 
what a rage I have often been in when passing a 
bakery ! Fortunately for me at these times, I al¬ 
ways remembered the good sister in the hospice, 
who so often told me to be honest, and believed I 
felt on my brow the warmth of her little hand. 

“ At last, at eighteen, I enlisted. You know as 
well as I, the private soldier has just about enough. 
Now—it’s almost fit to make one laugh—here comes 
siege and famine. You see I did not lie to you a 
moment ago, when I told you that I had always, 
always, been hungry ! ” 

III. 

The young duke was a good-hearted man, and 
in listening to this terrible complaint, uttered by a 
fellow-man, by a soldier whom his uniform made 
his equal, he felt deeply moved. It was lucky for 
his reputation as a phlegmatic swell that the evening 
breeze dried a couple of tears that began to dim his 
eyes. 

“ Jean-Victor,” he said, “if we both of us survive 
this frightful w T ar, we shall meet again, and I hope to 
be of service to you. But just now, as there is no other 
baker at the advanced posts but the commissary- 
sergeant, and as my ration of bread is twice too large 
for my small appetite—it is agreed, is it not ?—we 
will go shares like good comrades.” 

The clasp of the hand which the two men inter¬ 
changed was firm and warm ; then, as night was 
falling, and as they had been harassed by night-duty 
and alarms, they returned to the room in the wine¬ 
shop, where a dozen soldiers were lying-on the straw- 
spread floor. Here, flinging themselves down side 
by side, they fell into a deep sleep. 

Toward midnight Jean-Victor awoke, most prob¬ 
ably being hungry. The wind had swept away the 
clouds, and a moonbeam entering the room by a hole 
in the roof, lit up the blond and charming head of 
the young duke, sleeping like an Endymion. Still 
touched by the kindness of his comrade, Jean-Vic¬ 
tor was looking at him with simple-minded admira¬ 
tion, when the sergeant of the platoon opened the 
door and called the five men who had to relieve the 
advanced pickets. The duke was one of the five, 
but did not wake when his name was called. 

“ Hardimont, get up,” repeated the sergeant. 

“If you will be good enough, sergeant,” said 
Jean-Victor, rising, “I will take his place. He 
sleeps so soundly,—and he is my comrade.” 

“ As you like.” 

When the five men had gone the snoring recom¬ 
menced. 

But, half-an-hour after, shots in close succession 
and very near at hand broke the silence of the night. 
In an instant every man was on his feet. The sol¬ 
diers came out of the wine-shop, marching warily, 


with hand on trigger, and looking out ahead on the 
road which was whitened by the moon. 

“Why, what time is it?” asked the duke. “I 
was to be on guard to-night.” Some one replied, 
“ Jean-Victor has gone in your place.” At that in¬ 
stant they saw a soldier who came running on the road. 

“ Well ? ” they asked, when he stopped, quite out 
of breath. 

“ The Prussians are attacking—we must fall back 
on the redoubt.” 

“ And your comrades ? ” 

“ They are coming.—There is only that poor Jean- 
Victor, who was-” 

“ What ? ” cried the duke. 

“ Killed instantly ; shot through the head He 
hadn’t time to utter a syllable.” 

IV. 

One night last winter, about two o’clock in the 
morning, the Duke de Hardimont was issuing from 
the club with his neighbor the Count of Saulnes. 
He had just lost some hundreds of louis, and felt a 
little out of sorts. 

“ If you would like, Andre,” he said to his compan¬ 
ion, “ we will go home afoot. I want some fresh air.” 

“Just as you like, my friend, although the side¬ 
walk is pretty bad.” 

Accordingly, they sent their coupes home, turned 
up their coat collars, and went down toward the 
Madeleine. 

All at once the duke’s boot struck against an ob¬ 
ject which rolled away before him. It was a great 
crust of bread, all covered with mud. 

Then, to his amazement, M. de Saulnes saw 
the Duke de Hardimont pick up the piece of bread, 
wipe it carefully with his embroidered hand¬ 
kerchief, and place it on a bench in the Boulevard, 
under a gas-lamp. 

“ What are you doing there ? ” said the Count, 
bursting into laughter. “ Are you mad ?” 

“ It is in memory of a poor man who died for 
me,” replied the duke, whose voice trembled slightly. 

“ Do not laugh, my friend ; you will disoblige me.” 


KEEP MY SECRET. 

WAS returning to London from Paris by way of 
Dieppe; the month was September, the weather 
hot enough to make the longer sea journey 
seem inviting. I found myself at the station with a 
good half hour to spare, and to while away the time I 
bought books, newspapers, fruit, emptied my pockets, 
arranged my note-book, and sorted my money. It 
seemed to me I had a good deal more French gold 
than I need carry back with me, and I asked a mili¬ 
tary-looking individual standing by if he knew of a 
money-changer handy. Yes, there was one round 
the corner of the opposite street, not ten doors away 
—he would keep an eye on my belongings while I 
went so far. I started, found the house, managed 








Keep My Secret. 


309 


my business, and returning just in time to be let out 
on to the platform, hurried to secure a corner seat in 
a carriage. 

When I had drawn breath it struck me I need not 
have been in such a bustle, for, although there was 
a crowd of passengers in the waiting-room, none of 
them came my way ; apparently I was going to make 
a solitary journey. Not too fast, though ; here come 
some fellow-travellers—two, a man and a young 
lady ; they pass my carriage, come back again, hesi¬ 
tate, look round ; and finally she gets in and he 
walks away, to return, however, a few minutes later, 
and stand chatting at the window, out of which she 
leans. I get a good view of the man’s face—not a 
pleasant one to my mind ; his eyes roam uneasily 
about, as if looking for some one who has not come ; 
and though the girl is talking earnestly and quickly, 
he seems to pay very scant attention to her. 

Up comes the guard—there is a final scrutiny of 
tickets, a banging of doors, a shriek, a groan, a shrill 
whistle, and we are off—unexpectedly as it seems to 
my companion, for she starts up crying, “ Papa ? 
papa ? ” and then, “ Oh, mon Dieu ! ” and she has 
sunk down on the seat in a passion of tears. 

“ Now I ask any unprejudiced person ”—this was 
the way I soliloquized on the occasion—“ what I 
have done that I should have the grief of this young 
Niobe forced upon me.” Positively the girl seemed 
able to turn on taps of tears, for when she drew away 
her handkerchief from her eyes it was wet and sop¬ 
ping. An idea seemed to have occurred to herself 
that this utter abandonment was a little out of season, 
for, after throwing a timid glance in my direction, she 
resolutely closed her hand over the ball her handker¬ 
chief was reduced to, buttoned her eyelids tight over 
her eyes, as if determined not to let out any more 
of the tears that were there, tucked up her feet, and 
sat silently battling with the sobs which she could 
not quite overcome. 

I cannot now remember what it was that interested 
me in the paper, but something caught my notice, 
and I suppose for a time engrossed my attention, for 
the next thing I recollect was a train of thought—a 
travelling back into past days caused by my eyes 
having fallen on my fellow-traveller. She was fast 
asleep now, and I was able to take a good look at 
her. Poor child ! I wondered what was the cause of 
her sorrow—could it be leaving that broken-down, 
rascally looking father ? 

She could be barely seventeen ; her face was much 
younger than her figure, round peachy cheeks where 
dimples love to linger, a rosebud of a mouth, and eyes 
—for at that instant she opened them—as blue as the 
forget-me-nots that grow by the river. Over the face 
there stole a little pinky flush, and then there came a 
timid conscious air such as a child puts on who fears 
it has offended you. Before I knew it I was smiling 
at her, and she, though still looking afraid, began to 
essay a half smile back. Confound it ! what a nui¬ 
sance that I couldn’t speak better French—I should 


like to say something to her—but what ? Happy 
thought ! the pears that I had provided myself with 
at the station ! I seized the basket. 

“ Mademoiselle,” I said, “ voulez-vous acceptez 
une ? ” and I held them before her. Oh ! those 
roguish dimples, that came out in hide-and-seek all 
over the face as she answered : 

“ Monsieur, I am not French, but English like you.” 

“ Then do have one ! ”—and in my haste to press 
them on her I gave a little jerk forward which sent 
the whole half dozen rolling on the floor. Well, by 
the time we had picked them up, crawled under the 
carriage seat, bumped our heads together, and were 
reseated a little the worse for dust, we had become 
friends, and laughed honestly and openly each in the 
face of the other. It did me good to see her plunge 
her little pearly teeth into that pear, the skin of 
W'hich I vainly entreated to be permitted to remove. 

“ It is so good,” she said ; “ for I feel hungry now. 
There was a breakfast for me, but I couldn’t eat 
before I came away ; ” and the quiver in the voice 
supplied the reason. 

“ Are you going to school ? ” I ventured to say. 

“Well, yes and no ; I am going to a school, but to 
teach as well as to learn there.” I was silent; and 
after a minute she added, “ At home it isn’t as it used 
to be. Papa has married another wife. I have lost 
my mother—she died when I was a baby.” 

“ Ah ! ” I said, by way of consolation, “ that is 
a sad loss to anybody.” 

She nodded her head affirmatively. 

“ She, the other one, knows that I have nobody but 
papa ; it is cruel of her,” she said, “ to send me away.” 

“ Oh ! but you must not take it like that ”—it 
seemed to me that any excuse that removed her from 
that shady-looking father’s influence ought to be 
counted a fortunate circumstance—“ I dare say they 
thought going to school again might be good for you.” 

The rosy button was pursed up to show that its 
owner did not share my opinion. 

“ I do not believe that I speak English with such 
a bad accent,” she said poutingly ; “ do you find that 
I do, monsieur?—what do you think?” 

Because I laughed she turned away her head vex- 
edly, the truth being that what I did think was that 
this was the most bewitching little monkey I had 
ever in my life come across. It was my first expe¬ 
rience of innocent childish coquetry, and the fasci¬ 
nation was irresistible. 

“You laugh at me,” she said reproachfully ; “and 
that is what they will all do. I told papa so, and he 
said, no. He likes the English, that is why I got 
into this carriage with you ; he thought perhaps you 
might be going the whole way—are you ? ” 

“Yes, I am going to London.” 

“ So am I.” 

“Then we shall cross together.” 

“ Cross the sea ! ” She clasped her hands tightly. 
“ Oh ! I am so frightened of the sea—the thought 
of be.ing alone on the water terrifies me.” 





3io 


1 reasury 

“ But,” I said, “you won’t be alone—that is, if you 
will permit me to take charge of you.” 

She shook her head doubtingly. “ Oh, thanks ! 
but I should not dare to trouble you. Papa himself 
always gets angry with me, but I cannot help it; I 
say to myself, this time I will be brave ; but, my 
foot on the ship, and, ah ! ”—her face expressed how 
her courage melted—“ if I cannot find somebody 
I can hold on to tight, I feel I must die.” 

“You shall hold on to me like grim death ! ” I 
said, laughing encouragingly. “ We are due at Dieppe 
by two o’clock ! that gives us plenty of time for a good 
luncheon before we start.” Something in her look 
made me add, “ Oh ! you must eat; besides, you tell 
me you have had no breakfast—that you are hungry.” 

“ Yes, I am ; only papa said I was to go on board 
immediately.” 

“Very likely he forgot about your wanting some¬ 
thing after this journey.” 

“ No, I don’t think it was that,” she said, with shy 
hesitation ; “ but, frankly, monsieur, we are not rich ; 
and before saying yes, I think I must count my 
money.” 

Already I had closed my hand over hers, and the 
shabby little purse it held, which while speaking she 
had drawn out of her pocket. “ Now,” I said, “in 
return for the care I mean to take of you, you must 
do me a favor. I am an old bachelor, you must 
know, and very seldom get the chance of a young 
lady’s society ; whenever I do I always make it a 
point that she shall have luncheon with me.” 

“ Really ! but that is very nice of you.” 

“ Oh ! I’m a despot in that respect.” 

“ But it’s very fortunate for me that you are so ”— 
and she clapped her hands gayly—“for do you know 
that I could eat you, and I have nothing but a packet 
of bon-bons in my pocket to satisfy me ; ” and she 
dived her hand down in search of them. “ Oh ! what 
did I do with my money ? ” she exclaimed suddenly. 
“ Ah ! here it is ; I get into such a fright because I 
think I have lost it. Papa told me to be very careful, 
and so I am ; but I don’t know where to put it.” 

“ It often strikes me that ladies are very badly off 
for pockets,” I said. 

“ But no ! ” and she pointed to the sides of her 
jacket. “ I have one there, one there, and one in 
the skirt of my dress—how many have you ? ” 

“ Oh ! the number of mine is legion ; ” and I pointed 
to my outer coat; “not that I should think of carry¬ 
ing my money about with me there.” 

“ Wouldn’t you ? where would you put it, then ? ” 

I took out some of the loose coin I had, and held 
it in my hand to show her. 

“What, without any purse?” she asked. 

“ I never carry a purse with me.” 

“ And all the money you have you carry loose like 
that ? ” 

“ Yes, all that I want for daily use I do. Of course 
in travelling one is forced to have more about one, 
but that I keep in a place of safety.” 


of Tales. 

“Out of sight—hidden away,” she said confiden¬ 
tially. “ Yes, that is what I ought to have—a pocket 
that no one could get at ; and it might be done in 
this lining, I should say ”—and she unbuttoned her 
jacket so that I might give an opinion. 

“ Perfectly ; you have only to stitch a piece of 
stout stuff on that—don’t you see ? ” 

“ Yes—it would bulge out, though.” 

“ Not if done properly.” 

“ Doesn’t yours ? ” and she bent forward to see. 

“No—mine seems flat enough;” and I further 
turned open the flap of my coat, a little amused at 
her curiosity. The little nimble fingers had half 
drawn out my pocket-book ; and then, looking up, 
she suddenly recollected herself. “Oh, pardon ! pray 
excuse me ! for the moment I forgot—I am so ac¬ 
customed to papa that-” She hesitated, and I 

found nothing to say. Positively for the first time 
in my life the thorn that I was no longer young ran 
its point into me ; of course a girl of that age would 
look upon me as her father—why shouldn’t she ? 

Fearing that my silence would make her think 
that she had offended me, I pulled the note-case out, 
and opened it wide. 

“ You see,” I said, “ that mine is a more portable 
form of money ; ” and I unfolded the roll of crisp 
notes that had been given me at the exchange office. 
But her propriety had evidently taken fright, and 
though she smiled at me, she cast no more than a 
glance in the direction of the money. 

It was but natural that I should give her my arm 
when we were going on board the steamer, where 
I had promised to take care of her ; and never did 
bridegroom, young or old, go more fussily about 
from stem to stern to get every possible thing she 
could want, and ask after every impossible thing to 
obtain for her. A rug, a footstool, a wrap for her 
shoulders—for the wind blew keen, and she had no 
better covering than this thin cloth jacket on— 
nothing was forgotten ; and then down I sat close 
beside her, as happy as any young Tom Noddy of 
eighteen. 

I quite forgot how I had valued the superiority of 
my single estate on other occasions ; it never entered 
my head to wonder what the other passengers 
thought of me ; they might think what they pleased, 
I did not care—sharing the rug between us, and as 
we got further on, an extra wrap too—the enjoy¬ 
ment of the passing hour was enough for me ; a little 
golden head rested on my shoulder, and every now 
and again there smiled up into my face two eyes of 
heavenly blue. 

“You are not frightened ? ” I often whispered. 

“ Not a bit.” 

“ Didn’t I tell you so ?—there is nothing to be 
afraid of on the sea.” 

“ Not like this there isn’t,” she said naively ; “ I 
should not mind going ever so far w T ith you.” 

Although I did not say so, my own inclinations 
echoed the sentiment. 






Keep My Secret. 


“ Is my head too heavy ? Am I leaning too 
much ? ” she asked anxiously. 

“ No ; what makes you suppose so ? ” 

“ Because I hear your heart beating so quickly— 
that is your heart, isn’t it ? ” and she stretched out 
her hand, patting with her fingers gently. 

“ Somewhere about that spot—at least,” I added 
gallantly, “that is where it used to be.” 

“ Isn’t it there now ? ” 

“Well, I am not quite sure ; I was just beginning 
to wonder if it hadn’t strayed off a little way.” 

“ Oh, the wanderer ! ” she exclaimed, laughing ; 
“ I wonder how long it means to be before it comes 
back again.” 

Already on my lips I found a ready answer, which, 
no more than the rest of the conversation, need be 
set down against me ; enough to tell that I sighed 
discontentedly as we reached the shore, and my 
comfort was not increased by the fact that my little 
companion was resolved to go on by the train which 
started as soon as the examination of the luggage 
set us free. In vain I suggested dinner or tea, and 
then going on by the train which followed after— 
she was inexorable. 

“ Perhaps it is arranged that some one will be 
there to meet you ? ” 

“ No ”—she did not expect to be met by anybody. 

“ Then you must let me see you as far as the end 
of your destination in safety.” 

“ Will you ? ” she said gladly—“ but you do not 
know where it is.” 

“ I shall, though, when you tell me. I was going 
to ask you to give me permission to call and inquire 
after you. I thought perhaps that, being a stranger 
in London, you would let me take you to see some 
of the sights there.” 

“ Oh, monsieur ! but you are too kind to me.” 

“ The lady of the school need not know how short 
our acquaintance has been,” I went on warily ; “ she 
can suppose that I am a friend of the family.” 

“ But certainly you are, since you have been so 
good a friend to me.” 

“ Then we’ll arrange our programme during our 
up-journey. And now to get our luggage through 
without delay.” 

“ If we miss I’ll meet you on the platform.” 

“ But we shan’t! ” I was going to give the reason 
why, when the pushing crowd seemed to separate 
her from me, and it was not until the train was 
about to start that we again joined company. 

“ What a fright you gave me,” I exclaimed, when 
by reason of a heavy tip to the guard we were off in 
a carriage without other passengers—“ I thought I 
had lost you.” 

' “ Oh, I saw you all the time. I got my box at 

once, and then I sat down behind some ladies and 
watched you.” 

“ Was yours a wooden box painted in stripes, with 
blue ribbon tied to the handles ? ” 

“ Yes ; did you notice it ? ” 


311 

It was next to impossible not to, but I kept this to 
myself, merely saying, “ Then I shall be able to 
spare you all trouble at Victoria station, and when 
I go for my luggage I can bring yours.” 

“ And I can keep the cab by sitting in it till you 
come. And now about afterwards. When will you 
call for me, and what will you take me to see ? ” 

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling with 
anticipation ; it was the face and air of a happy 
child looking forward to a holiday. 

“ How old are you ? ” I said irrelevantly. 

“ Just over eighteen. Last month was my birthday.” 

“ Is it possible ? Then you are quite a woman.” 

“ They tell me I ought to be. Do you think so 
too ? ” 

“ I think you ought to be as you are”—I could 
have added “ adorable, charming, lovely,” but pru¬ 
dence withheld me ; and without giving me another 
opportunity she launched into her history, telling me, 
as it seemed to occur to her, about her father, his 
means, his disappointments, and finally that her 
name was Sara de Montmorenci. In exchange she 
had to listen to some portions of my history ; that I 
had when almost a boy gone to India ; how I had 
come back, and now was about to return there. I 
grew quite pathetic over the picture I gave of the 
loneliness of my situation ; and it was quite in keep¬ 
ing with the tender disposition of my hearer that she 
should take my hand and on it drop a tear. I 
kissed that tear away, and as I did so my eyes fell 
on her ; her face grew aflame, and feeling it was so, 
with charming artlessness she covered it with her 
hands to hide it from me. 

Ah, well ! journeys such as those seem very short 
ones. I remember this came to an end before I 
thought it possible we had got more than half way. 
The glare from the lights of the station roused me 
from a delicious dream, and I had twice to tell my 
little companion that we had reached the end of our 
journey. The fatigues of the day were telling on 
the poor child—she had fallen asleep, and was still 
drowsy. 

“ You are sure that you think you will know my 
box ?” she murmured. 

“ I will try,” I said confidently, shutting the door of 
the cab in which she was seated, and bidding the driver 
keep a sharp look-out for me ; and away I went, and 
as I turned to go I saw her blow a kiss to me. 

“ I’m so sorry to disturb you.” 

My head was in the cab. At my heels stood an 
irate French-woman, chattering and gesticulating 
about the striped box, whose heavy weight rested on 
the shoulders of a much-enduring porter. A great 
deal of what the foreign lady said was lost to me, 
but I was able to comprehend so much that she 
claimed this luggage as her own ; and, to settle the 
matter, I had brought her along to where I believed 
sat its rightful owner. Full of my difficulty, I was al¬ 
ready launched into explanation when I perceived 





3 12 


1 reasury 

that the cab was empty. Upon the seat stood my 
sticks and umbrellas, but the place which my com¬ 
panion had occupied was filled by the rug only. 

“The young lady has got out, I suppose,” I said 
to the cabman inquiringly. 

“ Not this side, sir, or I should ha’ seed her.” 

It was not very likely that she had got out on the 
other side, where carriages, four-wheelers and han¬ 
soms stood crowded together. 

“You told me to keep a sharp look-out, which 
I’ve done so,” he added ; and then, noticing that I 
was looking about uneasily, he suggested the wait¬ 
ing-room, the refreshment-bar—finally, that she was 
looking about for me. The delay caused by these 
inquiries increased the ire of the French lady con¬ 
siderably ; the porter, too, tired of his burden, began 
to take sides with her, joined by a near-standing 
cabman desirous of obtaining a fare. 

“ What’s she a-saying to him ? ” “ What’s he 

brought her here for ? ” “ Why don’t ye get the 

station-master ? ” 

Quite a crowd had surrounded us, into the midst 
of which an official appeared, asking an explanation. 
To the best of my ability I endeavored to give one. 
“ Yes, but where is the young lady ? ” he said, after 
having listened. 

“ I left her here some ten minutes ago, seated in 
this cab. I suppose she got out, and I fear some¬ 
thing has happened to her.” 

“ Wait a moment, and I’ll get some one to go with 
you and see ; ” and in a few minutes, in company 
of an individual in plain clothes for whom he sent 
I was searching the place over. Not a trace could 
we discover—it was as if the girl had vanished. 

“ Would you like to leave your address, sir ? ” said 
the official, who was evidently disposed to assist me. 

“ I should,” I answered, ready to catch at any ex¬ 
cuse which would take me away from the small 
crowd, among which the wildest surmises were being 
bandied. 

“ I am going to stay in Sackville Street,” I said. 
“ I’ll give you my card, and write the name of the 
hotel upon it.” 

Already my hand was in my breast-pocket, in less 
than an instant I had flung open my coat and 
searched it through ; and then, with a stupid gaze at 
the man before me, I gasped out, “ I have been 
robbed, my note-case is gone—with my money in it.” 

“ Young baggage ! if I didn’t guess as much ! ” ex¬ 
claimed my companion involuntarily. “ We’ve been 
on the look-out for her, unless I’m very much de¬ 
ceived. Not six months ago a similar game was 
played on a gentleman at this very station.” 

Impossible ! it couldn’t be. 

“You are jumping at conclusions too hastily.” I 
was beginning to recover, but his words had struck 
me like a cannon-ball. “ I have no reason on earth to 
suspect this young lady,” I added severely ; “ I have 
her address, and know to whom she was going. The 
loss of the money is a trifle compared to her safety.” 


of Tales. 

Mr. Jones—I had reason afterward to learn his 
name—moved his head in apology. “ Beg pardon, 
sir, I’m sure, if I have spoken hastily,” he said, 
“ but the two circumstances seemed as you may say 
to fit in exactly : she was a young lady going to 
school, and the gentleman—taking care of her as 
you might be—lost sight of her in just the same 
way ; found he’d been robbed, but wouldn’t credit 
that ’twas she who’d taken the money from him. 
She was small, fair, young, with pink and white face, 
and a look as innocent as a baby’s. Don’t answer 
the description in no way ? ”—the wretch saw that I 
was quailing under his scrutiny—“ Well, I’m glad to 
hear it, sir ; thank- you, sir ”—I was turning away— 
“ and if you should happen to want any information 
at any time you’ll find me here ready.” 

“ Drive to Bloomsbury Square, 209.” Miss Lori- 
mer’s—that was the address given me. Need I say 
that the drive was a failure ? Before I asked I felt 
assured the name of Montmorenci was unknown— 
never within the memory of the oldest inhabitant 
had a ladies’ school been kept there : “ Master’s 
lived here himself for nearly thirty years.” 

There was an end then—no need for further 
inquiries—without a doubt I had been cheated, 
robbed, made a dupe of ; there was nothing left but 
to take my quarters at the hotel and laugh at myself 
for my folly. But the misfortune was that I couldn’t 
laugh, strive as I might; my heart was heavy ; 
between me and everything I looked at a face came 
to distract me. Oh ! the thousand mad ideas that 
went coursing through my brain that night, when, 
unable to rest and seized with some wild improb¬ 
ability, I roamed the streets ; denying to myself 
what had brought me out, and fearing to find what I 
had gone to seek for. I remember on my return catch¬ 
ing sight of myself in the glass, and I laughed out¬ 
right, but not because I felt merry. Happily, as the 
day came on, my fever in a measure left me. Reason 
returned, and I could give ear to her precepts. 

I went again to the station, interviewed the wily 
Jones, and invited him to spend a friendly evening 
with me. I wanted to know about the other victim, in 
what manner he had been duped, and the steps he had 
taken. “Wouldn’t take no steps at all,” said Jones 
indignantly ; “ didn’t care a hang for the money, 
all he wanted was to find her.” 

Just so—I knew the feeling exactly, and I fancy 
Mr. Jones guessed as much, for though he aimed his 
arrows at the dupe who was not present, he took 
careful heed that each one should pass through me. 

I thanked Mr. Jones cordially ; I felt very little 
fear that a second time I should ever fall a victim. 
The world of women was evidently terra incognita 
to me, and henceforth, as far as possible, I must try 
and steer clear of them. “Never had a thought of 
love in his life ! ” say they who know me, and have 
never read these confessions, and by them learned 
what a narrow escape I once had from not living and 
dying a bachelor. 











The Denver Express. 


3*3 



THE DENVER EXPRESS. 

A LITTLE STORY FROM THE GREAT PLAINS. 
BY A. A. HAYES. 

!• 

A NY one who has seen an outward bound clip¬ 
per ship getting under way and heard the 
“ shanty-songs ” sung by the sailors as they 
toiled at capstan and halliards, will probably remem¬ 
ber that rhymeless but melodious refrain— 

“I’m bound to see its muddy waters 
Yeo ho ! that rolling river ; 

Bound to see its muddy waters 
Yeo ho ! the wild Missouri.” 

Only a happy inspiration could have impelled 
Jack to apply the adjective “wild” to that ill- 
behaved and disreputable river which, tipsily bearing 
its enormous burden of mud from the far North¬ 
west, totters, reels, runs its tortuous course for 
hundreds on hundreds of miles ; and which, encoun¬ 
tering the lordly and thus far well-behaved Missis¬ 
sippi at Alton, and forcing its company upon this 
splendid river (as if some drunken fellow should 
lock arms with a dignified pedestrian) contaminates 
it all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. 

At a certain point on the banks of this river, or 
rather—as it has the habit of abandoning and de¬ 
stroying said banks—at a safe distance therefrom, 
there is a town from which a railroad takes its de¬ 
parture for its long climb up the natural incline of 
the Great Plains, to the base of the mountains ; hence 
the importance to this town of the large but some¬ 
what shabby building serving as terminal station. 
In its smoky interior, late in the evening and not 
very long ago, a train was nearly ready to start. It 
was a train possessing a certain consideration. For the 
benefit of a public easily gulled and enamored of 
grandiloquent terms, it was advertised as the “ Den¬ 
ver Fast Express ; ” sometimes, with strange unfit¬ 
ness, as the “ Lightning Express ” ; “ elegant ” and 
“ palatial ” cars were declared to be included therein ; 
and its departure was one of the great events of the 
twenty-four hours, in the country round about. A 
local poet described it in the “ live ” paper of the 
town, cribbing from an old Eastern magazine and 
passing off as original, the lines— 


“ Again we stepped into the street, 

A train came thundering by, 

Drawn by the snorting iron steed 
Swifter than eagles fly. 

Rumbled the wheels, the whistle shrieked, 

Far rolled the smoky cloud, 

Echoed the hills, the valleys shook, 

The flying forests bowed.” 

The trainmen, on the other hand, used no fine 
phrases. They called it simply “Number Seven¬ 
teen”; and, when it started, said it had “pulled 
out.” 

On the evening in question, there it stood, nearly 
ready. Just behind the great hissing locomotive, with 
its parabolic headlight and its coal-laden tender, came 
the baggage, mail and express cars ; then the pas¬ 
senger coaches, in which the social condition of the 
occupants seemed to be in inverse ratio to their dis¬ 
tance from the engine. First came emigrants, 
“honest miners,” “cow-boys” and laborers ; Irishmen, 
Germans, Welshmen, Mennonites from Russia, quaint 
of garb and speech, and Chinamen. Then came 
long cars full of people of better station, and last the 
great Pullman “ sleepers,” in which the busy black 
porters were making up the berths for well-to-do 
travelers of diverse nationalities and occupations. 

It was a curious study for a thoughtful observer, 
this motley crowd of human beings sinking all differ¬ 
ences of race, creed, and habits in the common pur¬ 
pose to move Westward,—to the mountain fastnesses, 
the sage-brush deserts, the Golden Gate. 

The warning bell had sounded, and the fireman 
leaned far out for the signal. The gong struck 
sharply, the conductor shouted, “ All aboard ” and 
raised his hand ; the tired ticket-seller shut his win¬ 
dow, and the train moved out of the station, gathered 
way as it cleared the outskirts of the town, rounded 
a curve, entered on an absolutely straight line, and, 
with one long whistle from the engine, settled down 
to its work. Through the night hours it sped on, 
past lonely ranches and infrequent stations, by and 
across shallow streams fringed with cottonwood 
trees, over the greenish-yellow buffalo grass ; near 
the old trail where many a poor emigrant, many a 
bold frontiersman, many a brave soldier, had laid 
his bones but a short time before. 

Familiar as they may be, there is something 









































































314 Treasury of Tales. 


strangely impressive about all night journeys by 
rail ; and those forming part of an American trans¬ 
continental trip are almost weird. From the win¬ 
dows of a night-express in Europe, or the older 
portions of the United States, one looks on houses 
and lights, cultivated fields, fences and hedges ; 
and, hurled as he may be through the darkness, he 
has a sense of companionship and semi-security. 
Far different is it when the long train is running 
over those two rails which, seen before night set in, 
seemed to meet on the horizon. Within, all is as if 
between two great seaboard cities ;—the neatly 
dressed people, the uniformed officials, the handsome 
fittings, the various appliances for comfort. With¬ 
out are now long, dreary levels, now deep and wild 
canons, now an environment of strange and gro¬ 
tesque rock-formations, castles, battlements, churches, 
statues. The antelope fleetly runs, and the coyote 
skulks away from the track, and the gray wolf howls 
afar off. It is for all the world, to one’s fancy, as if 
a bit of civilization, a family or community, its 
belongings and surroundings complete, were flying 
through regions barbarous and inhospitable. 

From the cab of Engine No. 32, the driver of the 
Denver Express saw, showing faintly in the early 
morning, the buildings grouped about the little sta¬ 
tion ten miles ahead, where breakfast awaited his 
passengers. He looked at his watch ; he had just 
twenty minutes in which to run the' distance, as he 
had run it often before. Something, however, 
travelled faster than he. From the smoky station 
out of which the train passed the night before, along 
the slender wire stretched on rough poles at the side 
of the track, a spark of that mysterious something 
which we call electricity flashed at the moment he 
returned the watch to his pocket ; and in five min¬ 
utes’ time, the station-master came out on the plat¬ 
form, a little more thoughtful than his wont, and 
looked eastward for the smoke of the train. With 
but three of the passengers in that train has this 
tale specially to do, and they were all in the new 
and comfortable Pullman “ City of Cheyenne.” One 
was a tall well-made man of about thirty,—blonde, 
blue-eyed, bearded, straight, sinewy, alert. Of all 
in the train he seemed the most thoroughly at home, 
and the respectful greeting of the conductor, as he 
passed through the car, marked him as an officer of 
the road. Such was he—Henry Sinclair, assistant 
engineer, quite famed on the line, high in favor with 
the directors, and a rising man in all ways. It was 
known on the road that he was expected in Denver, 
and there were rumors that he was to organize the 
parties for the survey of an important “extension.” 
Beside him sat his pretty young wife. She was a 
New Yorker—one could tell at first glance—from the 
feather of her little bonnet, matching the gray trav¬ 
elling dress, to the tips of her dainty boots ; and one, 
too, at whom old Fifth Avenue promenaders would 
have turned to look. She had a charming figure, 
brown hair, hazel eyes, and an expression at once 


kind, intelligent and spirited. She had cheerfully 
left a luxurious home to follow the young engineer’s 
fortunes ; and it was well known that those fortunes 
had been materially advanced by her tact and clev¬ 
erness. 

The third passenger in question had just been in 
conversation with Sinclair, and the latter was telling 
his wife of their curious meeting. Entering the 
toilet room at the rear of the car, he said, he had 
begun his ablutions by the side of another man, 
and it was as they were sluicing their faces with 
water that he heard the cry : 

“Why, Major, is that you? Just to think of 
meeting you here ! ” 

A man of about twenty-eight years of age, slight, 
muscular, wiry, had seized his wet hand and was 
wringing it. He had black eyes, keen and bright, 
swarthy complexion, black hair and moustache. A 
keen observer might have seen about him some signs 
of a jeunesse orageuse , but his manner was frank and 
pleasing. Sinclair looked him in the face, puzzled 
for a moment. 

“ Don’t you remember Foster ? ” asked the man. 

“Of course I do,” replied Sinclair. “For a mo¬ 
ment I could not place you. Where have you been 
and what have you been doing ? ” 

“ Oh,” replied Foster, laughing, “I’ve braced up 
and turned over a new leaf. I’m a respectable mem¬ 
ber of society, have a place in the express company 
and am going to Denver to take charge.” 

“ I am very glad to hear it, and you must tell me 
your story, when we have had our breakfast.” 

The pretty young woman was just about to ask 
who Foster was, when the speed of the train slack¬ 
ened, and the brakeman opened the door of the car 
and cried out in stentorian tones : 

“ Pawnee Junction ; twenty minutes for refresh¬ 
ments ! ” 

II. 

When the celebrated Rocky Mountain gold ex¬ 
citement broke out, more than twenty years ago, and 
people painted “ Pike’s Peak or Bust ” on the 
canvas covers of their wagons and started for the 
diggings, they established a “ trail ” or “ trace ” lead¬ 
ing in a southwesterly direction from the old one to 
California. 

At a certain point on this trail a frontiersman 
named Barker built a forlorn ranch-house and corral 
and offered what is conventionally called “ entertain¬ 
ment for man and beast.” 

For years he lived there, dividing his time be¬ 
tween fighting the Indians and feeding the passing 
emigrants and their stock. Then the first railroad 
to Denver was built, taking another route from the 
Missouri, and Barker’s occupation was gone. He 
retired with his gains to St. Louis and lived in com¬ 
fort. 

Years passed on and the “extension ” over which 
our train is to pass was planned. The old pioneers 
were excellent natural engineers, and their successors 







3 i 5 


The Denver Express. 


could find no better route than they had chosen. 
Thus it was that “Barker’s” became, during the 
•construction period, an important point, and the 
frontiersman’s name came to figure on time-tables. 
Meanwhile the place passed through a process of 
•evolution which would have delighted Darwin. In 
the party of engineers which first camped there was 
Sinclair, and it was by his advice that the contract¬ 
ors selected it for division headquarters. Then 
came drinking “ saloons,” and gambling-houses— 
alike the inevitable concomitant and the bane of 
western settlements; then scattered houses and 
shops, and a shabby so-called hotel, in which the 
letting of miserable rooms (divided from each other 
by canvas partitions) was wholly subordinated to the 
business of the bar. Bdfore long, Barker’s had ac¬ 
quired a worse reputation than even other towns of 
its type, the abnormal and uncanny aggregations 
-of squalor and vice which dotted the plains in those 
days ; and it was at its worst when Sinclair returned 
thither and took up his quarters in the engineers’ 
building. The passion for gambling was raging, 
and to pander thereto were collected as choice a lot 
of desperadoes as ever “ stocked ” cards or loaded 
dice. It came to be noticed that they were on ex¬ 
cellent terms with a man called “Jeff” Johnson, who 
was lessee of the hotel; and to be suspected that 
said Johnson, in local parlance, “stood in with” 
them. With this man had come to Barker’s his 
daughter Sarah, commonly known as “ Sally,” a hand¬ 
some girl with a straight, lithe figure, fine features, 
reddish auburn hair and dark blue eyes. It is but 
fair to say that even the “ toughs ” of a place like 
Barker’s show some respect for the other sex, and 
Miss Sally’s case was no exception to the rule. The 
male population admired her ; they said she “ put 
on heaps of style but none of them had seemed to 
make any progress in her good graces. 

On a pleasant afternoon, just after the track had 
been laid some miles west of Barker’s, and construc¬ 
tion trains were running with some regularity to and 
from the end thereof, Sinclair sat on the rude ve¬ 
randa of the engineers’ quarters, smoking his well- 
•colored meerschaum and looking at the sunset. The 
atmosphere had been so clear during the day that 
glimpses were had of Long’s and Pike’s Peaks, and 
as the young engineer gazed at the gorgeous cloud- 
display he was thinking of the miners’ quaint and 
pathetic idea that the dead “go over the Range.” 

“ Nice looking, ain’t it, Major ? ” asked a voice at 
his elbow, and he turned to see one of the contrac¬ 
tors’ officials taking a seat near him. 

“ More than nice-looking, to my mind, Sam,” he 
replied. “ What is the news to-day ? ” 

“ Nothin’ much. There’s a sight of talk about 
the doins of them faro an’ keno sharps. The boys 
is gittin’ kind o’ riled, fur they allow the game ain’t 
on the square wuth a cent. Some of ’em down to 
the tie-camp wuz a-talkin’ about a vigilance com¬ 
mittee, an’ I wouldn’t be surprised ef they meant bus¬ 


iness. Hev yer heard about the young feller that 
come in a week ago from Laramie an’ set up a new 
faro-bank ? ” 

“ No. What about him ? ” 

“ Wa’al, yer see he’s a feller thet’s got a lot of sand 
an’ ain’t afeared of nobody, an’ he’s allowed to hev 
the deal to his place on the square every time. Ac¬ 
cordin’ to my idee, gamblin’s about the wust racket 
a feller kin work, but it takes all sorts of men to 
make a world, an’ ef the boys is bound to hev a 
game, I calkilate they’d like to patronize his bank. 
Thet’s made the old crowd mighty mad, an’ they’re 
a-talkin’ about puttin’ up a job of cheatin’ on him 
an’ then stringin’ him up. Besides, I kind o’ think 
there’s some cussed jealousy on another lay as 
comes in. Yer see the young feller—Cyrus Foster’s 
his name—is sweet on thet gal of Jeff Johnson’s. Jeff 
wuz to Laramie before he come here, an’ Foster 
knowed Sally up thar. I allow he moved here 
to see her. Hello ! If thar they aint a-comin’ 
now.” 

Down a path leading from the town, past the rail¬ 
road buildings, and well on the prairie, Sinclair saw 
the girl walking with the “young feller.” He was 
talking earnestly to her, and her eyes were cast 
down. She looked pretty and, in a way, graceful ; 
and there was in her attire a noticeable attempt at 
neatness, and a faint reminiscence of by-gone 
fashions. A smile came to Sinclair’s lips as he 
thought of a couple walking up Fifth Avenue during 
his leave of absence not many months before, and 
of a letter, many times read, lying at that moment in 
his breast-pocket. 

“ Papa’s bark is worse than his bite,” ran one of 
its sentences. “ Of course he does not like the idea 
of my leaving him and going away to such dreadful 
and remote places as Denver and Omaha, and I 
don’t know what else ; but he will not oppose me in 
the end, and when you come on again-” 

“ By thunder ! ” exclaimed Sam ; “ ef thar ain’t 
one of them cussed sharps a-watchin’ ’em.” 

Sure enough, a rough-looking fellow, his hat pulled 
over his eyes, half-concealed behind a pile of lum¬ 
ber, was casting a sinister glance toward the pair. 

“ The gal’s well enough,” continued Sam ; “but I 
don’t take a cent’s wuth of stock in thet thar father 
of her’n. He’s in with them sharps, sure pop, an’ 
it don’t suit his book to hev Foster hangin’ round. 
It’s ten to one he sent that cuss to watch ’em. Wa’al, 
they’re a queer lot, an’ I’m afeared thar’s plenty of 
trouble ahead among ’em. Good luck to you, 
Major,” and he pushed back his chair and walked 
away. 

After breakfast next morning, when Sinclair was 
sitting at the table in his office, busy with maps and 
plans, the door was thrown open and Foster, pant¬ 
ing for breath, ran in. 

“ Major Sinclair,” he said, speaking with difficulty, 
“ I’ve no claim on you, but I ask you to protect me. 
The other gamblers are going to hang me. They 






Treasury of Tales . 


316 

are more than ten to one. They will track me here, 
and unless you harbor me, I’m a dead man.” 

Sinclair rose from his chair in a second and 
walked to the window. A party of men were ap¬ 
proaching the building. He turned to Foster : 

“I do not like your trade,” said he ; “but I will 
not see you murdered if I can help it. You are 
welcome here.” Foster said “Thank you,” stood 
still a moment, and then began to pace the room, 
rapidly clenching his hands, his whole frame quiver¬ 
ing, his eyes flashing fire—“ for all the world,” Sin¬ 
clair said, in telling the story afterward, “ like a 
fierce caged tiger.” 

“ My God ! ” he muttered, with concentrated in¬ 
tensity, “ to be trapped , trapped, like this ! ” 

Sinclair stepped quickly to the door of his bed¬ 
room and motioned Foster to enter. Then there 
came a knock at the outer door, and he opened it 
and stood on the threshold, erect and firm. Half-a- 
dozen “ toughs ” faced him. 

“ Major,” said their spokesman, “ we want that 
man.” 

“You cannot have him, boys.” 

“ Major, we’re a-goin’ to take him.” 

“You had better not try,” said Sinclair, with per¬ 
fect ease and self-possession, and in a pleasant voice. 
“ I have given him shelter, and you can only get him 
over my dead body. Of course you can kill me, but 
you won’t do even that without one or two of you 
going down ; and then you know perfectly well, 
boys, what will happen. You that if you lay 
your finger on a railroad man it’s all up with you. 
There are five hundred men in the graders’ camp, 
not five miles away, and you don’t need to be told 
that in less than one hour after they get word there 
won’t be a piece of one of you big enough to 
bury.” 

The men made no reply. They looked him 
straight in the eyes for a moment. Had they seen 
a sign of flinching they might have risked the issue, 
but there was none. With muttered curses, they 
slunk away. Sinclair shut and bolted the door, 
then opened the one leading to the bedroom. 

“Foster,” he said, “the train will pass here in 
half an hour. Have you money enough ? ” 

“ Plenty, Major.” 

“Very well ; keep perfectly quiet, and I will try 
to get you safely off.” He went to an adjoining 
room and called Sam, the contractor’s man. He 
took in the situation at a glance. 

“ Wa’al, Foster,” said he, “ kind ’o ‘ close call ’ for 
yer, warn’t it ? Guess yer’d better be gittin’ up an’ 
gittin’ pretty lively. The train boys will take yer 
through, an’ yer kin come back when this racket’s 
worked out.” 

Sinclair glanced at his watch, then he walked to 
the window and looked out. On a small mesa , or 
elevated plateau, commanding the path to the rail¬ 
road, he saw a number of men with rifles. 

“Just as I expected,” s'aid he. “ Sam, ask one of 


the boys to go down to the track and, when the train 
arrives, tell the conductor to come here.” 

In a few minutes the whistle was heard, and the 
conductor entered the building. Receiving his in¬ 
structions, he returned, and immediately on engine, 
tender and platform appeared the trainmen, with 
their rifles covering the group on the bluff. Sinclair 
put on his hat. 

“Now, Foster,” said he, “we have no time to 
lose. Take Sam’s arm and mine, and walk between 
us.” 

The trio left the building and walked deliberately 
to the railroad. Not a word was spoken. Besides 
the men in sight on the train, two behind the win¬ 
dow-blinds of the one passenger-coach, and unseen, 
kept their fingers on the triggers of their repeating 
carbines. It seemed a long time, counted by anxious 
seconds, until Foster was safe in the coach. 

“All ready, conductor,” said Sinclair. “Now, 
Foster, good-bye. I am not good at lecturing, but 
if I were you, I would make this the turning-point 
in my life.” 

Foster was much moved. 

“ I will do it, Major,” said he ; “ and I shall never 
forget what you have done for me to-day. I am 
sure we shall meet again.” 

With another shriek from the whistle the train 
started. Sinclair and Sam saw the men quietly re¬ 
turning the firearms to their places as it gathered 
way. Then they walked back to their quarters. 
The men on the mesa , balked of their purpose, had 
withdrawn. 

Sam accompanied Sinclair to his door and then 
sententiously remarked: “ Major, I think I’ll light out 
and find some of the boys. You ain’t got no call to 
know anything about it, but I allow^ it’s about time 
them cusses was bounced.” 

Three nights after this, a powerful party of Vigi¬ 
lantes, stern and inexorable, made a raid on all the 
gambling-dens, broke the tables and apparatus, and 
conducted the men to a distance from the town, 
where they left them with an emphatic and concise 
warning as to the consequences of any attempt to 
return. An exception was made in Jeff Johnson’s case, 
—but only for the sake of his daughter,—for it was 
found that many a “ little game ” had been carried 
on in his house. 

Ere long he found it convenient to sell his busi¬ 
ness and retire to a town some miles to the eastward, 
where the railroad influence was not as strong as at 
Barker’s. At about this time, Sinclair made his ar¬ 
rangements to go to New York, with the pleasant 
prospect of marrying the young lady in Fifth Avenue. 
In due time he arrived at Barker’s with his young 
and charming wife and remained for some days. 
The changes were astounding. Common-place re¬ 
spectability had replaced abnormal lawlessness. A 
neat station stood where had been the rough con¬ 
tractors’ buildings. At a new “ Windsor ” (or was 
it “ Brunswick ? ”) the performance of the kitchen 




3 i 7 


The Denver Express. 


contrasted sadly (alas ! how common is such contrast 
in these regions) with the promise of the menu. 
There was a tawdry theatre yclept “ Academy of 
Music, ” and there was not much to choose in the 
way of ugliness between two “ meeting-houses.” 

“ Upon my word, my dear,” said Sinclair to his wife, 
“ I ought to be ashamed to say it, but I prefer 
Barker’s au nature!.” 

One evening, just before the young people left 
the town, and as Mrs. Sinclair sat alone in her room, 
the frowsy waitress announced “ a lady,” and was 
requested to bid her enter. A woman came with 
timid mien into the room, sat down, as invited, and 
removed her veil. Of course the young bride had 
never known Sally Johnson, the whilom belle of 
Barker’s, but her husband would have noticed at a 
glance how greatly she was changed from the girl 
who walked with Foster past the engineers’ quarters. 
It would be hard to find a more striking contrast 
than was presented by the two women as they sat 
facing each other : the one in the flush of health and 
beauty, calm, sweet, self-possessed ; the other still 
retaining some of the shabby finery of old days, but 
pale and haggard, with black rings under her eyes, 
and a pathetic air of humiliation. 

“ Mrs. Sinclair,” she hurriedly began, “ you do 
not know me, nor the like of me. I’ve got no right 
to speak to you, but I couldn’t help it. Oh ! please 
believe me, I am not real downright bad. I’m Sally 
Johnson, daughter of a man whom they drove out of 
the town. My mother died when I was little, and I 
never had a show ; and folks think because I live 
with my father, and he makes me know the crowd 
he travels with, that I must be in with them, and be 
of their sort. I never had a woman speak a kind 
word to me, and I’ve had so much trouble that I’m 
just drove wild, and like to kill myself ; and then I 
was at the station when you came in and I saw your 
sweet face and the kind look in your eyes, and it 
came in my heart that I’d speak to you if I died for 
it.” She leaned eagerly forward, her hands ner¬ 
vously closing on the back of a chair. “ I suppose 
your husband never told you of me ; like enough he 
never knew me ; but I’ll never forget him as long as 
I live. When he was here before, there was a young 
man ”—here a faint color came in the wan cheeks— 
“ who was fond of me, and I thought the world of 
him, and my father was down on him, and the men 
that father was in with wanted to kill him ; and Mr. 
Sinclair saved his life. He’s gone away, and I’ve 
waited and waited for him to come back—and per¬ 
haps I’ll never see him again. But oh ! dear lady, I’ll 
never forget what your husband did. He’s a good 
man and he deserves the love of a dear good woman 
like you, and if I dared, I’d pray for you both, night 
and day.” 

She stopped suddenly and sank back in her seat, 
pale as before and as if frightened by her own emo¬ 
tion. Mrs. Sinclair had listened with sympathy and 
increasing interest. 


“ My poor girl,” she said, speaking tenderly (she 
had a lovely, soft voice) and with slightly heightened 
color, “ I am delighted that you came to see me, and 
that my husband was able to help you. Tell me, can 
we not do more for you ? 1 do not for one moment 

believe you can be happy with your present sur¬ 
roundings. Can we not assist you to leave them ?” 

The girl rose, sadly shaking her head. “ I thank 
you for your words,” she said. “ I don’t suppose I’ll 
ever see you again, but I’ll say, God bless you ! ” 

She caught Mrs. Sinclair’s hand, pressed it to her 
lips and was gone. 

Sinclair found his wife very thoughtful when he 
came home, and he listened with much interest to her 
story. 

“ Poor girl !” said he ; “ Foster is the man to help 
her I wonder where he is ? I must inquire about 
him.” 

The next day, they proceeded on their way to San 
Francisco, and matters drifted on at Barker’s much 
as before. Johnson had, after an absence of some 
months, come back and lived without molestation, 
amid the shifting population. Now and then, too, 
some of the older residents fancied they recognized, 
under slouched sombreros, the faces of some of his 
former “ crowd ” about the “ Ranchman’s Home,” as 
his gaudy saloon was called. 

On the very evening on which this story opens, 
and they were “ making up ” the Denver Express in 
the train-house on the Missouri, “Jim” Watkins, 
agent and telegrapher at Barker’s, was sitting in his 
little office, communicating with the station rooms 
by the ticket window. Jim was a cool, silent, effi¬ 
cient man, and not much given to talk about such 
episodes in his past life as the “wiping out” by In¬ 
dians of the construction party to which he belonged, 
and his own rescue by the scouts. He was smoking 
an old and favorite pipe, and talking with one of “ the 
boys” whose head appeared at the wicket. On a 
seat in the station sat a woman in a black dress and 
veil, apparently waiting for a train. 

“ Got a heap of letters and telegrams there, ain’t 
yer, Jim ? ” remarked the man at the window. 

“ Yes,” replied Jim; “ they’re for Engineer Sinclair, 
to be delivered to him when he passes through here. 
He leaves on No. 17, to-night.” The inquirer did 
not notice the sharp start of the woman near him. 

“ Is that good-lookin’ wife of his’n a cornin’ with 
him ? ” asked he. 

“Yes, there’s letters for her, too.” 

“ Well, good-night, Jim. See yer later,” and he 
went out. The woman suddenly rose and ran to the 
window. 

“ Mr. Watkins,” cried she, “ can I see you for a 
few moments, where no one can interrupt us ? It’s 
a matter of life and death.” She clutched the sill 
with her thin hands and her voice trembled. Wat¬ 
kins recognized Sally Johnson in a moment. He 
unbolted a door, motioned her to enter, closed and 
again bolted it, and also closed the ticket window. 






Treasury of Tales. 


318 

Then he pointed to a chair, and the girl sat down and 
leaned eagerly forward. 

“ If they knew I was here,” she said in a hoarse 
whisper, “ my life wouldn’t be safe five minutes. I 
was waiting to tell you a terrible story, and then I 
heard who was on the train due here to-morrow 
night. Mr. Watkins, don’t, for God’s sake, ask me 
how I found out, but I hope to die if I ain’t telling 
you the living truth ! They’re going to wreck that 
train—No. 17—at Dead Man’s Crossing, fifteen miles 
east, and rob the passengers and the express car. 
It’s the worst gang in the country, Perry's. They’re 
going to throw the train off the track, the passengers 
will be maimed and killed,—and Mr. Sinclair and 
his wife on the cars ! Oh ! My God ! Mr. Watkins, 
send them warning ! ” 

She stood upright, her face deadly pale, her 
hands clasped. Watkins walked deliberately to the 
railroad map which hung on the wall and scanned it. 
Then he resumed his seat, laid his pipe down, fixed 
his eyes on the girl’s face, and began to question her. 
At the same time his right hand, with which he had 
held the pipe, found its way to the telegraph key. 
None but an expert could have distinguished any 
change in the clicking of the instrument, which had 
been almost incessant; but Watkins had “ called ” 
the head office on the Missouri. In two minutes the 
“sounder” rattled out u All right! What is it l" 

Watkins went on with his questions, his eyes still 
fixed on the poor girl’s face, and all the time his 
fingers, as it were, playing with the key. If he were 
imperturbable, so was not a man sitting at a receiv¬ 
ing instrument nearly five hundred miles away. He 
had “ taken ” but a few words when he jumped from 
his chair and cried : 

“ Shut that door, and call the superintendent and 
be quick ! Charley, brace up—lively—and come and 
write this out ! ” With his wonderful electric pen, 
the handle several hundreds of miles long, Watkins, 
unknown to his interlocutor, was printing in the 
Morse alphabet this startling message : 

“ Inform n rec'd Perry gang going to throw No. 17 
off track near—xth mile post, this division , about nine 
to-morrow ( Thursday ) flight, kill passengers, and rob ex¬ 
press and mail. Am alone here. No chance to verify 
story, but believe it to be on square. Better make ar¬ 
rangements from your end to block game. No Sheriff 
here now. Answer .” 

The superintendent, responding to the hasty sum¬ 
mons, heard the message before the clerk had time 
to write it out. His lips were closely compressed as 
he put his own hand on the key and sent these 
laconic sentences : “ O. K. Keep perfectly dark. 

Will manage from this end." 

Watkins, at Barker’s, rose from his seat, opened 
the door a little way, saw that the station was empty, 
and then said to the girl, brusquely, but kindly : 

“ Sally, you’ve done the square thing, and saved 
that train. I’ll take care that you don’t suffer and 


that you get well paid. Now come home with me, 
and my wife will look out for you.” 

“Oh ! no.” cried the girl, shrinking back, “I must 
run away. You’re mighty kind, but I daren’t go 
with you.” Detecting a shade of doubt in his eye, 
she added : “ Don’t be afeared ; I’ll die before they’ll 
know I’ve given them away to you ! ” and she disap¬ 
peared in the darkness. 

At the other end of the wire, the superintendent 
had quietly impressed secrecy on his operator and 
clerk, ordered his fast mare harnessed, and gone to 
his private office. 

“ Read that! ” said he to his secretary. “ It was 
about time for some trouble of this kind, and now 
I’m going to let Uncle Sam take care of his mails. 
If I don’t get to the reservation before the General’s 
turned in, I shall have to wake him up. Wait for 
me, please.” 

The gray mare made the six miles to the military 
reservation in just half an hour. The General was 
smoking his last cigar, and was alert in an instant ; 
and before the superintendent had finished the jorum 
of “hot Scotch” hospitably tendered, the orders had 

gone by wire to the commanding officer at Fort-, 

some distance east of Barker’s, and been duly ac¬ 
knowledged. 

Returning to the station, the superintendent re¬ 
marked to the waiting secretary : 

“ The General’s all right. Of course we can’t tell 
that this is not a sell ; but if those Perry hounds 
mean business they’ll get all the fight they want; 
and if they’ve got any souls,—which I doubt,—may 
the Lord have mercy on them ! ” 

He prepared several despatches, two of which 
were as follows : 

“ Mr. Henry Sinclair : 

“ On No. 17, Pawnee Junction : 

This telegram your authority to take charge of train 
on which you are and demand obedience of all officials 
and trainmen on road. Please do so , and act in accord¬ 
ance with information wired station agent at Pawnee 
Junction .” 

To the Station Agent: 

“ Reported Perry gang will try wreck and rob No. 17 
near—xth mile post, Denver Division , about nine 

Thursday night. Troops will await train at Fort -. 

Car ordered ready for them. Keep everything secret T 
and act in accordance with orders of Mr. Sinclair." 

“ It’s worth about ten thousand dollars,” senten- 
tiously remarked he, “that Sinclair’s on that train. 
He’s got both sand and brains. Good-night,” and 
he went to bed and slept the sleep of the just. 

III. 

The sun never shone more brightly and the air 
was never more clear and bracing than when Sin¬ 
clair helped his wife off the train at Pawnee Junction. 
The station-master’s face fell as he saw the lady, 
but he saluted the engineer with as easy an air as he 
could assume, and watched for an opportunity to 
speak to him alone. Sinclair read the despatches 






The Denver Express. 


3 i 9 


with an unmoved countenance, and after a few min¬ 
utes’ reflection, simply said : “ All right. Be sure to 
keep the matter perfectly quiet.” At breakfast he 
was distrait —so much so that his wife asked him 
what was the matter. Taking her aside, he at once 
showed her the telegrams. 

“ You see my duty,” he said. “ My only thought is 
about you, my dear child. Will you stay here ? ” 

She simply replied, looking into his face without 
a tremor : 

“ My place is with you.” Then the conductor 
called “All aboard,” and the train once more 
started. 

Sinclair asked Foster to join him in the smoking- 
compartment and tell him the promised story, which 
the latter did. His rescue at Barker’s, he frankly 
and gratefully said, had been the turning-point in 
his life. In brief, he had “ sworn off ” from gam¬ 
bling and drinking, had found honest employment, 
and was doing well. 

“ I’ve two things to do now, Major,” he added: 
“ first, I must show my gratitude; to you; and next—” 
he hesitated a little—“ I want to find that poor girl 
that I left behind at Barker’s. She was engaged to 
marry me, and when I came to think of it, and 
what a life I’d have made her lead, I hadn’t the 
heart till now to look for her ; but, seeing I’m on the 
right track, I’m going to find her, and get her to 

come with me. Her father’s a-old scoundrel, but 

that ain’t her fault, and I ain’t going to marry him.” 

“Foster,” quietly asked Sinclair, “do you know 
the Perry gang ? ” 

The man’s brow darkened. 

“ Know them ?” said he. “ I kbow them much too 
well. Perry is as ungodly a cutthroat as ever killed 
an emigrant in cold blood, and he’s got in his gang 
nearly all those hounds that tried to hang me. Why 
do you ask, Major ? ” 

Sinclair handed him the despatches. “You are the 
only man on the train to whom I have shown them,” 
said he. 

Foster read them slowly, his eyes lighting up as 
he did so. “ Looks as if it was true,” said he. “ Let 

me see ! Fort-. Yes, that’s the—th infantry. 

Two of their boys were killed at Sidney last summer 
by some of the same gang, and the regiment’s sworn 
vengeance. ' Major, if this story’s on the square, that 
crowd’s goose is cooked, and don't you forget it! I 
say, you must give me a hand in.” 

“ Foster,” said Sinclair, “ I am going to put 
responsibility on your shoulders. I have no doubt 
that, if we be attacked, the soldiers will dispose of 
the gang ; but I must take all possible precautions for 
the safety of the passengers. We must not alarm 
them.* They can be made to think that the troops 
are going on a scout, and only a certain number of 
resolute men need be told of what we expect. Can 
you, late this afternoon, go through the cars, and 
pick them out ? I will then put you in charge of the 
passenger cars, and you can post your men on the 


platforms to act in case of need. My place will be 
ahead.” 

“Major, you can depend on me,” was Foster’s re¬ 
ply. “ I’ll go through the train and have my eye on 
some boys of the right sort, and that’s got their shoot¬ 
ing-irons with them.” 

Through the hours of that day on rolled the train, 
still over the crisp buffalo grass, across the well- 
worn buffalo trails, past the prairie-dog villages. 
The passengers chatted, dozed, played cards, read, 
all unconscious, with the exception of three, of the 
coming conflict between the good and the evil forces 
bearing on their fate ; of the fell preparations mak¬ 
ing for their disaster ; of the grim preparations mak¬ 
ing to avert such disaster ; of all of which the little 
wires alongside of them had been talking back and 
forth. Watkins had telegraphed that he still saw no 
reason to doubt the good faith of his warning, and 
Sinclair had reported his receipt of authority and 
his acceptance thereof. Meanwhile, also, there had 
been set in motion a measure of that power to which 
appeal is so reluctantly made in time of peace. At 

Fort -, a lonely post on the plains, the orders 

had that morning been issued for twenty men under 
Lieutenant Halsey to parade at 4 p. m., with over¬ 
coats, two days’ rations, and ball cartridges ; also 
for Assistant Surgeon Kesler to report for duty with 
the party. Orders as to destination were communi¬ 
cated direct to the lieutenant from the post comman¬ 
der, and on the minute the little column moved, tak¬ 
ing the road to the station. The regiment from which 
it came had been in active service among the Indians 
on the frontier for a long time, and the officers and 
men were tried and seasoned fighters. Lieutenant 
Halsey had been well known at the West Point balls 
as the “leader of the german.” From the last of 
these balls he had gone straight to the field, and 
three years had given him an enviable reputation 
for sang froid and determined bravery. He looked, 
every inch the soldier as he walked along the trail 
his cloak thrown back and his sword tucked under 
his arm. The doctor, who carried a Modoc bullet in 
some inaccessible part of his scarred body, growled 
good-naturedly at the need of walking, and the men, 
enveloped in their army-blue overcoats, marched 
easily by fours. Reaching the station, the lieuten¬ 
ant called the agent aside, and with him inspected, 
on a siding, a long platform car on which benches 
had been placed and secured. Then he took his 
seat in the station and quietly waited, occasionally 
twisting his long blonde moustache. The doctor took 
a cigar with the agent and the men walked about or 
sat on the edge of the platform. One of them, who 
obtained a surreptitious glance at his silent com¬ 
mander, told his companions that there was trouble 
ahead for somebody. 

“ That’s just the way the leftenant looked, boys,” 
said he, “ when we was laying for them Apaches 
that raided Jones’s Ranch and killed the women 
and little children.” 







320 


Treasury of Tales . 


In a short time the officer looked at his watch, 
formed his men, and directed them to take their 
places-on the seats of the car. They had hardly 
done so, when the whistle of the approaching train 
was heard. When it came up, the conductor, who 
had his instructions from Sinclair, had the engine 
detached and backed on the siding for the soldiers’ 
car, which thus came between it and the foremost 
baggage-car, when the train was again made up. 
As arranged, it was announced that the troops were 
to be taken a certain distance to join a scouting 
party, and the curiosity of the passengers was but 
slightly excited. The soldiers sat quietly in their 
seats, their repeating rifles held between their knees, 
and the officer in front. Sinclair joined the latter 
and had a few words with him as the train moved 
on. A little later, when the stars were shining 
brightly overhead, they passed into the express car, 
and sent for the conductor and other trainmen, and 
for Foster. In a few words Sinclair explained the 
position of affairs. His statement was received with 
perfect coolness, and the men only asked what they 
were to do. 

“ I hope, boys,” said Sinclair, “that we are going 
to put this gang to-night where they will make no 
more trouble. Lieutenant Halsey will bear the 
brunt of the fight, and it only remains for you to 
stand by the interests committed to your care. Mr. 
Express Agent, what help do you want ? ” The per¬ 
son addressed, a good-natured giant, girded with a 
cartridge belt, smiled as he replied : 

“Well, sir, I’m wearing a watch which the com¬ 
pany gave me for standing off the James gang in 
Missouri for half an hour, when we hadn’t a ghost 
of a soldier about. I’ll take the contract, and wel¬ 
come, to hold this fort alone.” 

“ Very well,” said Sinclair. “ Foster, what progress 
have you made ? ” 

“ Major, I’ve got ten or fifteen as good men as 
ever drawed a bead, and just red-hot for a fight.” 

“ That will do very well. Conductor, give the 
trainmen the rifles from the baggage car and let 
them act under Mr. Foster. Now, boys, I am sure 
you will do your duty. That is all.” 

From the next station Sinclair telegraphed “All 
ready ” to the superintendent, who was pacing his 
office in much suspense. Then he said a few words 
to his brave but anxious wife, and walked to the rear 
platform. On it were several armed men, who bade 
him good-evening, and asked “when the fun was 
going to begin.” Walking through the train, he 
found each platform similarly occupied, and Foster 
going from one to the other. The latter whispe-red 
as he passed him : 

“Major, I found Arizona Joe the scout, in the 
smokin’ car, and he’s on the front platform. That 
lets me out, and although I know as well as you 
that there ain’t no danger about that rear sleeper 
where the madam is, I ain’t a-goin’ to be far off 
from her.” Sinclair shook him by the hand ; then 


he looked at his watch. It was half-past eight. He 
passed through the baggage and express cars, find¬ 
ing in the latter the agent sitting behind his safe, on 
which lay two large revolvers. On the platform car 
he found the soldiers and their commander, sitting 
silent and unconcerned as before. When Sinclair 
reached the latter and nodded, he rose and faced 
the men, and his fine voice was clearly heard above 
the rattle of the train. 

“Company, ’ten tion!" The soldiers straightened 
themselves in a second. 

“With ball cartridge, load! ” It was done with 
the precision of a machine. Then the lieutenant 
spoke, in the same clear, crisp tones that the troops 
had heard in more than one fierce battle. 

“ Men,” said he, “ in a few minutes the Perry 
gang, which you will remember, are going to try to 
run this train off the track, wound and kill the pas¬ 
sengers, and rob the cars and the United States 
mail. It is our business to prevent them. Sergeant 
Wilson ” (a gray-bearded non-commissioned officer 
stood up and saluted), “ I am going on the engine. 
See that my orders are repeated. Now men, aim 
low, and don’t waste any shots.” He and Sinclair 
climbed over the tender and spoke to the engine 
driver, who received the news with great non¬ 
chalance. 

“How are the air-brakes working ?” asked Sin¬ 
clair. 

. “ First-rate.” 

“ Then, if you slow down now, you could stop the 
train in a third of her length, couldn’t you ? ” 

“ Easy, if you don’t mind being shaken up a bit.” 

“ That is good. How is the country about the 
— xth mile-post. 

“ Dead level, and smooth.” 

“Good again. Now, Lieutenant Halsey, this is a 
splendid head-light, and we can see a long way with 
my night glass, I will have a-” 

“ — 8th mile-post just passed,” interrupted the en¬ 
gine driver. 

“ Only one more to pass, then, before we ought to 
strike them. Now, lieutenant, I undertake to stop the 
train within a very short distance of the gang. 
They will be on both sides of the track, no doubt ; 
and the ground, as you hear, is quite level. You 
will best know what to do.” 

The officer stepped back. “ Sergeant,” called he, 
“do you hear me plainly?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Have the men fix bayonets. When the train 
stops, and I wave my sword, let half jump off each 
side, run up quickly, and form line abreast of the 
engine —not ahead. ’’ 

“ Jack,” said Sinclair to the engine driver, “ is 
your hand steady ? ” The man held it up with a 
smile. “ Good. Now, stand by your throttle and 
your air-brake. Lieutenant, better warn the men to 
hold on tight, and tell the sergeant to pass the word 
to the boys on the platforms, or they will be 







The Denver Express. 


knocked off by the sudden stop. Now for a look 
ahead ! ” and he brought the binocular to his eyes. 

The great parabolic head-light illuminated the 
track a long way in advance, all behind it being of 
course in darkness. Suddenly Sinclair cried out: 

“ The fools have a light there, as I am a living 
man ; and there is a little red one near us. What 
can that be ? All ready, Jack ! By heavens ! they 
have taken up two rails. Now, hold on, all! Stop 
her ! ! ” 

The engine-driver shut his throttle-valve with a 
jerk. Then, holding hard by it, he sharply turned a 
brass handle. There was a fearful jolt—a grating— 
and the train’s way was checked. The lieutenant, 
standing sidewise, had drawn his sword. He 
waved it, and almost before he could get off the 
engine, the soldiers were up and forming, still 
in shadow, while the bright light was thrown on a 
body of men ahead. 

“ Surrender, or you are dead men ! ” roared the 
officer. Curses and several shots were the reply. 
Then came the orders, quick and sharp : 

“ Forward! Close up! Double-quick! Halt! 
Fire !” 

* * * It was speedily over. Left on the car with 
the men, the old sergeant had said : 

“ Boys, you hear. It’s that - Perry gang. 

Now don’t forget Larry and Charley that they 
murdered last year,” and there had come from the 
soldiers a sort of fierce, subdued growl. The vol¬ 
ley was followed by a bayonet charge, and it re¬ 
quired all the officer’s authority to save the lives 
even of those who “threw up their hands.” Large 
as the gang was (outnumbering the troops), well- 
armed and desperate as they were, every one was 
dead, wounded, or a prisoner when the men who 
guarded the train platforms ran up. The surgeon, 
with professional coolness, walked up to the robbers, 
his instrument case under his arm. 

“ Not much for me to do here, Lieutenant,” said 
he. “ That practice for Creedmoor is telling on the 
shooting. Good thing for the gang, too. Bullets 
are better than rope, and a Colorado jury will give 
them plenty of that.” 

Sinclair had sent a man to tell his wife that all 
was over. Then he ordered a fire lighted, and the 
rails relaid. The flames lit a strange scene as the 
passengers flocked up. The lieutenant posted men 
to keep them back. 

“ Is there a telegraph station not far ahead, 
Sinclair ?” asked he. “Yes? All right.” He drew 
a small pad from his pocket, and wrote a dispatch to 
the post commander. 

“ Be good enough to send that for me,” said he, 
“and leave orders at Barker’s for the night express 
eastward to stop for us, and to bring a posse to 
take care of the wounded and prisoners. And now, 
my dear Sinclair, I suggest that you get the passen¬ 
gers into the cars, and go on as soon as those rails 
are spiked. When they realize the situation, some 


321 

of them will feel precious ugly, and you know we 
can’t have any lynching.” 

Sinclair glanced at the rails and gave the word at 
once to the conductor and brakeman, who began 
vociferating, “ All aboard!” Just then Foster ap¬ 
peared, an expression of intense satisfaction showing 
clearly on his face, in the firelight. 

“ Major,” said he, “ I didn’t use to take much 
stock in special Providence, or things being ordered; 
but I’m darned if I don’t believe in them from this 
day. I was bound to stay where you put me, but 
I was uneasy, and wild to be in the scrimmage ; and, 
if I had been there, I wouldn’t have taken notice of 
a little red light that wasn’t much behind the rear 
platform when we stopped. When I saw there was 
no danger there, I ran back, and what do you think 
I found ? There was a woman, in a dead faint, and 
just clutching a lantern that she had tied up in 
a red scarf, poor little thing! And, Major, it 
was Sally ! It was the little girl that loved me out 
at Barker’s, and has loved me and waited for me 
ever since ! And when she came to, and knew me, 
she was so glad she ’most fainted away again; 
and she let on as it was her that gave away the job. 
And I took her into the sleeper, and the madam, 
God bless her !—she knew Sally before and was good 
to her—she took care of her, and is cheering her up. 
And now, Major, I’m going to take her straight to 
Denver, and send for a parson and get her married 
to me, and she’ll brace up, sure pop.” 

The whistle sounded, and the train started. From 
the window of the “ sleeper ” Sinclair and his 
wife took their last look at the weird scene. The 
lieutenant, standing at the side of the track, wrapped 
in his cloak, caught a glimpse of Mrs. Sinclair’s 
pretty face, and returned her bow. Then, as the car 
passed out of sight, he tugged at his moustache and 
hummed— 

“ Why, boys, why, 

Should we be melancholy, boys, 

Whose business ’tis to die ? ” 

In less than an hour, telegrams having in the 
mean time been sent in both directions, the train ran 
alongside the platform at Barker’s ; and Watkins, im¬ 
perturbable as usual, met Sinclair, and gave him his 
letters. 

“ Perry gang wiped out, I hear, Major,” said he. 
“ Good thing for the country. That’s a lesson the 
1 toughs ’ in these parts won’t forget for a long time. 
Plucky girl that give ’em away, wasn’t she. Hope 
she’s all right.” 

“ She is all right,” said Sinclair, with a smile. 

“ Glad of that. By-the-way, that father of her’n 
passed in his checks to-night. He’d got one warning 
from the Vigilantes, and yesterday they found out he 
was in with this gang, and they was a-going for him ; 
but when the telegram come, he put a pistol to his 
head and saved them all trouble. Good riddance 
to everybody, I say. The sheriff’s here now, and is 
going east on the next train to get them fellows. 






322 


Treasury of Tales. 


He’s got a big posse together, and I wouldn’t wonder 
if they was hard to hold in, after the ‘ boys in blue ’ 
is gone.” 

In a few minutes the train was off, with its living 
freight,—the just and the unjust, the reformed and 
the rescued, the happy and the anxious. With 
many of the passengers the episode of the night was 
already a thing of the past. Sinclair sat by the side 
of his wife, to whose cheeks the color had all come 
back ; and Sally Johnson lay in her berth, faint still, 
but able to give an occasional smile to Foster. In the 
station on the Missouri the reporters were gathered 
about the happy superintendent, smoking his cigars, 
and filling their note-books with items. In Denver, 
their brethren would gladly have done the same, but 
Watkins failed to gratify them. He was a man of 
few words. When the train had gone, and a friend 
remarked : 

“ Hope they’ll get through all right, now,” he simply 
said : 

“Yes, likely. Two shots don’t most always go in 
the same hole.” Then he went to the telegraph 
instrument. In a few minutes he could have told a 
story as wild as a Norse saga, but what he said, when 
Denver had responded, was only— 

“ No. 17, fifty-five minutes late." 


A POSTAL COURTSHIP. 

BY LITCHFIELD MOSELEY. 

HE really is the prettiest little creature I 
ever saw,” said Mr. Willoughby Vane, as he 
turned from the window for the fiftieth time 
that morning. “Jane, ” he added, addressing the 
housemaid, who was clearing away the breakfast 
things, “ have you any idea who the people are 
who have taken old Mr. Adderly’s house opposite ? ” 

“ Well, yes, sir, if you please,” returned the hand¬ 
maiden. “ I met their cook at the grocer’s the 
other day, and she said that her master’s name was 
Black—Capting Choker Black — and that he was 
staying here on leave of absence with his wife and 
daughter, sir.” 

“ Oh, indeed ; did she happen to mention the 
young lady’s name ? ” 

“Yes, sir ; she called her Miss Eva.” 

“ Eva ! What a charming name ! ” murmured Mr. 
Willoughby to himself ; and then he added aloud : 

“ That will do, Jane, thank you.” 

Mr. Willoughby Vane was a bachelor, twenty- 
eight years old, rich, indolent, and tolerably good- 
looking. He lived with a widowed mother in a 
pleasant house in Albany, and, having nothing else 
to do, had fallen desperately in love with his pretty 
vis-a-vis, and anxiously sought an opportunity for 
an introduction. However, having discovered the 
name of his enchantress, he determined to address 
her anonymously by letter. 

Having decided upon taking this step, the next 


thing to be done was to put it into execution, and 
having shut himself in his little study, after many 
futile attempts, he succeeded in framing an epistle 
to the lady to his satisfaction, begging her, if she 
valued his peace of mind, to return an answer to 
“ W.V., Post-office, Albany.” That done, he went out 
for a walk, and dropped the letter in the nearest box. 

Regularly three times a day for a week afterward 
he called at the Post-office to see whether an answer 
had arrived for him. As the week advanced Wil¬ 
loughby began to lose his appetite, and grew so 
restless and irritable that Mrs. Vane, like a fond 
mother, fancied that her dear boy was unwell, and 
begged him to consult their medical attendant. But 
her son laughed at the idea, knowing well that his 
complaint was beyond the doctor’s skill to cure. 

He was beginning to despair of ever receiving a 
reply, when, to his great delight, on the seventh 
morning, a letter was handed to him by the post¬ 
master, written in a dainty female hand, and 
addressed to “ W. V.” Almost unable to conceal 
his emotion, he quitted the post-office, broke open 
the seal and drank in the contents. 

They were evidently of a pleasant nature, for he 
read the letter over again and again, kissed the en¬ 
velope, put it into his breast-pocket, and hurried home 
to see his inamorata looking out of the window of the 
opposite house as usual. 

For a moment his first impulse was to salute her 
respectfully ; but immediately afterward he be¬ 
thought himself that as he was still incognito the 
young lady would perhaps feel insulted by the action. 
Besides, how could she have any idea that he was 
“ W. V ” ? So he went in-doors, and amused himself 
for three hours in inditing a reply to her letter, 
which he posted the same afternoon, and in due 
course a second answer arrived. 

And so matters went on, a constant interchange 
of letters being kept up for a fortnight, during which 
time Mr. Willoughby Vane spent his days in running 
to and from the post-office, writing letters and watch¬ 
ing his fair neighbor from the window of the dining¬ 
room. 

“ Confound it! ” he would sometimes say to him¬ 
self. “ How very provoking the dear girl is ! She 
never will look this way. I do wish I could catch 
her eye, if only for a moment. What a horridly sour- 
looking old crab the mother is ! Depend upon it, 
Willoughby, that poor child is anything but happy 
at home with those two old fogies. Indeed, her let¬ 
ters hint as much.” And having given vent to his 
feelings, he would put on his hat and walk to the 
post-office, or shut himself in his room and compose 
another note to his “ Dearest Eva.” 

At length, three weeks having flown rapidly away 
in this manner, he received a letter one morning 
from the young lady, which ran as follows: 

To “ W. V.” 

SIR—As it is useless to continue a correspondence in 
this manner, I think it is now time for you to throw ofl 









A Postal Courtship. 


323 


your incognito, and reveal your true name and position to 
one to whom you are not totally indifferent. Believe me 
that nothing inspires love like mutual confidence. Prove 
to me that I have not been imprudent in answering your 
letters by at once informing me who you are. It is with 
no feeling of idle curiosity that I ask this, but simply for 
our mutual satisfaction. Yours, etc., 

Eva. 

To which Willoughby replied by return of post: 

Dearest Eva (If you will permit me to call you so ?)— 
Have you not for weeks past observed a young man, with 
his hair brushed back, anxiously watching you from the 
window of the opposite house ? And although you have 
apparently never taken the slightest notice of him, I trust 
that his features are not altogether repulsive to you. I 
am that individual. 

Charmed by the graceful magic of thine eye, 

Day after day I watch and dream and sigh ; 

Watch thee, dream of thee, sigh for thee alone. 

Fair Star of Albany—may I add, mine own ! 
to quote with some alterations the noble stanza of the 
poet Brown. And now I have a favor to ask you. When¬ 
ever you see me at the window take no notice of me at 
present, lest my mother should observe it. In a few days 
she will be going out of town, and then we can throw off 
all restraint. Till then, adieu ! Adieu, my adorable one, 
adieu ! My eyes are ever on you. 

Your own, 

Willoughby Vane. 

To which epistle came the following answer : 

Dear Sir —Your explanation is perfectly satisfactory. 
I may also add, your features are not at all repulsive to 

Eva. 

“ Bless her ! what a delightful little soul she is ! ” 
ejaculated Willoughby. 

And he went out, ordered a new suit of clothes 
and had his hair cut. 

“Willy,” said Mrs. Vane to her son the next 
morning, “ I wish you would do something to im¬ 
prove your mind, and not waste your time look¬ 
ing out of the window all day as you have lately 
done. Come and read the Assembly debates to me, 
if you have nothing else to do.” 

The worthy lady was a red-hot politician, and for 
three mortal hours she kept him at this delightful 
task ; at the expiration of which time he succeeded 
in escaping to his own room, where he wrote the 
following note to Eva : 

Dearest Eva —I am overjoyed at the contents of 
your brief communication. If, as you say, my features 
are not altogether repulsive to you, may I hope that you 
will consent to be mine—mine only ? 

Willoughby. 

Back came the reply the next morning : 

Dear Willoughby —Your reply has made me feel 
very happy. It is very dull here—no society except father 
and mother. I long for more congenial companionship. 
—Thine, 

Eva. 

In this delightful manner the days flew on— 


halcyon days, too, they were for Willoughby, and 
sweetened by the interchange of this and similar 
lover-like correspondence. On the following Mon¬ 
day morning, Mrs. Vane left town on a visit to some 
friends in Saratoga, leaving her son to keep house 
at home. That same afternoon one of Captain 
Black’s servants brought the following note for 
Willoughby : 

Willie —Have you any objection to my telling my dear 
papa all ? Matters have now gone so far, that it will 
be impossible for either of us to retract what we have 
written. Let us take papa into our confidence. I know 
his kind and generous nature well, and have no fear that 
he will oppose our union. Pray send me a line by bearer. 

Eva. 

The answer was as follows : 

My own Eva — Do whatever you consider best. 
My fate is in your hands. If your papa should refuse his 

consent, I- But I will not think of anything so dreadful. 

Fear not that I shall ever retract. Life without you 
would be a desert, with no oasis to brighten it.—Yours 
until death, 

Willoughby. 

That evening, just as Willoughby had finished 
dinner, he heard a loud double knock at the street 
door ; and on its being opened, a strange voice in¬ 
quired in a loud tone: 

“ Is Mr. Willoughby Vane at home ? ” 

His heart beat violently as Jane, entering the room, 
said : 

“ A gentleman wishes to speak with you in the 
library, sir.” 

And she handed him a card, inscribed “ Captain 
Choker Black, 1001st Regiment, N. G. S. N. Y.” 

“ I will be with him in a moment,” said Willough¬ 
by ; and he swallowed a couple of glasses of sherry, 
to nerve him for the interview: 

“ Captain Choker Black, I believe ? ” he said as he 
entered the library. 

“Your servant, sir,” said the gallant captain— 
who, glass in eye, was busily engaged in scrutinizing 
an engraving of the Battle of Gettysburg. “ Your 
servant, sir. Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. 
Willoughby Vane ? ” 

Willoughby bowed. 

“ Then, sir, of course you know the business that 
has brought me here ? ” 

Terribly, nervous, and scarcely knowing what an¬ 
swer to make, our hero bowed again. 

“ Come, come, sir, don’t be afraid to speak out! 
My daughter has made me her confidant, so let there 
be no reserve between us. Eva has told me all ! ” 

Here poor Willoughby blushed up to the roots of 
his hair. 

“You see, I know all about it. You have fallen 
desperately in love with the poor girl ; and although 
you have never exchanged three words together, you 
are already engaged to be married. Mighty expe¬ 
ditious, upon my word ! Ha! ha ! ha ! Pray ex- 





Treasury of Tales . 


324 

cuse me for laughing, but the idea is somewhat 
comical ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

As the captain appeared to be in a very good 
humor, Willoughby’s courage began to rise. 

“ Don’t mention it, sir. You are her father, and 
have a right to do what you please. But I sincerely 
trust that you have no objections to offer.” 

“ I ? None ! Believe me, I shall be delighted to 
see my Eva comfortably settled. But, harkye, sir. 
Business is business. I am a plain, blunt man, and 
fifteen years’ sojourn with one’s regiment on the 
plains doesn’t help to polish one. First of all, what 
are your prospects ? ” 

And the captain drew a note-book out of his 
pocket and proceeded to examine our hero as if he 
was in a court of justice. 

“You are an only son, I believe ?” 

“ I am.” 

“ Good.” And down went the note in the pocket- 
book. 

“Your age ? ” 

“ Twenty-eight next birthday.” 

“Twenty-eight! Good. Is your constitution 
healthy ? ” 

“ I believe so. I have had the measles, whoop¬ 
ing-cough, and mumps.” 

“ Disorders peculiar to infancy. Good.” And the 
captain scribbled away again. 

“ Are you engaged in any business or profession ? ” 
“ None.” 

“ Then how on earth do you live ? ” 

“ On my private income, captain.” 

“ Then all I can say is you’re an uncommonly 
lucky fellow to be able to subsist on that. I only 
wish I could. What is your income ? ” 

“About four thousand a year.” 

“ Is it in house property, shares in limited com¬ 
panies, or in ‘Governments ? ’ If in public companies, 
I should be sorry to give two years’ purchase for the 
lot.” 

“ In the new Four per Cents.” 

“Good. I think I may say, very good ! What 
sort of temper are you ? ” 

“ Well, that’s rather a difficult question to answer,” 
said Willoughby, smiling for the first time. 

“ Hang it, sir, not at all ! ” returned the captain. 
“ If any one asked me my temper, I should say 
‘ Hasty ! sir—confoundedly hasty ! ’ And Choker 
Black’s proud of it, sir—proud of it! ” 

“ Say about the average,” answered Willoughby, 
timidly. 

“Temper average,” said the captain, jotting it 
down. “ I think these are about all the questions I 
have to ask you. You know my daughter by sight ? ” 
“ I have had the pleasure of seeing her frequently 
—from the window, sir ! ” 

“ And you think you could be happy with her ? ” 

“ Think, captain ! I am certain of it.” 

“ Very good. Now, harkye, Mr. Willoughby Vane. 
Marry her, treat her well, and be happy. Neglect 


1 her, blight her young affections by harshness or 
cruelty, and hang me, sir, if I don’t riddle you with 
bullets ! Gad, sir, I’m a man of my word, and I’ll 
do what I say as sure as my name’s Choker 
Black ! ” 

“ I have no fear on that score, captain. Unite 
her to me, and if a life of devotion-” 

“ I know all about that,” said the captain. “ Keep 
your fine phrases for the girl’s ears. Give me your 
hand, sir. I’ve taken a fancy to you ! ” 

“You flatter me, captain ! ” 

“ Hang it, sir, no ! Choker Black never indulges 
in flattery. Don’t be afraid to grasp my hand, sir ; 
it is yours as long as 1 find you plain sailing and 
straightforward. But if ever I suspect you of any 
artifice or deception, I’ll knock you down with it. 
So now I hope we perfectly understand each other.” 

“ One word more,” said Willoughby. “ Am I to 
understand that you consent to our union ? ” 

“Certainly. You can be married to-morrow, if 
you please. Sir, the happiness of my dear child 
is my first consideration. Gad, sir, I am not a brute 
—not one of those unnatural parents people read of 
in novels. Choker Black may be a fire-eater on the 
field ; but, at any rate, he knows how to treat his own 
flesh and blood.” 

“Captain, you overwhelm me with gratitude.” 

“ Say no more about it. Clap on your hat and 
come across the street with me, and I’ll introduce 
you to my daughter at once.” 

Scarcely knowing what he was about, Willoughby 
did as he was told. They crossed the street together, 
and the captain opened his door with a latch-key. 

“ One moment, if you please,” said Willoughby, 
who was titivating his hair and arranging his cravat. 

“ Are you ready now ? ” asked the captain. 

“ Quite ! ” 

“ Mr. Willoughby Vane ! ” cried the captain, ush¬ 
ering our hero into the drawing-room. Then, 
waving his hand, he added, “ Allow me to introduce 
you to my wife and daughter.” 

Willoughby looked exceedingly foolish as he bowed 
to the two ladies. On a couch by the fireside sat his 
enchantress, looking more bewitchingly radiant than 
ever, her vis-a-vis being the tall, thin, angular woman 
in black that he had frequently noticed from over 
the way. 

“ What a contrast,” thought Willoughby, “ between 
mother and daughter ! ” 

“Annie, my dear, Mr. Willoughby Vane is ner¬ 
vous, no doubt. You know the adage. Let us leave 
the young people together, and he’ll soon find his 
tongue then, I’ll wager,” said the captain, address¬ 
ing the younger of the two ladies, who immediately 
rose from her seat. 

“ Stay, sir—there is some mistake here,” said 
Willoughby. “ This lady is—” and he pointed to the 
gaunt female. 

“ My daughter, sir,” said the captain. “ My 
daughter by my first wife.” 






The Old Coat. 


3 2 5 


“ And this—” ejaculated our hero, turning to the 
young lady. 

“ Is my second wife, sir ! ” 

Mr. Willoughby Vane fled from his home that night. 
About a month later, his almost broken-hearted 
mother received a letter from him explaining the 
whole affair; and the postmark bore the words 
“ Montreal, Canada.” 


THE OLD COAT. 

BY FRANCOIS COPPEE. 

I. 

T the time when I was a clerk in the War Office 
I had as my colleague and comrade one Jean 
Vidal, an old sub-officer, who had lost his left 
arm during the Italian campaign, but who still re¬ 
tained his good right hand, with which he executed 
calligraphic wonders in round hand, German text, 
and Gothic, and who drew with a single stroke of the 
pen a little bird, as flourish to his signature. 

A worthy man was Vidal. A perfect type of the 
old soldier, honest and upright ! Although he was 
scarcely forty years old, and only a few gray hairs 
appeared in his black beard,—the beard of an old 
Zouave,—we already called him Father Vidal, but 
with less of familiarity than respect, for we knew his 
life of honor and devotion, away in his poor little 
lodging, at the bottom of the Rue Grenelle, where 
he had made a home for his sister, a widow with a 
flock of children, all of whom he supported on the 
slender income derived from the emolument coming 
to him as a member of the Legion of Honor, from 
his pension, and from his salary. Three thousand 
francs for five persons ! All the same, Father Vidal’s 
coats,—those coats whose empty left sleeve was 
always fastened to the third button,—were ever 
brushed as if for a review by the Inspector-general, 
and the good fellow held his brilliant red ribbon 
in such respect that he took it out of his button-hole 
when he was carrying a parcel in the street. 

As at that time I lived in the suburb south of 
Paris, I often walked on my return home with 
Father Vidal, and I amused myself by making him 
tell the story of his campaign as we passed by the 
Military School, where we met at every step,—it was 
during the last days of the Empire,—the handsome 
uniforms of the Imperial Guard, the Guides in 
green, the Lancers in white, and the sombre and 
magnificent officers of artillery in black and gold— 
a uniform in which it was worth one’s while to be 
killed. 

Sometimes in the warm summer evenings I of¬ 
fered my companion a glass of absinthe, a luxury 
that poor Vidal always denied himself from economy 
—and we used to sit for half an hour before the offi¬ 
cers’ cafe in the avenue of Mothe-Piquet. At such 
times the old “ sub,” who had become the most pru¬ 
dent father of a family, and lost the habit of taking 


“ nips,” would rise from the table with a touch of 
heroic elation in his brain, and I was sure to hear 
during the rest of the walk some good ivar story. 

II. 

One evening—I believe, heaven forgive me, Father 
Vidal had had two glasses of absinthe—all of a sud¬ 
den, while traversing the horrible Avenue Grenelle, 
he stopped abruptly before the shop of a dealer in 
old uniforms,—there are many such shops in that 
region. It was. a dirty, disreputable looking shop, 
exhibiting in its window rusty pistols, dishes full of 
buttons, epaulets of tarnished gold, while before it 
hung amid sordid wraps a number of officers’ old 
coats, rotted with rain and discolored by the sun. 
They still, however, preserved the shape of the waist 
and the shoulders, and had an almost human look. 

Vidal, seizing my arm with his only hand and turn¬ 
ing on me his somewhat tipsy eyes, raised his stump 
to indicate one of these cast-off coats, the uniform 
of an Algerian officer, with the skirt in a hundred 
plaits, and the triple gold lace winding up the sleeve 
in such a way as to form the figure eight. 

• “ Hold on,” said he. “ There’s the uniform of my 
old corps—a captain’s coat! ” 

Then, going nearer to examine it more closely, he 
read the number on the buttons, and exclaimed with 
enthusiasm : 

“ Why, it’s the coat of my regiment, the First 
Zouaves ! ” 

But, all of a sudden, the hand of Father Vidal, 
who had taken hold of the skirt of the coat, re¬ 
mained motionless, his countenance darkened, his 
lips quivered, and lowering his eyes, he murmured, 
in a tone of terror, 

“ My God, if it should be his ! ” 

Then, with an abrupt gesture, he turned the coat 
around, and I could see in the middle of the back a 
little round hole, a bullet hole, surrounded by a 
thick black ring—beyond doubt old blood. This ill- 
omened hole inspired horror and pity, as a wound 
would have done. 

“ Ah ! ” said I to Father Vidal, who had suddenly 
dropped the garment, and set off with a hurried 
step, and bowed head, “ there’s an ugly wound ! ” 
And, foreseeing a story, I added, to induce my com¬ 
panion to speak, “ Usually, it is not in the back that 
captains of Zouaves are wounded ! ” 

But he seemed not to hear ; he kept muttering 
and biting his mustache. 

“ How could it have come here ? It is a long way 
from the battle-field of Melegnano to the Boulevard 
Grenelle. Yes, I know, the birds of prey that follow 
the army, the ghouls that strip the dead. But why 
here, of all places, two yards from the Military 
School, where his regiment is in barrack, two yards 
from the other ? And he must pass here, he must rec¬ 
ognize it! It is like a ghost from beyond the grave ! ” 

“See here, Father Vidal,” said I, taking him by 
the arm in the excess of my interest, “ do not go on 








Treasury of Tales. 


326 


talking in riddles ; tell me what recollections the old 
torn coat revives.” 

I believe that without the two glasses of absinthe 
I should have learned nothing, for at this request 
Father Vidal gave me a defiant, almost frightened 
look ; but suddenly, as if taking a great resolution, 
he said in a sharp voice, 

“ Well then, yes, I will tell you the affair. Besides, 
you are a young man of intelligence and honor ; I 
have confidence in you, and when I have finished, 
you will tell me—frankly, now ; hold up your right 
hand—if you think me excusable for acting as I did. 
Let us see, where shall I begin ? Well, first of all, I 
can’t tell you the name of the other party, because 
he is still alive, but I will call him by the nickname 
we gave him in the regiment— Thirsty. Yes, we 
called him ‘ Thirsty,’ and he deserved the name, for 
he was one of those who never stir from the canteen, 
and who get away with twelve drinks by the twelve 
strokes of noon. He was sergeant in the fourth 
company of the Second Battalion, and his place in 
the ranks was next mine. A good soldier—a very 
good soldier, drunken, quarrelsome, always in a 
fight, with all the bad habits of Africa ; but brave 
as a bayonet, with blue eyes as cold as steel, a 
tanned face and a red beard—his whole aspect 
showing at a glance that he was anything but 
a pleasant individual. 

“ At the time when I arrived at the encampment 
of the active service regiment, ‘ Thirsty ’ had just fin¬ 
ished his term. He re-enlisted, took the bounty, 
obtained a furlough for three days, during which he 
drove about in the low quarters of Algiers with four 
or five roisterers like himself, packed into a coach 
and carrying a tri-color flag, on which one could read 
the words, ‘ This will not last always ! ’ He was 
brought back to barracks with his head laid open 
by a sabre cut; he had been fighting with a party of 
drunken sailors at the house of a Moorish woman, 
who had received, during the row, a kick in the 
stomach, of which she died. ‘ Thirsty ’ recovered ; 
they gave him fifteen days in the guard-house, and 
took away his stripes. This was the second time he 
had lost them. 

“ But for his bad behavior, ‘ Thirsty,’ who be¬ 
longed to a respectable bourgeois family, and 
had some education, would have been an officer 
long ago. Well, after this affair, they took away 
his stripes ; but eighteen months later, when I had 
just been made quartermaster-sergeant, he had 
got them back again, thanks to the indulgence of his 
captain, an old Algerian officer who had seen him 
under fire in Kabylia. 

“ Before long, however, our veteran captain was 
made major, and they sent us a captain of twenty- 
eight, a Corsican named Gentile, just out of school. 
He was a cold, ambitious lad, full of talent, it was 
said, but very exacting in matters of discipline, harsh 
to the men, giving you eight days’ guard-room for a 
speck of rust on your musket, or a button off your 


gaiter. Moreover, having never before served in 
Algeria, he would make no allowance whatever for the 
slightest breach of discipline. From the first, Cap¬ 
tain Gentile disliked ‘ Thirsty,’ and very naturally 
the dislike was returned. The first time the ser¬ 
geant did not answer to evening roll-call he got 
eight days in the guard-house ; the first time he was 
tipsy he got fifteen days. When the captain,—a lit¬ 
tle swarthy fellow, straight as a bristle, and with 
mustachchios like a mad cat—flung his punishment 
in his face, with the words, ‘ I know what you are, 
and I’ll tame you,’—‘Thirsty’ made no reply, and 
went quietly to the guard-room ; but the captain 
would perhaps have felt inclined to be less harsh, if 
he had seen the flash of anger which reddened the 
sergeant’s face as he turned his head, and the flash 
of rage which came into his terrible blue eyes.” 

III. 

“Well, it wasn’t long after this till the Emperor de¬ 
clared war against the Austrians, and we embarked 
for Italy. But with the Italian campaign I am not 
concerned. Let us proceed with the story. The 
evening before the battle of Melegnano—where I left 
my arm, you know—our battalion was quartered in 
a little village, and before breaking ranks, the cap¬ 
tain made us a little speech,—judiciously reminding 
us that we were in a friendly country, that our 
honor required us to behave well, and that any 
soldier who did the slightest harm to a native would 
be made an example of. While he was talking, 

‘ Thirsty,’ who was a trifle unsteady and leaning on 
his musket beside me—he had since morning drunk 
half of the vivandiere’s bottle—shrugged his 
shoulders slightly, but, luckily, the captain did not 
see the motion. 

“ At midnight I was awaked by a noise. I 
jumped up from the bundle of straw on which I was 
sleeping in a farm-yard, and saw by the light of the 
moon a group of soldiers and peasants who were 
tearing from the arms of ‘ Thirsty ’ a pretty girl, 
who was invoking the Madonna and all the saints. I 
ran to lend a hand, but Captain Gentile was there 
before me. With a single glance—he had the eye 
of command, had the little Corsican—he made the 
sergeant recoil in fear ; then, after having reassured 
the girl by a few words in Italian, he planted him¬ 
self in front of the culprit, and shaking his fist in his 
face, he said : 

“ ‘ We ought to blow out the brains of wretches 
like you. As soon as I can see the colonel, you 
shall lose your stripes again ; and this, for good and 
all. There will be a battle to-morrow. Try and 
get yourself killed.’ 

“ We lay down again, but, as the captain had fore¬ 
told, we were aroused at break of day by a cannonade. 
We ran to our arms and formed in column, and 
‘ Thirsty’—never did his devilish blue eyes look to 
me more malign—took his place next me. The 
battalion marched out, we had to dislodge the 






The Old Coat. 


327 


white-coats who had fortified themselves with their 
batteries in the village of Melegnano. Forward ! 
March 1 We had not gone more than a couple of 
miles, when whizz ! the balls of the Austrians caught 
us on the flank and knocked over a score of fellows 
belonging to our company. Our officers, who were 
waiting for the order to charge, made us lie down 
among the corn to act as sharp-shooters ; they, of 
course, remained standing, and I assure you our lit¬ 
tle captain made the most of his height. We knelt 
between the stalks and continued to fire on the bat¬ 
tery within range. Suddenly I felt myself nudged, 
I turned round and saw ‘ Thirsty ’ looking at me, 
the corner of his lip raised with a mocking air ; he 
was cocking his musket. 

You see the captain?’ he said, indicating him 
by a movement of the head. 

“ ‘ Yes ; what of it ? ’ I answered, glancing at the of¬ 
ficer, who was standing twenty paces from us. 

“ ‘ Well, he was wrong to speak to me as he did last 
night.’ 

“ Then, with a quick, steady gesture, he brought his 
gun to the shoulder, and fired. I saw the captain, 
his back bent inward, his head thrown back, beat the 
air for a second with both hands, let his sword drop, 
and fall heavily on his back. ‘ Murderer !’ I cried, seiz¬ 
ing the sergeant’s arm. But he sent me spinning 
three yards away with a blow on the chest from the 
butt of his piece. 

“ ‘ Fool ! Prove that it was I who killed him.’ 

“ I rose in a rage, but all the sharp-shooters rose 
at the same moment. The colonel, bareheaded, on 
his smoking horse, was there pointing with his sword 
to the Austrian battery, and shouting with all the 
force of his lungs, 

“ ‘ Forward, Zouaves ! Charge bayonets ! ’ 

“ Now what could Ido? Nothing but charge with 
the others. And it was superb, the charge of the 
Zouaves at Melegnano. Have you ever seen a huge 
wave of the sea beating against a rock ? You have ? 
Well, our charge was just like that. Each com¬ 
pany climbed up, like a wave over a rock. Thrice 
the battery was covered with a wave of blue coats 
and red pantaloons, and thrice we saw the earthwork 
reappear with the throats of the cannon, impassable 
like the rock when the wave retires. 

“ At last came the turn of our company, the Fourth, 
to assault the position. In twenty strides I reached 
the redoubt by the aid of the stock of my musket. 
I scaled the slope of the work, but I had only time 
to see a pair of blond mustaches, a blue cap, and the 
barrel of a musket almost touching me. I received 
on the left shoulder such a blow that I thought my arm 
was gone. I dropped my piece, I felt faint, and 
falling on my side near a cannon-wheel, lost con¬ 
sciousness.” 

IV. 

“ When I opened my eyes, I heard only the sound 
of distant musketry. The Zouaves were then forming 
a semicircle, though in disorder ; they cried Vive 


rEmpereur! and brandished their guns in the air 
at arms’ length. 

“ An old general, followed by his staff, galloped up. 
He checked his horse, took off his gold-lace cap, 
waved it joyously, and said, 

“ ‘ Bravo ! Zouaves. You are the best soldiers in 
the world.’ 

“ I was sitting near the cannon-wheel, holding in my 
right hand my poor broken limb, and was thinking 
of ‘ Thirsty’s ’ horrid crime in shooting his commander 
in the back while in action. 

“All at once he stepped out from the ranks, and 
advanced toward the general. Yes, ’twas he, ‘ Thirsty,’ 
himself, the captain’s murderer. In the struggle he 
had lost his fez, and his shaven head was visible, 
crossed by a scar, whence a line of blood flowed over 
his forehead and cheek. With one hand he rested 
on his musket, with the other he presented a tat¬ 
tered Austrian flag, bespattered with bloody stains, 
a flag that he had taken. 

“ The general seemed to look at him with admira¬ 
tion, thinking him superb. 

“ ‘ Hey ! Bricourt,’ said he, turning to one of his 
ordnance officers, ‘ look at that! What men ! ’ 

“ Then ‘ Thirsty,’ with his husky voice, said, 

“ ‘ It is true, general. But you know the First 
Zouaves!’ 

“ ‘ I could embrace thee for that speech,’ cried the 
general. £ Thou shalt have the cross.’ 

“ Then repeating, ‘ What men ! what men ! ’ he 
said to his aide-de-camp a phrase I did not understand 
—you know that I am an ignoramus—but which I re¬ 
member all the same. 

“ 1 It is a bit of Plutarch, is it not, Bricourt ? ’ 

“ But just then my arm again pained me. I fainted, 
and saw and heard no more. 

“ You know the rest. I have often told you how 
they chopped off my arm, and how for two months 
I was in the hospital, with fever and delirium. In 
my hours of sleeplessness I asked myself what I ought 
to do with regard to ‘ Thirsty.’ Give information? 
Yes, it was my duty, but how ? I could give no 
proof. Then I said to myself, ‘ True, he is a scoun¬ 
drel, but he is brave ; he killed Captain Gentile, but 
he took a flag from the enemy ! ’ 

“ I knew not what course to take. Finally, when I 
was convalescent, I learned that as a recompense for 
his gallant conduct, 4 Thirsty ’ had been promoted, 
with his old rank, to the Zouaves of the Guard, and 
had received the cross. Ah ! that disgusted me 
with my cross, which our colonel had pinned on my 
hospital cloak. Nevertheless, ‘ Thirsty ’ deserved 
his, too, after all; but his Legion of Honor ought 
to have served for the mark of a firing party. Well, 
it is all far off now ; I have never seen the sergeant 
again, who is still in the service, while I have turned 
civilian. But just now, on seeing that coat with the 
bullet-hole—God knows how it came there !—hang¬ 
ing at that old-clothesman’s stall, only two steps 
from the barracks where the murderer is, I thought 






Treasury of 7'ales. 


328 

of the unpunished crime, and it seemed to me that 
the captain’s blood cried out for vengeance.” 

V. 

I did my best to calm Father Vidal, who had been 
much excited by his story, and I assured him that 
he had acted for the best, and that the heroism of 
the sergeant was a set-off to his crime. But some 
days afterward, on arriving at the office, I found 
Vidal. He gave me a newspaper, folded so that I 
could see only a short “ Local,” and murmured 
gravely : 

“ What did I tell you ? ” 

I took the paper and read : 

ANOTHER VICTIM OF INTEMPERANCE. 

Yesterday afternoon, on the Boulevard Grenelle, a ser¬ 
geant of the Zouaves of the Imperial Guard, called Mallet, 
but nicknamed “ Thirsty,” who with two comrades had 
made numerous libations in the drinking-shops of the 
neighborhood, was seized with an attack of delirium 
tremens, just as he was looking at some old uniforms hung 
out before an old-clothes’ shop. 

The sergeant, who became instantly furious, drew his 
sword-bayonet and rushed on, scattering terror as he 
w'ent. The two soldiers who accompanied him had all the 
trouble in the world to get hold of the madman, who never 
ceased howling out in his fury, “ I am not a murderer! I 
captured an Austrian flag at Melegnano.” 

In fact, it is positively stated that Mallet was decorated 
for this exploit, and that his habits of drunkenness alone 
have prevented him from becoming an officer. 

Mallet was taken to the military hospital of Gros-Cail- 
lou, whence he will be transferred to Charenton, for it is 
doubtful whether the unhappy man will ever recover his 
reason. 

As I returned the paper to Vidal he gave me a 
look full of meaning, and closed the narrative with 
these words: 

“ Captain Gentile was a Corsican. He is 
avenged ! ” 


UNCERTAIN—COY. 

THE BLEACHER’S STORY. 

BY MORRIS BENSON. 

OU don’t know Harry Seymour ? Well, I 
thought you might, coming from the city as 
you do. He lives down there now, he and his 
wife, since he got up that new process of his. He used 
to be chemis there,—assistant, you know,—and be¬ 
fore that he was my second hand down in this Bleach- 
ery. That was before he married. 

I can remember the first time I ever heard of him 
or saw him. It was in the fall, some years ago. The 
old man was down here,—you know he goes through 
the Works regular once a day, and he seemed sort 
o’ troubled like. 

“John,” says he, “the treasurer’s sent down a 
young man here just from college, and I hardly know 
what to do with him. He don’t want to put him 
into the Laboratory, and I am afraid I must make 


him your second hand. I think you can look after 
him better than any of the others.” 

Now the old man he hates college fellows, and I 
have always thought he put Harry into the Bleachery 
just to sicken him of the whole ousiness. We 
weren't in this new house then, and the old Bleach- 
House was a pretty bad place. I dare say you’d call 
this wet;—well, a bleachery’s always the wettest and 
worst-smelling place in a print-works ; there is a lit¬ 
tle water on the floor here,—but in the old place it 
was a caution ! 

The machines were set so that they squirted water 
right on the walks ; the cellar w T as two foot deep of 
water all the time, and the liquor pipes leaked so 
the smell was fearful. We mixed the liquors on one 
side of the house, and when we opened a cask of 
chemic, why the boys would stop their machines and 
run for the doors. There wasn’t a man could stand 
it. 

Then in winter the open kiers there would fill the 
whole place with steam, so you could hardly see 
whether the cloth was running or not. Oh, ’twas a 
bad place, and I thought it would do up any college 
fellow in about two days. 

For I wasn’t overpleased at having any second 
hand put between me and my men. I had run the 
Bleach-House and White Room without a second 
hand for ten years, and never any fault found. Of 
course there was some growfling now and then when 
there was cloth tendered, but there’s ahvays that in 
a bleachery. And I thought there’d be more with a 
college fellow with his notions meddling round the 
liquors, than ever there’d been before. 

So I wasn’t over-thankful to the old man, and I 
said, “ All right, Mr. Earle, I suppose you know what’s 
best,” a little gruff like, for I didn’t think he was 
doing what was best, no matter what he knew. 

Well, next day he fetched Harry down, and I was 
surprised a little at first, for though his hair was 
parted in the middle, and he wore a mustache, yet 
he was dressed as if he knew what he was coming 
to—dark flannel shirt, old black suit, and thick 
shoes, with an old hat to keep the sours off his head. 
And the way he spoke to me surprised me too ; he 
didn’t put on any airs, and acted just as if he had 
come to learn, and didn’t know anything about the 
business. 

Well, he didn't know much, and he didn’t know 
just how to take the help,—he never learned that ; he 
was always trying to be polite to them, and thanking 
them when they fetched him things. Now, that 
doesn’t do with as common help as we have here ; 
if you use them too well they’ll presume on it; but 
he was lucky, for he had me round to take the pre¬ 
sumption out of them. 

And at first I tried to take the presumption out of 
him, and spoke rough to him ; but, bless you, before 
he’d been there three days he’d got round me 
so that I caught myself telling him things I’ve 
never told any one else,—things I never told the old 








Uncertain — Coy. 


man,—things it took me thirty years to learn. That 
young man knows all 1 know now, and a precious 
sight more. 

Just how he got round me I don’t rightly know. 
I put him first up into the White Room, for I thought 
he’d do less harm there than down stairs, and that 
first day, when I came in after dinner before the 
help did,—we didn’t run dinner hour then,—I found 
him at a winder trying to wind cloth. Now that’s 
a hard thing to learn, and he wasn’t doing so extra 
well, but he turned round to me and smiled, and 
said, 

“ I thought I might as well begin on this in the 
beginning.” 

So I says, “ All right, young man,” and went on 
without anything more, but I thought there might 
be something in him, after all. 

And next day there was a great hurry about some 
fancy cloth that had been sent in months before. I 
came near swearing that I had seen all of it sent out 
of my place,—when up came Harry with a bit of it 
in his hand. I hadn’t said anything to him about it,— 
I didn’t suppose he knew what fancy cloth was, 
but he’d been nosing around the day before, and 
found this roll in a corner with a lot of print cloth 
wound round it, and he cut off the sample just be¬ 
cause he thought it might come in handy. 

Another thing I liked about him too ; whenever 
he made a mistake, he wouldn’t try to hide it, but 
would come for orders to me just as if some one 
else had made the blunder. When he’d been to 
me two or three times with things he could just as 
easily have kept quiet, I began to feel that nothing 
was going on that he knew and I didn’t, and I grew 
to like him first-rate. That was when I let him 
come down stairs, and gave him a little authority 
down there, and I tell you, he got hold of the run 
of the cloth quick enough. 

That was in the fall, as I said, but it wasn’t till 
the winter that I saw anything of him outside the 
Bleachery. I live out of town a mile or so, and I 
don’t often get in again of an evening ; and if I did I 
don’t suppose I should have seen much of him, for he’d 
have been round at the old man’s, I suppose, or the 
parson’s, or some of those houses. 

But one night that winter there was a big fair, and 
my woman and my little girl they just teased the 
life out of me to go. My wife’s death on fairs, and 
she always has her hand in every one there is in 
town, but she doesn’t often get me to go to them. 

I say that if my wife spends all her time for a 
month getting up a fair, she’s done enough for me 
too, and it’s not right to expect me to go and spend 
my money there. But this time they got me to go. 
They had it in the Town Hall, so that there might be 
dancing, though it was a church fair ; and I think it 
was the dancing fetched me, for ’twas a long time 
since I had seen any. But first I said I wouldn’t, for 
it wouldn’t do to give in too easy. 

“What do you want me for, Susy,” says I to my 


3 2 9 

little girl ; “ isn’t your mother enough to take care of 
you ? Or are you so hard up for partners that you 
want your daddy to dance with ? ” 

“Why, papa,” says she, for she never will call me 
daddy, “ papa, I thought you would like to see me 
dance.” And that fetched me, for thinks I, after 
paying all that for dancing school, shan’t I have any 
of the fun of seeing her dance ? So we went, and I 
left all my money at home, but just seventy-five cents 
to pay in at the door. 

Well, there was a great crowd and it was hot, and 
I walked round a little alone at first, but 1 felt foolish 
at not having any money to spend, and in a little 
while I went in behind the table where my wife and 
girl were tending, and I think I went to sleep, for I 
didn’t know much till the music struck up, and I saw 
that the floor was cleared, and the young folks were 
at it; and in a bit, there was Harry Seymour bowing 
to my little girl and asking her to dance. 

Well, that sort of surprised me, for I never thought 
of meeting him in any but a business way, and I 
hadn’t thought he knew Susy at all, though of course 
we all did go to the same church. But it made me 
feel good to see him take her out, for he was the 
finest-looking young fellow there was in the hall, 
aye, and the finest young fellow too. He never put 
on any airs—I told you that—but he had an air with 
him that seemed to belong there, and you knew the 
minute you saw him that he was a gentleman every bit. 

And he looked well that night too, in a swallow¬ 
tailed coat that looked as if it was glued to his back, 
and ever so much shirt-front showing out of his waist¬ 
coat. As for my Susy, she was very small beside 
him, but she looked happy and smiling, and prouder 
than I had ever seen her. I do like to see young 
people together. 

They were dancing the waltz, and it was the first 
time I had ever seen it done. Now, I have heard 
lots said against waltzing, and when I found out that 
this was a waltz I watched hard to see where the 
harm came in, but I couldn’t see any. There were one 
or two couples who didn’t seem to get along very well, 
who did a good deal of hugging which they didn’t 
seem much to enjoy. But the men who danced best 
just touched their girls’ backs with their hands, sort 
o’ to steady them and guide them. Now Susy and 
Harry looked as if he could have guided her all 
right just with the end of his little finger, if only it 
was manners to poke her so. 

To my mind they don’t keep enough time in the 
waltz ; they start at the same time, to be sure, and 
end off even sometimes, but it was a long time before 
I saw what the music had to do with it. What I 
liked better was a polka they danced, but that 
was afterward. 

Well, they slid around right nice, and then, just 
before the music stopped, and as if they knew ’twas 
going to, they came across the room sideways at a 
great rate, and he whisked her into her chair at the 
last note, and stood fanning her. 




Treasury of Tales. 


33o 

“ Why, Harry,” says I, after a bit, “ I had no idea 
you were such a good dancer.” 

“ Oh, it all depends on the partner,” said he, and 
just then the music began again, and he gave Susy 
back her fan, and was off. 

“ Yes, papa,” says she, “ it all depends on the part¬ 
ner ; look at them.” 

For he had w r alked right across to where Miss 
Edith, the old man’s daughter, you know, was sit¬ 
ting, and they had begun to dance—it was the polka 
that I spoke of before, and I tell you, sir, it was he 
was the one that looked proud this time. 

Not that she didn’t look pleased too, they both 
had a sort of contented way. with them ; and right 
enough, for they were well matched—tall and hand¬ 
some both. She is a great favorite of mine, though 
I hadn’t seen much of her since she was a little girl, 
and in and out of the Works all the time ; and though 
I had liked to watch Harry and my girl, yet I think 
I liked looking at the other couple better. They 
seemed to take things so easy, and were right with 
the music all the time, but they covered a deal of 
ground, with those long slides of theirs. There was 
one couple tried racing with them, but it was no go, 
they hadn’t the training. 

And all through that evening I watched those two 
young people, sometimes dancing apart, but oftener 
together, and I declare, I almost forgot to look at my 
own little girl. 

Well, I’d no call to go to fairs and dances every 
night, so I hadn’t much chance to see how they got 
on. I’d see them in church,—somehow I went to 
church a good deal that year,—and I’d ask Susy 
about them once in a way, and I noticed that when¬ 
ever Miss Edith fetched any friends down to see the 
Works, Harry was always the one to show them 
through. 

But next spring all this I’ve been telling you 
came back to me in a queer way. I live about a 
mile out of town, about half a mile, ’tis, beyond Mr. 
Earle’s, and one morning in the spring I was walk¬ 
ing into work full early. Just as I got to where 
the upper road comes in, that’s beyond the old man’s 
house you know, a couple of young people on 
horseback turned into the main road just ahead of 
me, and I saw in a minute that it was Harry and 
Miss Edith. 

“ Well,” I thought, “ there must be something go- 
ing'to happen if a girl will get up at six to take a 
horseback ride,” and I quickened up—they were 
■walking their horses slowly—for I wanted to see 
them close to, before they turned in at her house. 

I had never seen him ride before, and he sat his 
horse first rate—not that I knew much about such 
things, and they were walking too. She had a gay 
dress and a sort of cap to match. They were riding 
close together on the right side of the road, and I 
was coming up on that side. I had no notion of 
listening, but I saw that he was turned toward her, 
and seemed to be talking in earnest. Just as I got 


up close 1 heard something that made me stop right 
there. 

“ I am very sorry,” said she, with a shake in her 
voice, “ that this has happened. We have been such 
good friends that I never thought of it. I hope you 
have not taken what I meant for a—a friendly man¬ 
ner,—as encouragement.” 

“ No,” said he, “ I knew I was asking too much.” 
And then I didn’t hear any more, for I had stopped 
and they were walking along slowly, but I watched 
them, as they rode along side by side, he sort of 
drooping his head, and she sitting up straight as 
ever, and I thought what a fool the girl was who 
could throw over my Harry. 

I did not try to catch them again, but just as they 
came to her gate, they’d gone so slowly, I was nearly 
up with them again. At the gate they stopped and 
I heard her say, 

“ Do not trouble yourself to come in with me, Mr. 
Seymour, Thomas will help me off. Good-morning.” 
He took off his hat and made a low bow, and then 
he jerked round his horse and was by me like a shot, 
as if he wanted to leave town and work and Edith 
and all behind. 

“ Poor Harry,” says I, “ I guess there’s no work 
for him to-day.” And then I thought how mean it 
was in her not to let him have even the poor com¬ 
fort of helping her off her horse, ancl I walked on to 
the Works. 

I happened to be very early that morning, and 
stopped for ten minutes or so at the store where I 
get my paper, so I came to the Works just after the 
first bell. I left the store in a hurry too, for I re¬ 
membered there was some work to be done on one 
of the hoods of the drying-cans. Harry had told 
me he would see to it, but I didn’t expect him 
in. 

I always go in down stairs first and get things 
straightened out, and while Harry was here he’d go 
in up stairs to the White Room, so as to send down 
word to me if there was any one out. But this 
morning I meant to get done down stairs in a hurry, 
and then to go up myself. 

Well, there was a great bother that morning. Half 
the help were out, and the rest lazy. I had to hire 
some new hands, and was looking some of them over, 
when one of the help from the White Room came 
down the stairs as if he’d been thrown. 

“Oh, John,” says he, with a shout, “Mr. Sey¬ 
mour’s got catched in the drying-tins and broken 
his leg, and we can’t get him out ! He was on top 
of the cans and Mike started up on him, and he got 
catched.” 

I don’t know if you know what a drying machine 
looks like. It’s just two rows of big cylinders made 
of copper, and looks like a row of, say, eight long 
barrels lying on their sides with seven barrels lying on 
top of them. Now imagine these barrels fixed so 
that they can revolve, the top row forward and the 
bottom row backward, and you can see that if a man 





Uncertain — Coy. 


33 1 


•gets caught between two of them, something has 
got to go, or they’ll flatten him out. 

When I heard him say that I remembered how 
Harry was going to see to that job on the dryer hood, 
and 1 just rushed up stairs. I found a great crowd by 
the dryer. They’d loosened up the bearing of the can 
that held him down, and they were prying at it with 
.a long stick of three by four that the carpenters had 
left up there. But they were in each other’s way, 
and hadn’t any fair purchase. Harry was caught so 
he couldn’t see what they were about, and old Mike, 
who had started the machine on him, was tearing 
around shouting as if he’d been at a wake. 

I put a hammer under the stick, and when they’d 
got the can up I lifted Harry down. We fixed up 
a couple of trucks with cloth on them and set him 
there. His leg wasn’t broken, but his foot had been 
caught and was all crushed by the iron hoop on the end 
of the can. I sent off two boys to a couple of doctors 
and two more for hacks. Then I set to cutting his 
shoe off him. He hadn’t said a thing except to 
thank me when I lifted him down ; but he winced 
when I got at work at that shoe. I tell you, sir, that 
I winced worse when I felt how soft that ankle was 
where it ought to be hard. I was sure he’d lose it. 
I got the stocking off and covered the foot up, and 
then we waited. 

Old Mike was a fool. He never looked to see if 
the steam was on or not, or why the doors were all 
off the side. He just started up with Harry and a 
boy on top of the cans. The boy jumped right 
•over the gears and was all right, but Harry had got 
caught too soon. 

At last a doctor came. He said he couldn’t do 
much there—must take him to his room and he 
would dress it there. He couldn’t say how bad 
’twould be. So two of us carried him down to the 
hack. It was an open carriage, which I didn’t like, 
but it had to do. We lifted him in, and the doctor 
and I got in with him. Just as we were driving out 
of the yard Mr. Earle drove up in his buggy. 

“ What’s all this ? ” said he, and I told him. 

“ Drive straight to my house,” says he. “ I’ll 
telephone up to Mrs. Earle. He’ll get on better 
there than in his boarding-house.” 

Well, that made me feel better, for I hated to 
take him to any boarding-house. I should have 
taken him to my own house, but the doctor said 
’twas too far off; but at Mr. Earle’s he’d get good 
care, and there’d be plenty of room for nurses and 
all that. But then I thought again, “ Who’ll there 
be to take care of him but some hired nurse ?” For 
Miss Edith, she was dead against him, and like as 
not would set her mother that way. I was really 
sorry I hadn’t told the old man I’d take him to my 
own house. Anyway I’d go and see him every 
night myself. 

I was thinking this over as we went up Main 
Street, when a curious thing happened. Harry was 
leaning back with his eyes shut, looking as pale as 


could be, when I saw coming toward us on the side¬ 
walk on his side of the street. Miss Edith. She was 
walking along with her head up, proud and uncon¬ 
cerned like, when she saw us. 

She stopped right there, staring straight at him, 
and first she was red as fire, and then she was white 
as snow, and then, down she went on her side right 
on the pavement without a word or a cry. She 
must have thought he was dead. 

Just as she fell, Harry roused up, though he 
heard nothing,—there was nothing to hear. 

“ What is it ? ” said he. But I hushed him down 
again, and we drove on. The doctor didn’t see 
who it was fell, and I wouldn’t let the driver stop,— 
there were plenty of folks there to help her,—so we 
reached the house all right. 

They told me afterwards that Miss Edith got over 
it in the apothecary store where they took her, and 
wouldn’t let anybody walk home with her. How 
that is I can’t say ; I never heard anything of it up 
at the old man’s. Anyway she didn’t get back 
while I was there. 

After I had seen him fixed I Went back feeling 
pretty bad, though Mrs. Earle acted kinder than I 
expected. The doctor said he was afraid the foot 
would have to come off, but he’d consult with the 
other doctor first. And when dinner-time came I 
hadn’t the heart to go out to inquire how he was 
getting along. 

But in the afternoon they telephoned down from 
the house that the foot would not come off “ at 
present.” And it’s not off yet. 

Well, when evening came I felt that I ought to go 
round and see him, though I did hate to. Not but 
I cared enough about seeing how he was, but I do 
hate sitting ’side of a sick person and trying to talk ; 
and I hate, too, going into as big a house as the old 
man’s, with a lot of servants round. Susy takes to 
it natural, but I don’t feel as if I were in my right 
place somehow. 

“ But,” I thought to myself again, “ how lonely he 
must be, poor fellow, all alone there. Mr. Earle’s 
not a companionable sort of a man to my way of 
thinking, and then that girl and her mother ! ” I 
thought it was my duty to go round and cheer him 
up a bit, though heaven knows I wasn’t any too 
cheerful myself. So I went. 

They showed me up stairs to the big room where 
I’d left him, and there on the big bed was poor 
Harry, lying flat, and all alone, as I had expected. 
But he looked better than I was afraid he would, 
and he asked as soon as he saw me, about old Mike, 
the man who started the machine on him, and 
hoped nothing was to be done to him. 

So I told him I thought that was all right,—and 
then I somehow didn’t have anything more to say. 
I never had any trouble in talking to Harry down in 
the Bleach-House, but here I didn’t want to talk 
about the work to a man who had had work enough 
that morning to last him six months. And so I tried 




332 


Treasury 

to think of something to talk about, and couldn’t 
think of it, and he lay there sometimes shutting his 
eyes and then opening them of a sudden and looking 
toward the door if any one passed. 

But I could not think of anything cheerful to say, 
so I didn’t say a thing, and I kept sitting there, feel¬ 
ing foolisher and foolisher, until at last I took out 
my watch, and made up my mind that if I couldn’t 
think of anything in five minutes I’d get up and 
quit, when the door opened and in came Miss 
Edith with a little tray. 

“ I didn’t mean to be so long, Harry ,” said she, 
“ but the cook couldn’t do it properly, so I had to do 
it myself.” 

Well, then I thought I wouldn’t stay out those 
five minutes. 

* * * As soon as he could get round on crutches 
he was down at the Works again, but they wouldn’t 
let him back to the Bleachery for fear he’d catch 
cold. So he went into the Laboratory, and it was 
there that he got up his new process. 

A new process is a nice thing if you can get any¬ 
body to adopt it, and his is used in every print¬ 
works in the country. Then the year he was 
married he took it over with him to England, and 
they’ve adopted it in some places there. 

But he hasn’t lived here since he married. They 
both went down to the city, where his folks live. I 
was down to see him, and they seem to be getting 
on first rate. 


A SAILOR’S YARN. 

BY W. CLARK RUSSELL. 

H yes, I’m willing to tell you the story. I 
dunno what sort o’ job I shall make of it, 
for it’s different talking to a gent like your¬ 
self from what it is sitting in a fo’ksle, say, or any- 
wheers else where sailor-men meet, and yarning to 
men as understands your lingo, and who’ll turn to 
an’ help ye with questions or chuck the rope’s-end 
of an idee to you when your memory goes adrift 
with ye. 

“ As to my name, if I calls myself Bill I’ll be speak¬ 
ing the truth That’s what my father used to sing 
out when he wanted me, and I’ve stuck to it ever 
since, though what my other name might ha’ been 
in those days, when I tell ye, sir, that I’ve signed 
articles twenty times with twenty different names, 
ye’ll believe me if I say I don’t rightly remember. 
And, twixt you and me, I dunno that a sailor-man 
needs to have a second name. They say a second 
name saves confusion. What would ye think of be¬ 
ing shipmates with four Smiths, as I was once ? 
What could ye make o’ four Smiths ? But supposin’ 
they’d been four Bills ? It ’ud be strange if they 
didn’t all hail from different ports ; so one ’ud be 
Liverpool Bill, say, an’ another he’d be Poplar 
Bill, and t’other ’ud be Bristol Bill, and the fourth 
’ud be Wapping Bill. A second name’s only in the 
road : it gives a man more to write down. 


of Tales. 

“ But there’s no use goin’ against custom ; it’s a 
mark o’ conceit, I think ; so whenever I signs ar¬ 
ticles I gives the first name that comes into my head,, 
and it lasts me the woyage. (Here’s your health,, 
sir ; an’ as I see there’s no objection to smoking, I 
think I’ll have a draw or two myself.) 

“ Well, I was goin’ to tell ye about the Globe — 
that were the name o’ the bark, an iron wessel, sum- 
mat under seven hundred and fifty ton, owned by 
some Liverpool gents. For my part, I never took 
to iron kindly. I don’t want any man to tell me 
that it can be made to swim ; but I know this, that 
when an iron we’ssel founders she goes down with a 
swiftness as proves what her instincts is. Now, ye 
can’t say that of wood. Wood’s in favor o’ floating, 
as you’d be the first to own, sir, had you passed as 
many wooden wrecks as I have in my time. I’ll al¬ 
low that sailors is thought to be full o’ prejudice, 
but it’s more common-sense than the other thing. 
They’re a class that’s so imposed on that they ob¬ 
ject to new idees, for fear they should be meant to 
lower wages or make ships’ companies smaller. All 
along I reckoned some imposition lay astern o’ them 
double torps’l yards. Whenever I see them spars, 
when they first come in, I used to say ‘ Bullies, 
there’s some bloomin’ roose here, mates.’ And 
wasn’t I right ? All that that inwention has done 
for sailors is to give owners an excuse to send their 
wessels to sea short-handed, by feigning that double 
torps’l yards don’t need the hands that the ol’ torps’ls 
did. Aren’t I right ? You stop the first sailor-man 
you meet and ask him. 

“ Well, to come back to the Globe. We filled up 
with pretty nigh eleven hundred ton o’ coal for a 
woyage to Walparaiso, in South Ameriky. That 
means doublin’ Cape Horn, master—beatin’ round 
it against the westerly gales ; and whenever a man 
thinks o’ Cape Horn he’ll find his eyes settlin’ on his 
wessel’s load-line, and his mind goin’ to work to reck¬ 
on up her freeboard. D’ye know what freeboard is ? 
Well I’ll tell ye—it’s the side a vessel shows above 
the water. That’s freeboard. The Yankees strives 
to humbug calkilations by hurricane-decks ; an’ 1 
have known tall t’galln’t bulwarks to make a deep 
ship look like a hisland. But, if ye want to reckon 
a ship’s side right, never ye go by the thickness of a 
hair above the coverin’ board. That’s law, though 
they should try to swamp your eyes with bulwarks 
as lofty as the main-top (Thank ye, sir, I don’t 
mind trying another drop. Uncommon good liquor 
this is, to be sure.) 

“Well, sir though I never measured it, I’ll allow 
that the Globe showed a side of about four feet. 
When you looked down her main hatch the wessel 
seemed chokeful o’ coal ; that was ’cause her ’tween 
decks wasn’t fully covered, and the coal was brought 
up to the hatches. She was a taut-looking craft. I 
believe she’d been a ship at one time o’ her life, but 
they afterward made a bark of her, with an iron 
mizzen-mast. We got away from the River Tyne all 









A Sailor s Yarn . 


333 


right on the 19th o’ March, and was humbugged 
with head-winds all away round into the English 
Channel. Them winds brought out one quality we 
none of us much relished ; I mean it showed that 
the wessel was uncommonly tender, which was not 
to be accounted for in a ship loaded as was the 
Globe. She’d lay over like a yacht, which ’ud ha’ 
been all werry well if she’d ha’ sailed as fast as she’d 
looked to be goin’. But I can’t say this happened. 
She’d splutter a good deal in a breeze o’ wind, and 
throw off foam enough for two such vessels, but this 
was owing to the dead weight in her, which made 
her strike every sea that took her a lumping blow ; an’ 
many a time I’d stand forrard on my lookout o’ 
night and watch the water she’d whiten ahead of 
her, so that ye’d fancy you was aboard a sleigh run¬ 
ning across an ocean o’ snow, until the foam ’ud 
come pouring past and leave the water ahead black, 
when she’d dip her nose into it again and send it 
boilin’ along the darkness. 

“Ye needn’t smile at that, sir. I know that peo¬ 
ple ashore never believe that sailors look at the nat’- 
ral beauties around them at sea. Landsmen hear of 
sailors beguilin’ away their time in public-houses 
and rum sort o’ lodgin’ kens, along with a still rum- 
mier sort o’ companions, and they say, ‘ Ho, how 
•could uneddicated men like them, who never read 
nor write, and who do nothen’ but smoke an’ drink 
ashore, be expected to take notice o’ the fine sights of 
the ocean ? Poor benighted creatures ! they haven’t 
the minds to bring to such things. All they think of 
at sea is beef and pork and what days duff is served 
out on, and when it’ll be eight bells.’ There never 
was a greater mistake. I s’pose there’s no lands¬ 
man as’ll pretend to know sailors better nor me, and 
I’ll say this, that I’ve been ship-mates with men as 
have been as much affected by the beauties o’ the 
•ocean as any fine lady fresh from readin’ poetry 
about the sea could ha’been, and p’raps a trifle more 
—rough fellows, ay, so rough you’d think they was 
only fit to sheath a knife in your ribs if ye gave ’em 
an order they didn’t relish ; such men I’ve seen 
standin’ as quiet as stone images, looking at the 
light of the moon upon the water, or at the sails si¬ 
lently drawin’ over-head, wi’ the stars glimmering 
among the riggin’, or at the white froth breaking 
away from the wessel’s stem like the arms of a 
swimmin’ girl. 

“ Think what ye will, sir, and believe the lies they 
tell of Jack, if ye must; but I say that the Lord is 
as much in the heart o’ the poor sailor as in that of 
any of his feller-beins ashore ; and many’s the grimy, 
hard-faced man I’ve seen standing lost in thought, 
looking over the ship’s side, and talcin’ in the beauty 
o’ the picture before him, as a child takes in the 
beauty o’ flowers, with a look o’ happy wonder that’ll 
leave him gentle and pleasant for the rest o’ his watch. 

“ Well, nothen’ particular happened for some 
weeks. I dunno if a gent like you can understand 
what a sailin’ ship bound on a long woyage signifies. 


You see there’s so much steam now that the general 
idee is when you’re on the water you’re always goin’ 
ahead and steerin’ a proper course. But what’s the 
truth ? One day ye’re hove to in a gale of wind, drift¬ 
in’ away to leeward at two or three mile an hour, and 
obligin’ the skipper to calkilate his reconins back- 
’ards, like a man as counts to twenty, and then 
works back through nineteen an’ heighteen and 
seventeen to wun again. Another day ye’re heavin’ 
about on the shinin’ swell of a dead calm, with the 
t’pgall’nt masts bucklin’ to every jump, and the 
reef-points rattlin’ on the sails as if a hundred auc¬ 
tioneers was up aloft working away with their little 
hammers, and the water washin’ up in small hills as 
high as the channels as the wessel dips, and keeping 
the scupper-holes sobbing and gurgling as though 
there was men overboard under ’em a-drownin’. 

“ Woyaging after this here pattern don’t give a man 
much to talk about, onless growlin’ be talking. So 
I’ll skip some weeks and come down to May the 
26th, by which time ye may take it that we was 
well abreast o’ the south coast of the Brazils—about 
three hundred miles to the east’ard of it. I’ve al¬ 
ready told ye, sir, that the Globe had shown her¬ 
self werry tender pretty nigh ever since we got away 
from the River Tyne. Well, afore we were up with 
the Line we’d all of us noticed that she’d a strong 
fancy to a port list. I mean by that that she didn’t 
want much encouragement to lay over more on one 
side than t’other, the one side being to port. Whether 
it was because her cargo wasn’t stowed correctly, or 
because she were too heavily sparred, or because, be¬ 
ing built of unnat’ral iron, she never could come to 
a right understandin’ with the water, I don’t know ; 
an’ as I can’t reck’lek troublin’ myself to think when 
I was aboard of her in danger, I don’t see why I 
need worrit myself with speculatin’ now, seein’ that 
I’m out o’ danger, and enjoyin’ as good a sup o’ 
spirits as I’ve put to my lips this many a day. 
(Well, ye’re werry good, sir. I don’t mind if I do. 
Here’s luck, sir, and the blessin’ o’ fortune to them 
as desarves it.) 

“ It were on the 26th o’ May, the bark bein’ in the 
sitivation I’ve described, when a breeze o’ wind 
came up from the south’ard and west’ard. That was 
a wind to head us off our course a bit. We went 
squatterin’ through the water braced up sharp on the 
starboard tack, frothin’ up the heavy swell that came 
rolling up along the course o’ the wind, and lying 
down to the breeze until ye could ha’ washed your 
face in the water by leaning over the port bulwark- 
rail, in consequence of the wessel’s list that way. 
The sky had all the appearance of a gale o’ wind in 
it, gray clouds stretching in ribs, like the marks o’ 
breakers upon the sand, with a smothered-looking 
sun striving to ooze out o’ the thickness overhead. 
Besides, there was a moaning noise in the air that 
was a sure sign, not belongin’ to the wind that was 
blowing, but soundin’ like the hecho of a tremindi- 
ous row going on away behind th’ ’orizon. 





334 


Treasury of Tales. 


44 Well, it came on to blow quick, every puff breezin’ 
down with more weight in it. All hands were on 
deck, and kept hard at work shortening sail. By four 
o’clock she was snugged right away down to a single 
torps’l. It was then blowing a strong gale, though it 
came on harder arterward. Being hove to on the 
starboard tack made us feel the wessel’s tenderness. 
Talk o’ comfort! I might tell you her deck was like 
the roof of a house, if I didn’t reckon that the roof 
of a house would be twenty times easier walkin’, be¬ 
cause of its steadiness. Think of the roof of a house 
jumpin’ about like a helectrified frog, with tons o’ 
water tumblin’ on board, floodin’ the lee-scuppers 
until they was fit to drown the man as fetched away 
into them ! Of course a sailor would notice only the 
inconvenience of a gale o’ wind of this kind in a 
wessel not nicely adapted to keep him dry. But a 
landsman would ha’ found more to think over. 
First, the sea was mighty heavy ; ye might fairly call 
it a Pacific sea, and there’s nothing on this airth that 
runs like the waves o’ that enormous ocean. Then 
the howlin’ of the gale aloft was made a good deal 
worse than there was any need for by the way in 
which the Globe brought her spars to wind’ard, for 
I noticed that she acted like a creature not onwilling 
to commit suicide, but, on the whole, rayther afeard 
o’ death, heelin’ her port bulwarks into the ragin’ 
water as if she said to herself, 4 I’ll do it this time,’ 
and then thinking better of it, and jumping back in 
a kind o’ fright, making the gale roar out as she 
swept her spars agin’ it. 

“ It was my watch on deck from eight o’clock till 
midnight. In an ordinary gale o’ wind and in an 
ordinary ship I should ha’ made nothen’ of stowing 
myself away somewheers handy, and taking a snooze 
ready for first call. But this gale, though a wooden 
ship might ha’ found it nothen’ but ordinary, was 
made hextraordinary by the Globe; and even had 
the water that flew aboard been willing to let me take 
a nap, somewheers out o’ the wind, I doubt if I could 
ha’ slept on top of such movements as the bark was 
hexecuting. Her anxiety to topple over to port was 
extremely worriting. It was worse to feel in the 
darkness than when the daylight was abroad to let 
ye see her games. Not that it was stone dark either ; 
there was too much white water for blindness. But 
the foam only let ye see the seas that were coming ; 
the deck was dark ; ye could perceive nothen’ aloft, 
and you could only have swore the spars were there 
by hearing the raging and roaring in the rigging. 

44 It would have been all the better, p’raps, had the 
water been as black as the air, for, though it’s not 
easy to alarm what ashore ye call a mariner wi’ the 
sight of waves, as they’re termed, yet it might ha’ 
disturbed the mind of a fish, that’s got nothen’ to fear 
from the water, to watch some o’ those seas coiling 
out of the darkness and tumbling along, white as 
wool, like masses o’ rock rooshin’ down a Jamaica 
mountain that’s got an earthquake in its inside, and 
wait for them to strike the bark and heel her over to 


leeward with that list in her which, in a dead calm,, 
made her stand as though there was a breeze o’ wind 
in her sails. At eight bells, twelve o’clock in the 
middle o’ the night, it was blowing fit to leave a man 
bald. 

“ But we’d had some hours o’ this galliwanting, 
and was getting used to it; and as the wessel was 
always in the hact of beam-ending herself, and always 
changing her mind and swingin’ to wind’ard again,, 
we took no more notice of her tomfoolin’, and when 
eight bells were struck I and the others o’ my watch 
went into the.fo’ksle to lay down. I had a smoke 
before getting into my hammock, and that might ha’ 
occupied me ten minutes. I then pulled off my boots- 
and coat, seeing no need to shift my other clothes, 
wet as they was, as all hands might be called at 
any minute, and, if I wanted a dry shift when the- 
fine weather come agin’, my chest was none too- 
plentifully lined to allow me to wet two suits of 
clothes in wun night. 

“ I fell asleep, but I might ha’ been sleeping five 
minutes or five hours for all I could have told you, 
when I was woke up by a loud and fearful shout. I 
tried to get out of my hammock, but it was hard up 
agin the deck, jammed like, but I tumbled out at last, 
and the moment I felt my feet away I sprawled to- 
leeward, like shootin’ a bucket o’ water over the 
side. I took it that the decks was up an’ down— 
ay, indeed, for a spell I dunno as I could have told 
ye which part o’ the wessel was uppermost. The 
confusion was awful, sir ; the seas roarin’ over the 
bark and bustin’ agin’ her sides with concussions 
as might ha’ made ye reckon the airth were splitting 
up, the gale yellin’ in the rigging like forty thousand 
mad-women, the skipper and chief mate bawling at 
the top o’ their woices, and the wessel right away 
over on her beam-ends. That was the matter with 
her. She’d made up her mind at last, and there she 
lay, with her port-bulwarks under water, scarcely 
risin’ to the seas which tumbled about an’ over her 
as if she was a rock. 

44 Ye’ll please remember it was pitch dark, wanting 
about half an hour o’ daybreak. I scrambled out of 
the fo’ksle, I dunno how, clawing at the deck like a 
parrot working along a perch, and heard the skipper 
roaring out orders for the wessel to be wore. It was 
easy enough to sing out, but the men couldn’t see 
to work : they dursn’t let go wi’ their hands for fear 
of fetching away overboard ; and though we slided 
about somehow, and obeyed horders as best we 
could, it were all no go, sir ; the bark wouldn’t wear,, 
but hung in the trough o’ the sea, shivering like a 
dying animal with every blow that struck her, and 
the foam blowing in clouds o’ steam over the decks, 
and tons of black w T ater falling out o’ the white haze. 

44 Well, the skipper, I s’pose, thought the bark ’ud 
wear if he cut away his mizzen-mast; some of us 
scrambled aft, and hacked at the stannin’ rigging 
until the shrouds and backstays swung in ; but the 
mast was of iron, and stood as firm as a light-house. 





A Sailor s Yarn. 


335 


So the skipper he sings out to us to cut away the 
main-rigging, and, when that was done, the mast 
went, carrying the mizzen-top-mast along with it, and 
there was such a hullabaloo o’ splintering and crash¬ 
ing wood as were fearsome enough to set all hands 
praying. 

“ Daylight was not long now a-coming. There never 
was such a picter of a wreck as the Globe made when 
the sun rose. Her port bulwarks was under water, and 
against them was the rathe of spars and rigging 
thrashing her side and pounding at her as if half a 
dozen nautical giants had laid a wager which ’ud 
knock a hole in her bottom fust. There was a fear¬ 
ful cross sea on, too, and the sky looked like a big 
sheet o’ gutta-percha stretched over our heads. 
There are plenty o’ bad dangers to be met at sea, I 
know ; but I doubt, unless ye take fire, whether ye’ll 
name one that’ll match the sitivation us ship’s com¬ 
pany was in. Being on her beam-ends, the sensation 
all the time was that the wessel was going down ; 
and nary sea struck her that didn’t leave us starin’ 
at one another, and wonderin’ to find that we weren’t 
yet drowning. 

“ Clearing away the wreckage alongside was a nasty 
job ; no words ’ud make you understand it; ye’d 
need to see it in a drawin’. When at last the raffle 
went clear we were sent below to see if we could trim 
the ship. Seeing what our cargo was, and how it 
lay, and how the wessel rolled it to leeward with every 
heave, I thought that was a poor job to put wore out 
men to, and I dessay some of us cussed a bit as we 
tumbled into the wet coal. 

“ Well, as ye may s’pose, we did no good, and 
knocked off to man the pumps, for the carpenter had 
sounded and found twelve inches o’ water in the 
hold. But when we came to try we found only one 
pump fit to use, and that we kept going, but it was 
like taking a pint out of a galley copper every time 
a quart’s put in—ye know which’ll beat. I wouldn’t 
pass such another day, sir, for a thousand pound a 
year and the command of the biggest ship out o’ 
Liverpool. That sounds tall, but it’s true as that 
this ear that I’m pulling is on my head. The galley 
fire was washed out; there was nothin’ but biscuit 
to eat. It was up to your neck to leeward, and the 
water came aboard over the weather-bow like a small 
Niagara Falls. There was no standin’ on the deck 
without holding on tight, and when we stood to wind¬ 
ward and looked down at the water boiling as high 
as the lee-coamings of the hatches, and nothen’ wisi- 
ble of the bulwarks but just the top o’ the rail glancin’ 
amid the snow like a great sarpint glidin’ along, and 
then up at the bare iron mizzen-mast and at the fore¬ 
mast and the yards there standin’ lonely like the 
spars of a wessel whose hull is sunk in the sands—I 
say, when we saw them sights and felt the sickening 
heaves of the bark under our feet, and thought as it 
might be that every heave would be her last, and 
that next time we should be struggling with black 
faces in the water wi’ the salt scorching our throats, 


we felt as hopeless as ever sailor-men have felt since 
human beings first took to the sea for a livin’. 

“ Nothen’ hove in sight that day, and how we 
managed to scrape through it and the night as fol- 
lered I dunno. It was pump, pump all the time wi’ 
that one bloomin’ useless bit of a hand-pump, the 
wessel diving, the sea storming, the gale bellowing, 
and all hands waitin’ for death. When next morn¬ 
ing came there was eighteen inches o’ water in the 
hold, but the weather had moderated a bit, and when 
the light had come strong the first thing we see to 
wind’ard was a full-rigged ship steering north, and 
about four mile distant. A mob of us, not waitin’ 
for horders, scrambled aft, and, there being no sig¬ 
nal halyards, they seized the ensign, Jack dowm, in 
the lee-mizzen riggin’. 

“ Seein’ this—though our plight spoke loud enough 
to need no woice from flags—the ship shifted her 
helm and ran down to us, and hove-to within ear¬ 
shot. Our skipper roared out his story, and t’other 
skipper said his wessel was the Niphon , o’ Liverpool, 
and after a bit a boat was lowered, and one o’ the 
mates boarded us, the sea having sunk considerable, 
for, as I have said, the gale broke in the night. 
Well, one o’ the mates came aboard, and we was so 
pleased to see him that we could ha’ taken him in 
our arms and kissed him as if we was Frenchmen. 
He seemed to hold back when he came over the 
side at the sight of our decks, and the stoutest man 
might well ha’ been scared to see, for the first time, 
the sea thrashing as high as the main hatch, and the 
port bulwarks under water. He said his skipper told 
him to say he’d be glad to give us a small boat— 
ours was gone—if we had a mind to continue our 
woyage. Our capt’n looked as if he’d consent, per¬ 
ceiving which we shouted in one breath that we’d 
not stop, that we’d go aboard the other ship. 

“ Would ye believe it possible, sir, that any capt’n 
’ud expect men to pursue their woyage in a wessel 
without a main-mast or mizzen-top-mast, with her 
port side under water, her bottom leaky, and only 
one pump fit to use ? That such an idee should be 
in a skipper’s mind ’ll give ye some notion, sir, of 
what’s expected from sailors, as if their lives, when 
once they’ve signed articles, are as much the skip¬ 
per’s property as his hat or his boots, which he 
chucks overboard when he’s done with them. No, 
no ; we’d had enough o’ the Globe; and, guessing 
persuasions wasn’t likely to be of much sarvice, the 
skipper ordered us in the boat, he coming along too, 
and so we got aboard the Niphon. As the ship 
filled and drew away from the Globe I stood looking 
at the bark, wonderin’ in my heart o’ hearts how 
ever we’d been able to hold ourselves aboard of her, 
for she lay over to port so heavily that it was amaz¬ 
ing her keel remained out o’ sight, and she looked 
so broken an’ drowning an object that my head felt 
giddy and my legs shook as I watched her. 

“So there ye have the story you wanted, sir,—just 
a plain yarn, ye see, and like scores that’s happening 




336 


Treasury of Tales. 


every day, though only a few o’ them ever get heerd 
of. 

“ Well, only a thimbleful, sir, thank ye. I’ve had 
my dose ; but there’s a bit of a smoke still left in 
these ’ere ashes, and certainly the liquor is most un¬ 
commonly good.” 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S BABY. 

FROM “BLACKWOOD.” 

1 . 

I RAD been considering for about a year whether 
I should marry Winifred Hanway, when I heard 
that she was engaged to the Philosopher. 

Why did she accept him ? True, he is both im¬ 
aginative and critical ; but faculties exercised in the 
formation of psychological hypotheses and the la¬ 
borious destruction of those of one’s neighbor do 
not usually rouse the sympathy of a bright and beau¬ 
tiful girl, who is more fit to live than to think about 
life. 

He is certainly handsome, but as certainly his 
clothes are barbarous. His trousers cannot keep 
their shape for a day, and his hats are never new. 
If he notices the rain, he opens an umbrella which 
might have served as an ineffectual protection at the 
time of the Deluge ; if he finds out that it is cold, he 
assumes a garment which might have been the every¬ 
day coat of Methuselah. In short, though he is a 
true friend, he is an uncomfortable acquaintance ; 
and his volcanic utterances, after long periods of 
calm contemplation cause such shocks to one’s 
nerves as would be conveyed to the Sunday citizen 
by the eruption of Beacon Hill. 

But if it was odd that the beautiful Winifred Han¬ 
way should marry my friend, it was yet more odd 
that he should marry any one, for there was no topic 
more certain to excite an explosion in the philoso¬ 
pher than the excessive population of the country, 
and the wholesome solitude of the Thinker. 

“ How,” he would fiercely ask, “ can a man think 
effectually on fundamental subjects, who is com¬ 
pelled by the despicable circumstances of his life to 
exhaust his analytical faculty in considering how to 
pay his butcher and when to buy his coal ? I tell 
you, sir, it’s better to starve with cold and hunger 
than to debase one’s noblest part to a game of 
skill with a grasping grocer.” 

Again and again I had heard him declaim in this 
preposterous fashion ; and after all, he was going to 
the altar like any other victim, and would doubtless 
take a house upon his back with the docility of a 
snail. 

I could not solve the problem ; I would not give 
it up. So, full of the determination to drag Diogenes 
out of his tub, and the secret out of Diogenes, I 
stepped round the corner to offer my congratulations. 
My friend was in his study, apparently writing. He 


rose at me with a rush, wrung my hand till it ached, 
and blushed rather uncomfortably. Still it was ev¬ 
ident that the philosopher had something ready to 
say, and was nervously anxious to say it. Indeed I 
had hardly said more than “ My dear fellow, I don’t 
know when ... I really am so awfully glad, I . . . 
it’s in every way so, such a satisfactory, you know 
... I really do wish all possible, and all that sort of 
thing you know ”— when he burst in with a speech 
so fluently delivered that I knew that I was not his 
earliest visitor that morning. 

“ Of course it’s taken you by surprise,” he said, 
“ as I knew it would ; but the truth is, that I have 
been thinking of it for a long time, and I am sure I 
am right.” 

Here I tried to get in an expression of wonder at 
his new notion of duty, but he was bent on being 
rid of the matter, and hurried on to his reasons. 

“ In the first place,” said he, “ I am sure that in¬ 
stead of increasing my domestic worries, my marriage 
will transfer them in a body to my wife ; and sec¬ 
ondly, when I consider the vast number of fools who 
are every day born into the world, I am terrified by 
the picture of what the next generation will be 
if the thinkers of this are to be without succes¬ 
sors.” 

Having discharged his reasons in this wise, the 
orator stood blinking at me as if he feared dissent, 
but I was too astounded by his magnificent audacity 
to reply. Slowly a look of peace stole back into his 
face, a pleasant light dawned in his eyes, and the 
promise of a smile at the corner of his mouth. His 
remarkable fluency was gone, and, indeed, his voice 
sounded quite choky when he said, “Johnny, you 
don’t know what an angel she is.” 

A light broke in upon me. “ Philosopher,” I said, 
“ I believe you are going to be married because you 
fell in love ! ” 

“ Perhaps you are right,” said the philosopher. 

II. 

After the wedding the philosopher and his wife 
went to Europe for an indefinite period, and their 
Boston friends heard but little of them. He wrote 
to nobody, and she did not write to me. Yet there 
were occasional rumors. Now they were breathing 
the keen air of the Engadine ; now he was lashing 
himself to frenzy over the treasures of Rome ; now 
she was gazing with her sweet eyes across the glow¬ 
ing splendor of the Bay of Naples. Then they were 
in Germany, and about to settle for life in a univer¬ 
sity town, but anon had fled from it in haste after 
a long night’s dispute, in the course of which my 
learned friend had well-nigh come to blows with the 
university’s most celebrated professor. 

At last I heard that they were home again and, 
full of enthusiasm, darted round the corner to wel¬ 
come them back. Nobody was with them but Mrs. 
Hanway, Winifred’s mother. I would enter unan- 











337 


The Philosophers Baby. 


nounced, and surprise the philosopher. I entered 
unannounced and was surprised myself. 

Was this the effect of matrimony or of foreign 
travel ? Each occupant of the room was engaged in 
an exercise wholly unconnected, as it seemed, with 
those of the rest. My friend’s wife, the lady whom 
I had almost loved, queen of all grace and comeli- 
.ness, was appearing and disappearing like a flash 
behind the morning paper, showing at the moments 
of disclosure a face flushed with excitement, and lus¬ 
trous coils of hair tumbled into the wildest disorder, 
while she accompanied the whole performance with 
strange and inarticulate sounds. 

Her mother, the same Mrs. Hanway who was so 
perfect a model of dress and carriage that many of 
her lady friends were wont to lament among them¬ 
selves that she gave herself such airs, was seated on 
the floor dressed for walking but without her bonnet. 
Yes, she was certainly drumming on an inverted 
tea-tray with the wrong end of the pokgr'. 

And the philosopher ? It was perplexing, after 
three years’ separation, to meet him thus. The phi¬ 
losopher was cantering round the room on all-fours, 
wearing on his head his own waste-paper basket. 
Briskly he cantered round, ever and anon frisking 
like a lamb in spring-time, until he reached Tny feet, 
which were rooted to the spot with astonishment. 
He glanced up sidewise, rose with a cry to the nor¬ 
mal attitude of man, and grasped me by the hand. 

At the sound of his voice his wife dropping the 
paper from her hands, raised them quickly to her 
hair ; and his mother-in-law, with as much dignity 
as the effort would allow, scrambled on to her feet. 
Then in an instant the cause of their eccentric con¬ 
duct was made clear. Throned upon the hearthrug, 
and showing by a gracious smile a few of the newest 
teeth, sat a fine baby of some fifteen months. In 
one dimpled fist was tightly clinched the brush, 
which had so neatly arranged the mother’s braids ; 
while the other was engaged in pounding the grand¬ 
mother’s best bonnet into a shapeless mass. 

We were all somewhat embarrassed except the 
baby. The ladies knew that they were untidy, and 
I that I was an intruder. As for the learned father, he 
stood now on one leg and now on the other, while 
he shifted the waste-paper basket from hand to 
hand, and continued to smile almost as persever- 
ingly as his amiable offspring. Yet it was he who 
at last put an end to our awkward position by ex¬ 
pressing a wild desire to have my opinion of the new 
curtains in his study. 

Rather sheepishly I said good-bye to the lady of 
the house, trying to express by my eyes that I 
would never call again unannounced. I knew that 
Mrs. Hanway had not forgiven me, as I humbly took 
the two fingers which she offered ; and I felt 
like a brute, as the most important member of the 
family condescended to leave a damp spot by the 
edge of my left whisker. 

When, however, I had been swept down stairs by 


my impulsive friend, and was alone with him in his 
den, my courage returned, and with it some in¬ 
dignation. I confronted him, and sternly asked 
him why 1 had not been told that he was a 
father. 

“ Not been told ? ” echoed he ; “ do you mean to 
say that you did not know about the Baby ? ” 

“ Not so much as that it was,” I replied, gloomily. 

He was overwhelmed : of course he had supposed 
that every one knew it—of course fifty people ought 
to have told me, who of course had told me every¬ 
thing else. At last my curiosity got the better of my 
indignation, and I cut short his apologies by begin¬ 
ning my questions. 

“ Does the shape of his head content you ? ” I 
asked. 

“The shape of whose what?” cried the philoso¬ 
pher, apparently too surprised for grammar. 

“Of the baby’s head, of course,” I replied, tartly ; 
“ I merely wished to know if the child was likely to 
be as intellectual as you hoped.” 

“ Isn’t the hair lovely ? ” he asked, inconsequently. 

This was too much, and assuming my severest 
manner I delivered myself in this wise : “ 1 thought, 
though no doubt I was wrong, that the use of a 
baby to you would be partly to furnish you with 
raw material for a philosopher, partly to enable you 
by constant observation to gain further evidence 
bearing on such vexed questions as, whether the in¬ 
fant gains its ideas of space by feeling about, 
whether it is conscious of itself,” etc. 

“ Well,” he said, laughing, “ I don’t expect much 
help from my infant in those matters, unless I can 
get inside her and think her thoughts.” 

“ Her thoughts ? ” cried I, in amazement; “ you 
don’t mean to say it’s a girl ? Good gracious ! you 
are not going to educate a female philosopher ? ” 

He looked rather vexed. 

“Of course it’s a girl,” he said. 

“ The father of a female philosopher ! ” I gasped. 

“ Dear me ! ” said he, somewhat testily ; “ isn’t it 
enough to be father of a noble woman ? ” 

Now, I have often put up with a great deal from 
my learned friend ; but there is a turning-point even 
for the worm, and nobody will sit forever at the 
feet which are constantly kicking him. I had been 
snubbed more than enough by this illogical parent, 
and assuming my most sarcastic manner, I inquired, 
with an appearance of deference, “ Is it not rather 
early to speak of your daughter as a noble woman ? ” 

“ Not at all,” said the philosopher. 

III. 

I had kept aloof from the philosopher for some 
weeks, nursing my wrath, like Achilles I said to my¬ 
self—cross as a bear, I overheard my landlady say 
in the passage —when I received a hasty note beg¬ 
ging me to come to him at once. I fancied myself 
summoned to a council of chiefs ; so, having donned 




338 


Treasury 


my shining armor, 1 left my tent with fitting dignity 
and descended with a clang into the plain. 

An unusual silence held my friend’s house that 
morning. The door was opened, before I had time 
to ring, by a melancholy footman, who noiselessly 
ushered me into the study. It was my lot to be 
again rooted to the spot with amazement. By the 
book-case, in a shaded corner of the room, with his 
head bowed low upon his hands, knelt the philoso¬ 
pher. 

Here was a long step from the siege of Troy 
—from the simple wrath of a child-like hero to the 
most complex embarrassment of an heir of all the 
ages. What should I do ? The dismal menial had 
fled to the shades, without a word, without even a 
glance into the room. If I retreated, I left my friend 
unaided, and remained ignorant of the cause of his 
strange conduct. If I advanced, I was again the in¬ 
truder on a scene not prepared for my inspection. 

In an agony of hesitation I fell to brushing my 
hat with my elbow ; but not finding the expected 
relief in the occupation, I was about to desist when 
my hat decided what my head could not, by falling 
with a crack on the floor. 

The effect was electrical. Without one glance at 
the intruder, the philosopher made a grab at the 
nearest book-shelf, dragged out a volume which had 
not been touched for half a century, and hunted for 
nothing in its pages with frantic eagerness. He was 
still at it, when I stood over him and noted without 
wonder that he held the book upside down ; then 
with the poorest imitation of surprise which I have 
ever seen, he rose and grasped my hand. 

“You found me on the track of something,” he 
said ; “ I was looking it out in — in-” 

Here it occurred to him that he did not know the 
name of the venerable tome which he had so rudely 
disturbed ; and with a heightened color and a sud¬ 
den change of manner he turned quickly to me and 
said, “ My child is ill.” 

I felt positively guilty. I had been angry with that 
baby for making my wise friend foolish, for not 
being a boy, for being called “a noble woman.” 
Was it not shameful that agreat hulking bruteshould 
sneer at a weak thing that could not even answer 
with a taunt ? Were not my clumsy sarcasms, 
enough to crush so delicat^ a plant? The poor little 
“ noble woman ” was in danger, and I could do noth¬ 
ing to help her. There were tears in the eyes which 
were looking into mine for comfort; but I had noth¬ 
ing ready to say. 

“ I could not stand being alone,” he muttered, 
after a short silence ; “the doctor is with her now, 
and in a moment I may hear that my little daughter 
must—in fact may hear the worst.” 

While he was speaking, I seemed to have fifty 
consoling remarks to offer; but when he stopped, no 
one sentence would disengage itself from the rest. 
What I blurted out at last seems almost ridiculous 
as I look back on it. 


of Tales. 

You must hope for the best,” I said ; “you know 
she has youth on her side.” 

The words were scarcely out of my mouth when 1 
heard a measured step upon the stairs ; presently the 
door was opened by the noiseless footman, and the 
most famous of Trimountain doctors entered the 
room. My friend leaned heavily on my arm, but 
looked at the man of science with seeming calm. 

“I am happy to say,” said the physician, cheerily, 
“ that our little friend is going on as well as possible.” 

“And she is out of danger ?” 

“ She never was in it.” 

“Never in danger?” cried I, almost disappointed. 

“She has nothing the matter with her,” he replied, 
“ but a slight feverish cold. I have seldom seen a 
finer or more healthy child. Good-morning.” 

I never was more annoyed. Here was a waste of 
my finest feelings. Here was I stirred to the depth, 
well-nigh moved to tears, by a baby’s feverish cold. 
Of course I was very glad that it was no worse, but 
my friend was too absurd, and I would not spare him. 

“Won’t you resume your studies ? ” I asked sarcas¬ 
tically, pointing to the disturbed book, which was 
lying on the ground at our feet. 

His humility might have disarmed me. “I am 
afraid I’ve been a fool,” he said ; “but if you had 
seen her all flushed and breathing hard ! and then 
she is so small and fragile ! ” 

“Yes, for a noblewoman,” I remarked. He re¬ 
ceived the dart meekly. 

“ Philosopher,” said I, suddenly, determined to 
rouse him at any cost, “ when I entered this room, 
you were engaged in prayer.” His color certainly 
deepened. 

“ May I ask,” I inquired with an appearance of 
deference, “ whether you were addressing yourself to 
the Personal First Cause, or to the Unknowable— 
but perhaps you were merely bowing to the Rational 
Order of the Universe?” 

He made a gesture of impatience, but answered r 
still with studied moderation : “ I was alone and in 
trouble.” 

“ And the efficacy of prayer ? ” I asked. 

“ For heaven’s sake,” cried he, bursting into ex¬ 
citement, “stop you jargon ! Nothing shows such 
ignorance of a subject as having all its cant phrases 
on the tip of your togue. Can’t I speak to God with¬ 
out expecting to be paid for it ?” 

This was turning the tables. If he was going to 
take to questions, I knew I should end by admitting 
myself a fool. So to avoid a Socratic dialogue I put 
my hand on my friend’s shoulder and said : “ You 
are a good man, philosopher ; may you and the ‘ no¬ 
ble woman ’ live a thousand years.” 

“ Thank you,” he said, simply ; “ and now you 
must let me go and sing a psean with the nobler 
woman, my patient Penelope, my sweet wife.” 

So he went with long strides over the asphodel 
meadow, and I betook myself to my tent full of 
pleasant thoughts. 






Metanisette Felice 


339 



MA’AMSELLE FELICE. 

BY JULIA SCHAYER. 

I T was New Year’s eve, and Fanny, Blanche, and 
Rachel were sitting with me around the open 
fire in the pleasant chamber assigned to me as 
former governess and present guest. 

The house was a quiet country mansion, very quiet 
now, since the death of the wife and mother a year 
before. There had been some company to dinner— 
the old minister and his wife, and their spinster 
daughter, and only son, a bashful Freshman at home 
for the holidays—but they had gone long ago. It 
was between ten and eleven o’clock ; the old Squire 
had retired to his own room, and we had agreed to 
wait together for the coming of the New Year. 

They were all attractive girls—Fanny, the oldest, 
an acknowledged beauty, as little spoiled as may be, 
Blanche, a small, clinging creature, who would prob¬ 
ably be called pet names by everybody to the end 
of her days, and Rachel, the youngest—a tall, silent, 
unformed girl, with the face and voice of a tragedy 
queen. 

We had been talking a good deal, at least the girls 
had, and had arrived at that point which the most 
voluble must surely reach at last, where nothing 
more is to be said. The last topic touched upon had 
been the suggestiveness of trifles, and considerable 
wit had been expended in the discussion, but, as I 
have said, we were now silent. 

“ Speaking of suggestive trifles,” began Rachel 
suddenly in her deepest tones, “ could anything be 
more suggestive than this ? ” 

She had been occupying herself with some small 
articles lying on a table by her side where I had 
placed them—writing and sewing materials, and va¬ 
rious small objects I was in the habit of carrying 
about with me—and now held in her hand a richly 
chased silver sheath, from which she drew a slender 
dagger of delicate shape and finish. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Fanny, seizing upon it, “if it 
isn’t the very same I used to see in Miss Charles’s 
desk when I was a child ! It always excited my envy 
and curiosity. Ah, how sharp it is ! It has a dread¬ 
fully suggestive look. A queer thing for you to be 
carrying about the world, Miss Charles ! ” she added, 
laughingly. 


“Even an old maid teacher may choose her paper- 
knife, I suppose,” I answered. “ But I did not choose 
this thing. It was brought to me from Venice by a 
much-travelled friend.” 

“ Venice ! ” repeated Fanny. “ Then it may have 
a story after all ! Oh, take it, Rachel. It breathes of 
love, and jealousy, and the vendetta ! And you look 
Vengeance herself with it in your hand ! ” 

I looked round upon the three girls. They were 
no longer children. Fanny was engaged to a young 
naval officer. Blanche was in the first stages of an 
affair with the blushing Freshman, and Rachel’s very 
soul was steeped in romance. Should I tell them 
the dagger’s story, the saddest story of my uneventful 
life ? All at once I met Fanny’s blue eyes bent 
eagerly upon me. 

“There is a story, girls 5 ” she cried, “and Miss 
Charles is going to tell it to us ! ” I nodded my 
head silently. The girls placed themselves in listen¬ 
ing attitudes about me, and I began. 

* * * Some years before the outbreak of our 

civil war, I was teacher at Bragdon Hall, a seminary 
for young ladies in one of the Southern States. 

At the close of a wearisome day’s work I left my 
recitation room fagged out entirely, and eager for 
the retirement and rest awaiting me in my own 
room. As the great doors which separated the 
school-rooms from the main building swung to be¬ 
hind me, the sound of piano-playing saluted my ears. 
In an institution containing eighteen pianos in al¬ 
most incessant use, this was no novelty, but I had 
not taken a step before I realized that here was 
something vastly different from the slip-shod per¬ 
formances of school-girls. Nothing less than the 
magnificent harmonies of the Sonata Appassionata 
rendered in masterly style, swept out through the 
open doors of the reception-room, and echoed 
through the corridors. 

I am no musician, as you know. I love music 
too well to profane it by a mediocre touch, but I 
have never allowed myself to miss an opportunity 
for hearing the best, and I stood entranced, wonder¬ 
ing what great artist had strayed into our midst. 
Suddenly it flashed across my mind that the new 
music-teacher, Mademoiselle Felice Michel, was to 
arrive that day, and I was obliged to conclude that 
this must be she. 

















































340 


Treasury of Tales. 


In the mean time I had unconsciously drawn 
nearer the open door, and became aware that Dr. 
Bellamy, the principal of the Seminary, was stand¬ 
ing just inside, beckoning me with that portentous 
forefinger which no one, from his nephew and head¬ 
teacher, Caryl Fleming, down to the lowest stable- 
hand on the place, ever openly disregarded ; there¬ 
fore, conscious though I was of my negligent appear¬ 
ance, I gave my rumpled hair a touch, and went into 
the room where the teachers and a few of the older 
pupils were gathered. 

The last tremendous Crescendo was reached and 
the closing chord struck as I entered, and the player 
wheeled slowly round upon the stool. I experienced 
a mental shock as I looked at her. A woman of 
twenty-five years perhaps, small, shabby in dress, 
and with a dark, foreign, and pitiably ugly face. 
I use the word “pitiably” with due reflection. 
There are ugly faces which attract, faces for whose 
smiles men do mad and desperate things. Hers 
was not one of these. It made the impression 
upon me of an oval yellow mask, with singular 
projecting eyes, and small, pale lips. A blind, life¬ 
less, impassive face, it seemed at that moment, but 
only for a moment, for as she passed her hand, a 
long, delicate, brown hand, slowly over it with a 
motion like removing a veil, the pallid blankness 
was gone, and as she rose to receive me, a friendly 
gleam came into the strange dark eyes, and a smile 
disclosed small pearly teeth, like a child’s. 

She looked at me steadily as I uttered my regret 
that I had heard only the last bars of the sonata, 
her head on one side like a bird. I afterward 
discovered that it was only in this way that she 
could see any object distinctly, a peculiarity of vis¬ 
ion which gave to her manner something at once 
furtive and piquant. She studied my face a mo¬ 
ment, and then, after pressing my fingers impul¬ 
sively, went back to the piano, and played an An¬ 
dante of Chopin, with a tenderness and power I had 
never heard equalled ; and again that white intro¬ 
spective look, if look it could be called, came over 
her features. 

When she had finished, she came over to me and 
held out both her hands, taking my own in a tense 
grasp. 

“ I see,” she said rapidly, in English—“ I see you 
understand. Ah, yes, I saw it when you came in. 
The others,” she added with a scornful little shrug, 
“ the others—it is the noise they like ! ” 

She dropped my hands with a light laugh that 
had for me an inexpressible sadness. In the mean 
time Caryl Fleming had entered, and now came 
listlessly forward with his uncle, a slight curiosity 
visible in his striking face. Fleming more than any 
man I ever saw resembled that darling of the femi¬ 
nine world, Edwin Booth in his younger days, and 
I am convinced had formed himself upon that indi¬ 
vidual in his favorite role. Certainly nature had well 
equipped him for the part of the melancholy Dane, 


whose looks, and voice, and attitudes he had 
adopted. 

He came up to Ma’amselle Felice, and, after being 
introduced by his uncle, uttered a few words of ad¬ 
miration for her playing, but his eyes were fixed all 
the time upon some one in another part of the room. 

1 noticed that Ma’amselle’s eyes followed the 
same direction, and I saw a quick gleam blaze up in 
them as she discovered the person who had absorbed 
Fleming’s attention—an exquisite Southern girl, a 
Miss Triplett of Georgia, the beauty of the school— 
a beauty anywhere. 

A smile curled Ma’amselle’s pale lips, and she 
swept across the room, like a dethroned princess in 
her trailing dress of seedy silk, to where Dr. Bellamy 
stood stroking his smooth chin, and showing his 
glittering teeth with pleasure. 

“ I am very tired, sir,” she said, so imperiously 
that every one near her started and began watching 
Dr. Bellamy’s face. “ I am very tired, I would like 
to go to my room.” 

“ Certainly, Ma’amselle, certainly ! ” he answered, 
touching the bell promptly. Ma’amselle bowed 
gracefully, and followed the negro servant who an¬ 
swered the summons, without a look at any one. 
The few pupils present soon left the room, not how¬ 
ever before Fleming had secured a word or two 
with Miss Triplett, and one of her sweet, lazy smiles. 

Dr. Bellamy came up to me rubbing his hands to¬ 
gether and smiling showily. 

“ And what do you think of the new music-teacher, 
Miss Charles ? ” he asked. 

“ Mademoisehe Felice is an artist ! ” I answered 
impulsively. “ It seems strange that such a player 
should become teacher in a school. It seems a 
pity ! ” 

I had made an unfortunate remark. Fleming was 
smiling behind his uncle’s back in undisguised de¬ 
light. Dr. Bellamy, too, continued to smile, but 
there was a look in his face that was not pleasant, as 
he said haughtily : 

“ It is my aim to secure first-class talent for this 
department of my institution. I owe it to my pa¬ 
trons. And I should say that the position of in¬ 
structor to young ladies of the first families in the 
South was far more honorable and agreeable than 
that of an itinerant pianist. Mademoiselle is to be 
considered fortunate in having secured the position.” 

“Uncle Harrington is well pleased with his new 
acquisition,” said Fleming, overtaking me a few 
moments later in the hall. “ A little haughty and 
self-assuming, it is true, is this unsophisticated young 
foreigner, but we will soon change all that. Jove ! ” 
he went on, mockingly, “ I haven’t seen my worthy 
uncle so delighted since he secured you at a bargain.” 

Fleming and I had understood each other from the 
first; he never wasted his caressing looks and tones, or 
subtly flattering speeches on me. But I felt my cheeks 
grow hot at his words, although I scorned to answer 
him. It was true, I was an ill-paid drudge. A 






Ma amselle Felice. 


34i 


friendless orphan girl, without beauty or talent, 
cannot make terms. My position among these hot¬ 
headed, idle Southern girls was a hard one ; but I 
was glad to earn my bread. It was different with 
Mademoiselle, I thought. Sensitive, spirited, and 
gifted as she was, how would she endure the petty 
rules and humiliating restrictions with which Dr. 
Bellamy saw fit to surround his teachers. I fore¬ 
saw trouble; but things adjusted themselves wonder¬ 
fully well. 

Ma’amselle Felice discharged her duties faithfully 
and efficiently, compelling the respect and even the 
affection of her pupils, by her firm, yet gentle and 
courteous, manners. She consented, too, to perform 
for the entertainment of visitors at Dr. Bellamy’s 
request whenever required, and never openly resisted 
any of the unnecessary restrictions which rendered 
our existence so much harder and more irritating 
than was necessary, although I now T and then saw her 
fasten upon our tyrant one of her steadfast, sidelong 
glances which it was evident he found almost unbear¬ 
able. But he knew Ma’amselle’s value too well to risk 
an open rupture. Her fame had spread rapidly, and 
was bringing a steady flow of the rich planters’ gold 
into his coffers. 

For some reason Ma’amselle attached herself to 
me from the first. She came frequently to my room 
in the evening, as I sat writing or studying, and 
threw herself without ceremony upon my lounge, 
where she would lie silently for a long time, her 
hands clasped beneath her head, or talking in her 
vivid intense way, with many gestures of her slender 
brown hands. 

I found her entertaining and clever, and in time I 
learned to be fond of her, although by temperament 
and training we were so widely different. She talked 
of many things,—of France, of music, of books, but 
most eloquently of Dr. Bellamy. Her detestation of 
him surpassed her power of expression, even when 
she relapsed into her mother tongue. I could only 
laugh at her furious torrents of indignation, although 
perhaps I should have been shocked. 

• “ You are a good hater, Felice ! ” I said once. 

“ I should be,” she said, with a dreary little laugh. 
“ I have had much practice in hating.” 

It was a late autumn evening, the rain was beat¬ 
ing fiercely and the wind sighing drearily through 
the trees. Such an hour awakens memories and in¬ 
vites to confidences, if one is alone with a trusted 
friend. 

“ Tell me, Felice,” I said, “ something of your 
childhood, your studies, and yourself.” 

“ Would it interest you ? ” she asked. “ There is 
nothing wonderful in it,—except that I should live at 
all.” 

She lay silent a few moments, while the strange, 
blank look which was always on her face when she 
was thinking deeply, or playing, blotted out the 
vivid brightness of her glance, and I quietly waited. 

“ It will be the story of a forlorn child,” she said 


at last. “A poor, miserable, unloved child. Do 
you want to hear it ? ” 

I went over to her, and sat on a low seat by her 
side. 

“ I was born in Paris,” she began presently. “ My 
father was a member of the orchestra of the Come- 
die Fran<;aise. He had much talent, but he was a 
bad man—a monster, a tyrant. My mother was a 
premiere danseuse, a ballet dancer, you understand. 
She died when I was very young. I can only re¬ 
member that she was very pretty, and very fond of 
me, and that my father was very cruel to her. She 
cried a great deal, and one morning she did not 
aw-aken, and the priest came and I was taken 
away, and afterward shown a long white figure 
covered with a sheet and a candle burning at 
head and feet, and they told me this was my mother. 
And I remember I was glad that my father could 
not ill-treat my poor little mamma again.” 

“ Helen !” she cried out, suddenly rising and fac¬ 
ing me. “ Do you believe in a God ? ” 

I was shocked, and troubled ; I did not answer 
until Felice had repeated her question. 

“ I do, Felice,” I then said. “ I do assuredly be¬ 
lieve in a God, who is a God of love, and mercy, 
and justice.” 

Felice looked at me with a faint smile, half sad, 
half cynical, and sank back upon the cushion. 

“ It is good,” she said quaintly. “ And may be it 
is true ; I will hope so. And when I see Him I 
hope He will let me ask Him some questions.” 

.She was silent a moment, and then began again. 

“ I was five years old when my mother died—a 
frightful little creature I must have been, so thin 
and black and odd-looking. I suppose that is why 
my father hated me so. At any rate he continued 
to beat and starve me worse than before, giving me 
my poor dead mother’s share of blows and curses I 
suppose. But one day he came unexpectedly into the 
garret room where we lived and found me playing 
upon the piano. It was an old, old instrument with 
many broken strings, but it was my sole joy, and when 
he came in I was so happy because I had found out 
the bass to a song I had learned on the street, that I 
did not hear him until he cried out in a big voice : 

“ ‘ Sacre ! little devil, play that again ! ’ 

“ ‘ Little devil ’ was his pet name for me. When he 
called me that I knew he was in his best humor. I 
played the little piece again. My father then took 
me and sat me upon a table, and looked at me long 
and hard, while I sat still and trembled. Then he 
burst into a loud laugh. 

“ ‘ The little devil ! ’ he kept repeating, ‘ who 
would have thought it ? She has something in her, 
after all ! We shall see ! We shall see !’ He 
gave me a sou to buy cakes. I did not understand, 
but I was glad of the sou, for I was always’hungry. 
But now he began to feed me better, and bought me 
shoes and warm clothing, and did not beat me so 
much, and he began to teach me music. Helen, 





342 


Treasury of Tales. 


you will not believe me, but God, your God, knows 
that what I say is true. I was kept at the piano 
every day for several hours, tied fast into a chair, 
with a stool under my feet. When he saw that my 
eyes were not good, and that I stooped forward to 
see the notes, he put a strap around my neck and 
bound it to the back of the chair. He placed a 

book under each of my arms, and a sou on the 

back of each hand, and often kept me in this posi¬ 
tion for a whole hour without change. Sometimes 
he went away and left me to practise alone, one 
finger at a time, thump, thump, thump, until it 
seemed to me that every note I struck was 

struck upon my brain or my heart. If I let the 

books or the sous fall I got a blow on the cheek ; 
if I kept them in place I could keep one sou for 
myself. 

“ This went on for four years. At the end of 
that time I could do wonders with my fingers, but I 
knew nothing else. I could scarcely read, I was 
stunted and old, not at all like other children. One 
day my father said I should now try to be admitted to 
the Conservatoire. He explained to me that I must 
play before a number of great musicians, and they 
would decide if I should be admitted as a pupil. 
He told Marguerite, the old woman who kept the 
house where we lived, to dress me at a certain hour. 
All the time she was braiding my hair, and fasten¬ 
ing my little black dress, 1 was growing sick with 
dread. I think I felt as people do before going to 
the scaffold. 

“ I followed my father to a great building and 
into a long passage, my legs quaking, my heart 
sinking. We w r ent into a room where a number of 
girls were seated, all of them pale and some of 
them crying, but they all laughed when they saw 
me. I was so little, and black ! My dear father 
seized me by the arms, and whispered, ‘ I will wait 
for you outside. If you fail I will kill you ! ’ Soon 
after a man came in and took our names, and gave 
us tickets with numbers upon them. One after 
another of the girls was called, and after a little 
came back looking scared and white, and went 
away. 

“ Then my turn came. I went into a large room 
where many men were seated at little tables. At 
the farther end was a stage, where was a grand 
piano. I knew what I had to do. I crept down the 
hall to the stage. I heard exclamations of pity and 
amusement as 1 passed along, and as I reached the 
steps, one kind, noble-looking old man smiled at me, 
and said softly, ; Courage, little one !' 

“ I went to the piano, and played without notes a 
sonata of Beethoven. After the first note I had no 
fear. It was all easy for me; but w r hen I had 
finished some one placed a piece of music in manu¬ 
script before me. Then, indeed, I began to tremble, 
because of my poor eyes. But I played the piece, 
almost without fault, to the end. When I went down 
the steps and through the hall many faces smiled at 


me, and the same old gentleman whispered softly, 
‘ Bravissima ! ’ 

“ My father seized my hand at the street-door, 
and dragged me home without a word. During the 
following week he scarcely spoke to me, but the way 
he looked at me froze my blood. 

“ At last one day there came a large envelope 
sealed with a great seal. My father turned pale 
when he saw it, but a moment later turned to me 
wfith a fierce smile. 

“‘ C’est bon!’ he muttered. ‘ If you had failed 1 
would have Beaten you to death ! ’ 

“After this life was less hard for awhile. Under 
my new teachers I worked hard, and gladly, for 
they were very kind ; and some of the girls were 
kind, too, though the most of them laughed and 
jeered at me. Years passed, and I graduated, tak¬ 
ing the second prize. I was very happy for some 
time, for I was praised and noticed, and even my 
father was good to me in his own way. 

“ But now he lost his position in the orchestra, 
through drunkenness and insubordination, and it 
fell to me to support him. This was not difficult, 
for I had pupils, and was often required to play at 
entertainments. But gradually he grew morose and 
brutal. 

“ ‘ You might make your fortune if your were not 
so ugly ! ’ my dear father would say. 

“ ‘ Is not Monsieur B-ugly ? ’ I asked, allud¬ 

ing to a great pianist then causing a sensation in 
Paris. 

“ ‘ Ah, bah ! ’ laughed my father ; ‘ he is a man. 
A man can be as ugly as possible, it makes no dif¬ 
ference. But an ugly woman-! ’ 

“ I began to understand things now. I sat hours 
before my little dressing-glass looking at my face, 
and weeping, for 1 saw it was hopeless. My eyes, 
alone, were enough. I had not even la beautd de 
diable” she laughed bitterly. “ Even that was want¬ 
ing. 

“ I must laugh now to remember how I tried to 
press these dreadful eyes into their sockets—how 1 
lay night after night with weights bound over them, 
until I found I was making myself blind, and gave 
up the struggle. Mon Dieu ! ” she cried, rising and 
walking the floor. “ I would let myself be carved 
with a knife and chipped with a chisel, to be made 
beautiful—if only it were possible ! ” 

“ Beauty is a passing thing,” I said. “ It fades in 
a little while, but your talent>-” 

She turned upon me with flaming eyes. 

“ It fades, yes!” she cried ; “but in the mean time 
one has lived , one has been happy, one has been 
loved ! ” 

She threw herself face downward on the lounge 
again, and we were both silent awhile. 

“ But tell me,” I said at last, “ how you happened 
to come to America.” 

“ There is little to tell,” she answered wearily. 
“ My father died, and I came with a family of 










Mdanisette Felice. 


343 


musicians to New York. I found plenty of drudg¬ 
ery to do, and I played in concerts sometimes, 
but it was always the same story. I was so ugly ! 
I was tired of hearing and feeling this. I lost 
heart and ambition, and so answered Dr. Bellamy’s 
advertisement. I knew it was to be buried alive, 
but 1 did not care. To eat, to sleep, is all that life 
has for me ! ” 

“ Felice ! ” I said, impatiently, “ it is a positive sin 
for you to talk so ! ” 

She stopped me with a gesture. 

“ Hear, my dear ! ” she said. “ Last evening I 
played for visitors. Mr. Fleming was there. I thought, 
< I will try him.’ He was standing by me at the piano, 
and I chose something for him , and I played until 
I saw his heart in his eyes. Then Miss Triplett 
came in, and sat where he could see her. I saw his 
eyes fasten upon her, and he could hardly wait for 
the last note, and when it was struck went imme¬ 
diately over to her.” 

Again Felice sprang up excitedly. 

“ Yes,” she cried, “ I would give all I possess of 
talent ; I would be willing never to hear a note of 
music, to be, only for one year, as beautiful as that 
girl is. Do you know, when I am giving her a lesson, 
I often feel that I would like to strike her in her 
calm, satisfied, beautiful face ! I believe I hate all 
pretty girls, and her most of all ! ” 

At that moment came the sound of Dr. Bellamy’s 
slippered feet in the passage. It was past the hour 
when lights were to be extinguished, and he was 
making his nightly rounds. At my door the steps 
paused, and there came the warning scratch, 
scratch, of that portentous forefinger, and a slight 
significant cough. 

“ Tyraii! ” muttered Felice, clinching her small 
fists, and preparing to depart. 

“ As you only hate pretty girls,” I said, as I bade 
her good night, “ you will try to love me a little, I 
hope ? ” 

Felice laughed, and patted my cheek. 

“ You are good and true, and I do love you so 
much,” she answered. She kissed me on either cheek 
in her pretty French fashion, and slipped away. 

What Felice had told me of herself had made 
clear to me many things in her character that had 
puzzled and troubled me. She was only a passion¬ 
ate, undisciplined child, yet wonderfully kind and 
considerate of others, and generous to a fault. 
Among her pupils were some dull, ill-favored girls 
for whom nobody seemed to care, and these Felice 
singled out for special attention. She had not a 
particle of the Parisienne’s taste in dress, and bought 
the cheapest and flimsiest things for herself, but 
spent her money freely upon any one who seemed in 
need of it. She had no skill with needle or scissors, 
yet I have often found her pleased as a child over 
some queer-shaped but comfortable garment she had 
made with much pains for some poor black child on 
the place. 


Poor Felice ! What she had betrayed in her ex¬ 
citement as she spoke of Fleming troubled me a 
good deal, and every day gave me new cause for 
fear. 

We had organized a literary club for the study of 
the French classics under Ma’amselle Felice’s super¬ 
vision. She herself read with a purity of accent and 
power of expression which made our efforts mere 
travesties, of course, and she possessed one of those 
beautiful, low-pitched voices which one never tires of 
listening to. But we were all amazed when one even¬ 
ing she threw aside the volume of Racine from which 
we had been reading, and rising, began reciting in 
the most wonderful, impassioned manner some pas¬ 
sage from Adrdenne Lecouvreur. I cannot recall the 
words, but it was where Adrienne is first made to be¬ 
lieve in her lover’s»treachery. We were spell-bound. 
Fleming, who was half reclining on a low seat in one 
of his Hamlet attitudes, looked first amused, and then 
bewildered, and fixed his eloquent eyes upon Felice to 
the very last word. 

“ I would not have believed-” he began, as if 

to himself, then added warmly, “ Ma’amselle, that 
was superb ! ” 

Felice fixed upon him one of her intense side- 
glances,—a bitter smile came to her face. 

“You would have said you did not believe it was 
in me,” she said in her quaint, rapid way. “ You are 
right, Mr. Fleming. There is nothing in me. That 
was mere imitation. I have heard Rachel and other 
great artistes many times.” 

Fleming colored slightly, but made no attempt to 
apologize for his rudeness. I saw, however, that he 
followed Felice with his eyes for the rest of that 
evening, and always with that look of wonder, or 
bewilderment. 

After this, under one pretext or another, he began 
to seek her society. He sang very well, and sud¬ 
denly discovered that he sang better with Felice’s 
accompaniment. Then he wished to converse in 
French—always some selfish motive, you perceive ; 
but Felice never seemed to notice that. She seemed 
incapable of resisting his influence in anything, or of 
refusing any request he might make, except that 
after that one evening, no one, not even Fleming, 
could persuade her to recite for us again. 

A wonderful change began to come over Felice. 
As she came to me sometimes after a walk or 
ride with Fleming, and pressed her cool, soft cheek 
against mine, I wondered if this smiling girl, with 
the pink flush on her face, the light in her strange, 
pathetic eyes, could be the plain, impassive-looking, 
elderly young woman we had called Ma’amselle 
Felice. Her very step, and voice, and carriage had 
altered. 

Matters continued so for some weeks. One even¬ 
ing Felice came to my room, and threw herself down 
at my side, burying her glowing face in my lap. I 
was sure from her manner that something more than 
usual had happened. 







344 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Helen ! ” she said, at last, raising her face and 
flinging her arms about me. “ Helen, I am so 
happy ! If happiness could kill I should die ! Ah, 
ma cherie, you will not believe it! You cannot ! I 
can scarcely believe it myself, but it is true ! My 
God, it is true ! He loves me ! ” 

A sharp pang went through me at her words. 

“ I suppose you mean Caryl Fleming, ” I said, with 
an unresponsiveness she had not expected. She 
looked at me an instant, then laughed a laugh thrilled 
through and through with ecstasy. 

“ Certainly, I mean Caryl Fleming,” she said. 

“ Did he tell you so?” I persisted. Felice rose 
to her feet, and looked at me with a puzzled, pitying 
smile. 

“ Did he tell me so ? ” she repeated, softly. “ In 
words ? No. I believe not. But in a thousand 
other ways, yes—and to-night, to-night, Helen, he 
took me in his arms, and kissed me again and 
again ! ” 

For an American or English girl such frankness 
would be impossible. In Felice it seemed only 
natural and fitting. The fervor and naivete of her 
manner robbed her speech of all unwomanliness or 
strangeness ; but in my heart of hearts I trembled 
for Felice. 

However, for a time Fleming’s devotion seemed 
absolute. Outside of their recitation rooms they were 
always together, riding, walking, or singing. 

The brief Southern winter, during which Nature 
merely turns a cold shoulder upon us for a time, was 
over, and again she was smiling with all the glow and 
tenderness of Spring. I kept up my solitary walks 
and rides, sometimes coming upon Felice and her 
lover, she looking absorbed and radiant, he languid, 
and, I fancied at last, more than a trifle bored. 
Apparently his latest experiment was losing its 
piquancy. I was not surprised, therefore, when 
Felice began at last dropping into my room evenings 
in the old way. 

One evening she had been lying for a long time 
upon the lounge, her eyes fixed upon the ceiling, 
where the lamp threw a huge shadow like a dark, 
hovering wing, when I broke the silence myself. 

“ You do not play for Mr. Fleming this evening ? ” 

“ No,” she answered. “ Mr. Fleming has a cold— 
and headache—and letters to write.” She spoke 
these words slowly, with long pauses, as if answering 
some doubt or questioning within herself, rather 
than my own. I asked no further questions. I 
would force no confidence. 

Fleming withdrew himself more and more. He 
had no time for music. He was writing for Northern 
magazines now,—he was a clever fellow, with a happy 
turn for writing—and, like the rest of the teachers, 
the approaching close of the school year gave him 
much extra work. Indeed, we were all absorbed 
in additional duties, both teachers and pupils—the 
former forced to superhuman exertions by Dr. Bel¬ 
lamy’s canine watchfulness and persistence, the lat¬ 


ter nervous and apprehensive, or sulky and imperti¬ 
nent, as the case might be. 

In a word, we were all wrought up to the artifi¬ 
cial and unwholesome state common to such crises, 
and I am afraid that under the stress brought to bear 
upon me I was even unmindful for a time of the 
change that was again coming over Felice, or that 
she had ceased almost entirely to come to my room, 
even avoiding me, as I at last perceived. 

But as I was one day standing in the hall with 
Fleming, discussing some point concerning the ar¬ 
rangements for the approaching examination, Felice 
passed by us, her head held very high, her long 
black dress trailing, her hands clinched against her 
side. The whiteness of her face struck me. 

“ Ma’amselle Felice is looking badly,” I said to 
Fleming. “ She misses her accustomed rides and 
walks.” Fleming languidly regarded a rose in his 
button-hole. 

“ Why does she not ride, or walk, then ? ” he in¬ 
quired in the most indifferent of voices. 

“ She is perhaps waiting for the company of her 
fiance,” I answered, betraying, I do not doubt, a 
good deal of heat. Fleming raised his eyes from 
the rose, and looked at me with an affectation of 
mild surprise. 

“ Ah, indeed ! ” he said, “ I was not aware that 
Ma’amselle was engaged. Who, I beg, may the for¬ 
tunate man be ? ” 

“You are even more cruel and base than I 
thought!” I said, turning away indignantly. Flem¬ 
ing laughed softly. 

“ Why do young women become hysterical on the 
slightest provocation ? ” I heard him remark. 

I found Felice standing at Bellamy’s door, which 
was opposite my own, engaged in earnest conversa¬ 
tion with that gentleman, both evidently in great ex¬ 
citement, although he was smiling his most glittering 
and unpleasant smile. 

“ No ! ” Felice was saying rapidly, with many ges¬ 
tures. “ No ! Say what you will, I will not give 
her one more lesson ! ” 

“ But your reason, Ma’amselle ? ” I heard Dr. Bel¬ 
lamy say, as I closed my door. “If Miss Triplett 
has been impertinent-” 

“Impertinent!” cried Felice. “No, she would 
not dare. But I give her no more lessons, tout le 
meme. Impertinent ! Mon Dieu, her very existence 
is an impertinence to me,—to me ! ” And she swept 
away tempestuously. 

Felice had her way here, and Miss Triplett was 
excused from her music lessons for the remainder of 
the term. This occasioned some gossip among the 
girls, who spoke unreservedly before me. Perhaps, 
because I was myself young, and they felt safe with 
me. There was some girlish chaffing of Miss Trip¬ 
lett, in which Fleming’s name was mentioned. She 
made no retort, but a faint pink crept over her 
creamy skin, and she kept her long, soft eyes down¬ 
cast, slowly turning a ring on one of her fine dim- 









Mdanisette Ftlice. 


345 


hysterically. I touched her dress. It was wet with 
dew, as was her loose dark hair. 

“ Where have you been ? ” I asked hastily. 

“ I have been ghost-hunting,” she said. “ It is 
great fun, ma chere.” 

“Then it was you I saw on the veranda,” 1 impul¬ 
sively said. Felice started. 

“ On the veranda ? No, I was not on the veranda. 
What have you seen ? ” 

“ It was nothing, I suppose. I merely fancied I 
saw something.” 

“Very good,” said Felice. “ It is like a play, this 
night. It is the third act. The denouement will be 
very fine, that is certain.” 

She began laughing again. I did not like her 
voice or her manner, but I left her after inducing 
her to go to bed. 

The next day was the first of the public exercises 
which were to close the school year. The little 
town was overflowing with guests, and every spare 
room at the Hall was filled with parents or relatives 
of the graduating class. I had feared that Felice 
would be unable to fulfil her arduous duties ; but she 
appeared at breakfast looking no paler than usual, 
and was if anything rather more voluble and witty. 

A few moments before nine o’clock I stood on the 
veranda surrounded by the girls of my class in their 
white gala-dresses waiting for the sound of the or¬ 
gan which was to be the signal for our entrance. 
Fleming and Dr. Bellamy were already upon the 
platform, and the seats assigned to the spectators 
were more than filled. Near me stood Miss Triplett, 
calm and unconcerned amid her agitated, expectant 
school-mates. She was dressed in the finest white 
mull, and her throat and bare arms were wreathed 
in the feathery foliage and yellow blossoms of the 
jessamine, which also shone star-like in her soft 
dark hair. She held in her hand a huge bouquet of 
yellow roses. She was the dullest girl in the class, 
and the least popular, but no one could have denied 
that she was one of the most beautiful creatures un¬ 
der the sun. 

All at once Felice came along the veranda on her 
way to the organ. She started at sight of Miss Trip¬ 
lett, and stopping before her looked at her with a 
strange, uncanny smile. Small, haggard, badly 


pled fingers. She smiled faintly, too. She had a 
smile that would have won St. Anthony from his 
cell. 

All through the following days of toil and worry 
and excitement, Felice avoided me. Often I stole 
to her door when the house was quiet for the night, 
and tapped softly, calling her name, but she did not, 
or would not hear me. 

One warm night along in June, finding it impos¬ 
sible to sleep, I rose and sat by the window. All 
at once I heard my name whispered softly through 
the key-hole. It was Felice’s voice. I rose and let 
her in. She wore a long white wrapper, and her 
hair was all about her shoulders. 

“ Felice,” I said, “you look as if you might be the 
ghost that haunts the verandas.” 

“ Ghost! ” she repeated. “ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Oh,” I laughed, “ the servants swear that a ghost 
haunts the verandas, and not one of them will budge 
from the door after nightfall.” 

Felice stood still a moment, as if in thought. 

“That interests me, that ghost,” she said pres¬ 
ently, with a shrug of her shoulders ; “ I would like to 
meet it. Do you know, when I am dead I will be a 
ghost, too. It must be a great consolation, that.” 
She laughed bitterly under her breath, and began 
walking about the room. She went to my table, 
and bent over the flowers upon it. 

“ Oh, too sweet! ” she said. “ It is not good for 
you, my dear ; there is poison in too much sweetness.” 

I noticed that her hand wandered among my pa¬ 
pers for a moment, and then went quickly to her bo¬ 
som. Afterward I remembered this. 

She came to the window and looked out into the 
warm, fragrant, starlit darkness. 

“ It is near the hour for ghosts to walk,” she said, 
after a moment or two ; “ what if we might see 
one.” 

The ignorant gossip of the black servants 
seemed to have impressed her curiously ; she lin¬ 
gered a short time, and then went away. I watched 
her little figure trailing down the corridor with feel¬ 
ings of pain and uneasiness, and though I went 
again to bed, I could not sleep. I rose and put the 
flowers out on the window-ledge, and as I did so I 
fancied I saw a white figure slip into the darkness of 
the long veranda that ran along the back building. 
I dismissed the thought as a nervous fancy, but I 
simply could not lie down. I opened my door 
noiselessly—long practice had rendered us all 
adepts at this—and looked and listened intently. 
It seemed to me that I could hear a faint sound of 
opening and closing doors or windows below, and 
to my wrought-up senses the dark passages seemed 
full of flitting shapes and airy whispers. I crept 
along to Felice’s door. It was open, and the room 
was empty. But as I stood there wondering, she 
came swiftly through the corridor and into her room. 
She did not start at seeing me, but seized my wrist 
in her cold fingers and began laughing softly and 


dressed, she was a sorry contrast to that tall and 
lovely daughter of the South, in her exquisite flower- 
wreathed attire. I saw a kind of shiver pass through 
her as she looked, and suddenly she put one of her 
hands on the proud beauty’s spotless arm. 

“Bon jour , Ma’amselle Triplett!” she said, 
speaking rapidly in French. “I hope you have 
slept well! No bad dreams, no phantoms, eh ? ” 
She had begun speaking in her suavest tones, but 
before she finished her voice had a harsh, almost 
fierce, sound. The girl withdrew her arm haughtily, 
and answered coldly in the same language, 

“ Merci, Ma’amselle, I have slept well, and I 
never dream.” 






34 ^ 


Treasury of Tales. 


Felice gave a short laugh and passed on. A 
moment afterward the stirring notes of the “ Wed¬ 
ding March ” pealed from the organ, and the exer¬ 
cises began. 

Three days of incessant excitement and absorbing 
work followed, and on the third and last evening the 
house and grounds were thrown open to visitors. 
When the crowd was greatest I succeeded in stealing 
away, with the intention of enjoying the luxury of 
an hour’s rest, when in one of the corridors I met 
Dr. Bellamy. 

“I am looking for Ma’amselle Felice,” he said? 
with evident impatience. “ There are strangers who 
wish to hear her.” 

“ Have you been to her room ? ” I asked. 

“ Certainly. She is not there. Perhaps,” he 
added, “she is on the lawn with—with Fleming.” 

I said I would look for her. It was a relief to 
find myself in the open air, and I walked about the 
grounds for some time, meeting many youthful 
couples—for on this occasion discipline was relaxed, 
and the young ladies could indulge for once in the 
privilege of flirtation—but I nowhere saw Felice. 
In a remote part of the lawn I came upon Flem¬ 
ing and Miss Triplett. I went directly up to him> 
and said : 

“I am looking for Ma’amselle Felice. Have you, 
perhaps, seen her?” 

“ I have not, indeed,” he answered, coolly. 

I returned to the house and went to Felice’s room- 
She was there, now. She had thrown herself upon 
her bed. A sorrowful, piteous figure she made in her 
soiled evening dress of blue silk, wreathed with torn 
and rumpled artificial roses. The long trail was wet 
and soiled from contact with the grass of the lawn, 
her white shoes soaked through and through. 

“ Felice,” I said, “ Dr. Bellamy is looking for you.” 
She made no answer. Her face was buried upon 
her arms. 

“Come,” I said, trying to raise her. “You must 
not give way to this. Where is your pride, Felice ? 
Will you let that man see your misery ? He is 
unworthy of your love—wholly unworthy.” 

Still no answer. 

Dr. Bellamy came to the door, but I sent him 
away. Then I removed Felice’s tawdry evening 
dress, and prepared her for retiring. She gave her¬ 
self into my hands without resistance or appeal, 
like a tired child. Poor Felice,—how wasted were 
her slender limbs, how cold and trembling her small, 
child-like hands. I went to my room for my dress- 
ing-gown, and came back to her, for I dared not 
leave her alone. I turned the gas very low and lay 
down by her side, and there we lay, while the 
laughter and music came up to us from below. 
Felice lay as if asleep, or dead, except once when 
Fleming’s voice, singing “ O ma charm ante," came 
floating up alone, so sweet, so tender, so impassioned. 
Then a long shuddering breath escaped her, and her 
cold fingers closed tightly upon my hand. 


At last we heard the guests departing. Carriage 
after carriage rolled away. The inmates of the 
Hall dispersed to their rooms with much talk and 
laughter. Doors and windows were closed, and 
silence fell. After an interval, Dr. Bellamy’s slip¬ 
pered tread was heard, and. then followed perfect 
silence. 

Worn out physically and mentally I fell into a deep 
sleep, from which I started all at once with a sudden 
sharp sense of fear. I turned to Felice. She was 
not beside me, nor in the room. I rose and went 
out into the hall, and listened intently. I was sure 
at last that I heard a slight rasping sound from be¬ 
low. I groped my way through the hall to the stairs 
and down them, into the abysmal darkness of the 
low r er passages. At the foot of the stairs I listened 
again, and this time I heard a faint sound from the 
direction of one of the recitation rooms. This room 
was for Fleming’s exclusive use. It was situated 
directly opposite his apartments, and gave also upon 
the veranda. Toward this room I made my way, 
with no other object than to find Felice and save 
her from some evil—I did not know what. 

I reached the door, and pushed it gently. It 
opened without noise. At the same instant there 
came the sound of a match struck against the wall, 
and in the brief illumination which followed I dis¬ 
tinctly saw three figures—that of Fleming, holding 
in his arms a tall girlish figure in a white dress, and 
that of Felice, wrapped in a long black cloak, ad¬ 
vancing swiftly toward them. Then came utter 
darkness again ; a swift rush, a succession of pierc¬ 
ing screams, a struggle, a wild laugh, a fall, and 
Fleming’s voice calling for help. I must have an¬ 
swered him, for the next moment he said : 

“ Is that you, Miss Charles ? For God’s sake bring 
a light—something terrible has happened ! ” 

But there was no need. Already steps and voices 
were in the hall, and Dr. Bellamy appeared upon the 
threshold with a candle in his hand. 

“ What in Heaven’s name— ” he began, but stop¬ 
ped suddenly, stricken with amazement, horror, 
and anger. Miss Triplett lay in his nephew’s arms 
insensible, with blood flowing over her white gown. 
Fleming was bending over her uttering wild words 
of tenderness. In a dark corner crouched Felice, 
gesticulating and muttering incoherently. 

“ What does this mean, Caryl ? ” cried his uncle, 
but Fleming paid no attention. He carried the in¬ 
sensible girl across into his own room, and laid her 
upon a couch. 

“ Let some one go for a doctor, quick ! ” he said 
to the group of teachers, pupils, and guests which 
had gathered about the door. The girl’s mother had 
already appeared, and was moaning and wringing 
her hands helplessly, while Fleming had turned 
back the loose sleeve and bound his handkerchief 
over the wounded arm. 

I alone went to Felice, still cowering and mutter¬ 
ing in the corner, and I saw that her fingers still 






Steer N. IV. 


347 


clasped a small dagger which I recognized as mine. 
She made no resistance as I attempted to raise her, 
but as I led her out into the hall, and Fleming, bend¬ 
ing over the still motionless form of Miss Triplett, 
became visible, she uttered a cry more dreadful 
than any sound I ever heard, and fell to the floor as 
if dead. 

What followed I recall only as something I have 
dreamed or read of. I remember seeing Felice 
carried up to her room, and that some one brought me 
to my own, and laid me upon my bed. The next day 
I was required to tell what I had witnessed. I was 
not allowed to see Felice at first, but as I begged so 
urgently, Dr. Bellamy took me himself to her room. 
I found her in charge of two strong black women, 
and two or three physicians were present. Felice sat 
upon the side of her bed, her hands bound together, 
her slender fingers twining and untwining themselves 
with a terrible restlessness. Her face was utterly 
colorless, and rigid, and blank—a death-mask. I 
spoke to her, but she would not notice me. She 
continued to mutter to herself in her own tongue. I 
caught some words I had heard her repeat so often— 

“ Quand on a tout perdu, 

Quand on n’a plus d’espoir, 

Tout perdu—plus d’espoir.’’ 

Felice was hopelessly mad. * * * 

There was silence in my room. Blanche’s face 
was hidden in my lap, and I think she was sobbing 
a little. Rachel sat gazing at the fire, her heavy 
brows drawn together, her mouth sternly set, and 
looking altogether like a girlish Nemesis with the 
little dagger gleaming amid the folds of her dark 
dress. Fanny, however, sat calmly stroking her 
bronze-brown hair, whose splendid length she had 
drawn forward over her arm, and was holding out to 
catch the fire-light. 

“ Well ? ” she said at last. 

“ Well ! ” I repeated. 

“ Aren’t you going to tell us the rest ? ” 

“ Isn’t that enough ? ” 

“ Enough ! ” said Fanny with indignation. “ We 
want to know what became of that horrid girl.” 

“ And Fleming ! ” said Rachel, in a fierce under¬ 
tone. 

“ And Felice,” added Blanche in a smothered 
voice. 

“ The ‘ horrid girl ’ was only slightly wounded. 
She went home with her mother the same day. But 
why do you call her horrid ? She could not help be¬ 
ing beautiful and fascinating, you know.” 

“ I hate her all the same,” said Fanny. “ Go on, 
there’s a dear.” 

“ Fleming followed her soon, and they were married 
in a short time. He became professor in a South¬ 
ern college, and later was an officer in the Confeder¬ 
ate Army, and was, I believe, killed in battle. Felice 
never recovered. I went to see her years afterward 
at the asylum to which she was carried. She was 


sitting upon the edge of her bed, weaving her fingers 
in and out and muttering to herself incessantly. Her 
hair was quite white, and her face had the same 
dead, blank look. She showed no sign of recogni¬ 
tion, and I had to leave her as I found her.” 

Again there was silence in the room. All at once 
the clock began striking the midnight hour. The 
old year was dead. One by one the girls rose and 
bade me “Good-night and a Happy New Year,” and 
I was left alone by my dying fire. 


STEEF( N. W. 

THE FIRST OFFICER’S STORY. 
ANONYMOUS. 

A BOUT two years ago I left the service. I 
was tired of it; and as I wanted some more 
exciting employment, I joined a whaler. We 
were unlucky—somehow, I bring no luck anywhere— 
and we were nearly empty. We were cruising up 
here to the north, and thinking of making for home, 
as the weather had changed : and the ice forms pre¬ 
cious quick in those latitudes when it once begins. 
The captain naturally wanted to hang on to the last 
for the chance of another haul. 

One bright afternoon, just after eight bells, I made 
up the log, and took it to the captain’s cabin. I 
knocked at the door, and as nobody answered I 
walked in. I thought it odd the captain hadn’t an¬ 
swered me, for there he was, sitting at his desk, with 
his back to me, writing. Seeing he was employed, 
I told him I had brought the log, laid it down on 
the table behind him, and as he made no answer, I 
walked out. I went on deck, and the first person I 
met was the captain. I was puzzled—I could not 
make out how he had got there before me. 

“ How did you get up here?” I said; “I just 
left you writing in your cabin.” 

“ I have not been in my cabin for the last half- 
hour,” frhe captain answered ; but I thought he was 
chaffing, and didn’t like it. 

“There was some one writing at your desk just 
now,” I said ; “ if it wasn’t you, you had better go 
and see who it is. The log is made up. I have 
left it in your cabin, sir,” and with that I walked 
sulkily away. I had no idea of being chaffed by 
the captain, to whom I had taken a dislike. 

“ Mr. Brown,” said the captain, who saw I was 
nettled, “ you must have been mistaken, my desk is 
locked. But come—we’ll go down and see about 
it.” 

I followed the captain into the cabin. The log 
was on the table, the desk was closed, and the cabin 
was empty. The captain tried the desk—it was 
locked. 

“ You see, Mr. Brown,” he said, laughing, “ you 
must have been mistaken, the desk is locked.” 






34§ 


Treasury 


I was positive. “ Somebody may have picked the 
lock,” I said. 

“But they couldn’t have closed it again,” the 
captain suggested ; “ but to satisfy you, I will open 
it and see if the contents are safe, though there is 
not much here to tempt a thief.” 

He opened the desk, and there—stretched right 
across it—was a sheet of paper, with the words 
“ Steer N. W.” written in an odd, cramped hand. 

The captain looked at the paper, and then handed 
it to me. 

“You are right, Mr. Brown ; somebody has been 
here. This is some hoax.” 

We sat there some time talking, and trying to 
guess what could be the object of such a joke—if 
joke it was meant to be. I tried to identify the 
back of the man I had seen at the desk with that 
of any of the crew. I could not do it. It is true 
I had at first taken the man for the captain, but 
now points of difference suggested themselves. I 
had not looked very attentively at the figure, but 
still I was under the impression that the coat it had 
on was brown, and the hair, which appeared under 
the cap, seemed, as I remembered it, to have been 
longer and whiter than the captain’s. There was 
only one man on board who resembled in the least 
the figure I had seen. I suggested to the captain 
that it might have been old Shiel, the boatswain. 
He did not like to suspect the old man, who was a 
great favorite ; besides, what motive could he, or 
indeed any one else, have had in trying to change 
the course of the vessel. 

Not to appear to suspect any one in particular, 
the captain determined to have up all the crew. 
We had them up, one by one. We examined them, 
and made all those who could write, write “ Steer 
N. W.,” but we gained no clue. One thing was 
very clear—it could not have been old Shiel, who 
was proved to have been forward at the time I was 
in the captain’s cabin. The mystery remained un¬ 
solved. 

That evening I sat drinking my grog with the cap¬ 
tain in his cabin. We were neither of us inaiined to 
be talkative. I tried to think of home, and the 
pleasure it would be to see the old folks again, but 
still my thoughts always wandered back to that 
mysterious writing. I tried to read, but I caught 
myself furtively peeping at the desk, expecting to 
see the figure sitting there. 

The captain had not spoken for some time, and 
was sitting with his face buried in his hands. At 
last, he suddenly looked up, and said— 

“ Suppose we alter her course to north-west, Mr. 
Brown ? ” 

I don’t know what it was ; I cannot hope to make 
you understand the feeling in my mind that followed 
those words ; it was a sense of relief from a horri¬ 
ble nightmare. I was ashamed of the childish pleas¬ 
ure I felt, but I could not help answering eagerly, 
“ Certainly : shall I give the order ? ” 


of Tales. 

I waited no longer, but hurried on deck and al¬ 
tered the course of the vessel. 

It was a clear, frosty night, and as I looked at 
the compass before going below, I felt strangely 
pleased, and caught myself chuckling and rubbing 
my hands : at what, I cannot say—I didn’t know 
then, but a great weight had been taken off my mind. 

I went down to the cabin, and found the captain 
pacing up and down the small space. He stopped 
as I came in, and looking up said, abruptly— 

“ It can do no harm, Mr. Brown.” 

“ If this breeze continues,” I answered, “ we can 
hold on for thirty hours or so, but then, I should 
think-” 

“ But then —we shall find ice. How’s the wind ? ” 

“ Steady, north by east.” 

We sat down and finished our grog. I had the 
morning watch to keep next day. I was too restless 
to sleep after it, so I kept on deck the whole of the 
day. Even that did not satisfy me. I was contin¬ 
ually running up into the tops with my glass, but 
every time I came down disappointed. The cap¬ 
tain was as unquiet as myself. Something we 
expected to happen, but of what it was to be we 
could form no idea. The second officer, I believe, 
thought us both crazy ; indeed, I often wondered 
myself at the state I was in. Evening came, and 
nothing had turned up. The night was bright, and 
the captain determined to carry on under easy sail 
till morning. 

Morning came ; and with the first gray light I 
was on deck. It was bitterly cold. Those only 
who have seen them can form an idea of the deli¬ 
cate tints of the morning sky in those Northern 
seas. But I was in no humor to appreciate the 
beauties of nature. There was a mist low down on 
the horizon : I waited impatiently for it to lift. It 
lifted soon, and I could not be mistaken,—beyond 
it I could see the shimmer of ice. I sent down to 
tell the captain, who came on deck directly. 

“It is no use, Mr. Brown,” he said; “you must 
put her about.” 

“Wait one moment, the mist is lifting more, it 
will be quite clear directly.” 

The mist was indeed lifting rapidly. Far to the 
north and west we could see the ice stretching away 
in one unbroken field. I was trying to see whether 
there appeared any break in the ice toward the 
west, when the captain, seizing my arm with one 
hand, and pointing straight ahead with the other,, 
exclaimed— 

“Good Heavens ! there is a ship there.” 

The mist had risen like a curtain, and there, sure 
enough, about three miles ahead, was a ship seem¬ 
ingly firmly packed in the ice. We stood looking 
at it in silence. There was some meaning after all in 
that mysterious warning, was the first thought that 
suggested itself to me. 

“ She’s nipped bad, sir,” said old Shiel, who, with 
the rest of the crew, was anxiously watching our new 







“ Little Mrs. Haynes .” 


349 


discovery. I was trying to make her out with the 
glass, when the flash of a gun, quickly followed # by 
the report, proved that she had seen us. Up went 
the flag, union downward. We needed no signal 
to know her distress. The captain ordered the sec¬ 
ond officer off into the boat. I watched him as he 
made his way over the ice with a few of the men to¬ 
ward the ship. They soon returned with eight of 
the ship’s crew. It was a dismal account they gave 
of their situation. They might have sawed their 
way out of the ice, but the ship was so injured that 
she could not have floated an hour. The largest of 
their boats had been stove in, the others were hardly 
seaworthy. They were preparing, however, to take 
to them as a last resource when our welcome arrival 
put an end to their fears. Another detachment was 
soon brought off, and the captain with the remainder 
of his crew was to follow immediately. 

I went down to my cabin, and tried to think over 
the singular fate which had made us the preservers 
of this ship’s crew. I could not divest myself of 
the idea that some supernatural agency was con¬ 
nected with that paper in the desk, and I trembled 
at the thought of what might have been the conse¬ 
quences if we had neglected the warning. The boat 
coming alongside interrupted my reverie. In a few 
seconds I was on deck. 

I found the captain talking to a fine old sailor-like 
looking man, whom he introduced to me as Captain 
Squires. Captain Squires shook hands with me, and 
we remained talking some time. I could not keep 
my eyes off his face ; I had a conviction that I had 
seen him somewhere, where I could not tell. Every 
now and then I seemed to catch at some clue, which 
vanished as soon as touched. At last he turned 
round to speak to some of his men. I could not 
be mistaken—there was the long white hair, the 
brown coat. He was the man I had seen writing 
in the captain’s cabin ! 

That evening the captain and I told the story of 
the paper to Captain Squires, who gravely and in 
silence listened to our conjectures. He was too 
thankful for his escape out of such imminent peril to 
question the means by which it had been brought 
about. At the captain’s request he wrote “ Steer 
N. W.” We compared it with the original writing. 
There could be no doubt of it. It was in the same 
odd, cramped hand. 

Can any one solve the mystery ? 


“LITTLE MT{S. HAYNES.” 

BY MARGARET VERNE. 

I. 

T was an eventful era in my young life when 
my father announced his intention of renting 
the light, airy, southern chamber of our old 
brown house, to a young portrait-painter, who was 
about becoming a resident in our village during a 


few weeks of the summer. Never before had an 
event so stirring arid exciting in its tendency broken 
over the monotony of my existence. Never before 
had my childish imagination been furnished with so 
wide a field of action, or my little heart throbbed 
and palpitated with such a strange mixture of won¬ 
der and delight. A portrait-painter under our own 
brown roof, within the walls of my own home— 
what a rare chance for my inquisitive eyes to draw 
in a new fund of knowledge ! What an object of 
envy I should be to my little mates, and how dain¬ 
tily would I mete out to them what I learned from 
day to day of the wondrous man of the wondrous 
employment! 

I had heard of portrait-painters before, it is true, but 
only as I had heard and read of fairies in my little 
story-books, or listened to my father as he talked of 
kings and courtiers in the great world afar off. Upon 
our parlor walls from my earliest remembrance had 
hung portraits of my grandfathers and grandmoth¬ 
ers, but I had no idea how their faces came stamped 
upon the dark canvas, or when or by whom their 
shadows had been fixed within the heavy gilt frames. 
Like the trees that waved by the door, and the li¬ 
lacs that blossomed every year by the old gate, they 
had to me always been so. 

But now my eyes were to rest upon the face of one 
whose existence had been like a myth, a fable ! 
What a wonderful personage he would be ! What a 
dark visage he would boast, and what a monstrous 
giant-like form ! How entirely unlike every person 
that I had ever seen or known, would be this por¬ 
trait-painter ! 

While these speculations were at their height in 
my busy brain, the hero made his appearance, scat¬ 
tering them mercilessly to the four winds. There was 
nothing giant-like in the lithe, graceful figure that 
sprang from the village coach, or dark in the pleas¬ 
ant, boyish face, shaded by soft masses of brown 
hair, and lit up by a merry pair of blue eyes, run¬ 
ning over with mirth and mischief. His name, too, 
quite like the generality of names, had nothing won¬ 
derful or striking by which to characterize it. He 
was simply Frank Haynes, nothing more or less ; and 
when, with a pleasant, easy grace, he sought to win 
my childish favor, I should have been quite at home 
had not the stunning knowledge of his art overpow¬ 
ered me. It was a strange freak for a child of ten 
summers, but somehow it crept into my baby brain 
that I must not like him, although the while, in spite 
of myself, a preference for his opinions, ways and 
looks, grew up strong within me. If he spoke to 
me when any one was observing him, I was silent 
and shrank away from him timidly, but when we 
were alone, I chatted and chirruped like a young 
robin. I think he must have noticed this, and from 
it taken into his head the boyish idea of teasing me. 

To him, he said, I was little Phebe Lester no 
longer, now that he knew how much I cared for 
him. For the future he should call me Mrs. Haynes 








350 


Treasury of Tales. 


—little Mrs. Haynes, and should be very angry if 
everybody in the house did not follow his example. 
1 must not ever have any little beaux among the 
schoolboys now that my name was changed ; but I 
must be prim and proper like any married woman 
who was faithful to her husband. 

“ Would I agree to this ? ” he asked. 

I glanced up from the hem of my white muslin 
apron, which I had been twisting about my fingers, 
to meet my mother’s eye fixed laughingly upon my 
face. In a moment my lips were closed resolutely, 
while he, seeing at once the cause of my silence, 
reached out of the window and plucked a rose from 
a running vine, that crept nearly to the mossy eaves. 

“ Little Mrs. Haynes must wear the rose,” he said. 
“ It would never do for her to toss her head and 
throw his gifts carelessly by. All married women 
wore flowers which their husbands gave them. Would 
I wear the rose ? ” 

I glanced about the room again. My mother was 
nowhere to be seen, and so I said that I would wear 
it, if he wanted me to. 

“ And would I consent to be called little Mrs. 
Haynes ? ” 

“Yes, I would consent.” 

“ Then it was all right. He would never look 
about for a wife, nor should I ever look about for 
a husband. We were Mr. and Mrs. Haynes. Did 
that suit me ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, that suited me ! I like that! ” 

“ Well, then, he should have to buy me a little 
gold ring to wear upon my third finger, to let folks 
know that some one owned me.” 

“ No, I didn’t want a ring ! ” 

“Tut, tut, tut! That would never do. People 
who were engaged to be married always gave such 
pledges. He should speak to father about it, so 
that it would be all right. If he was willing, would 
I wear the ring ? ” 

“No, I didn’t like rings?” 

“ Wouldn’t I like a ring that he would buy ?” 

“ No—I wouldn’t like a ring at any rate.” 

During his stay, which was protracted to months 
instead of weeks, he strove in every way to change 
my determination about the engagement ring as he 
termed it. I was inexorable. A ring I would not 
wear. Not even when he made ready for his de¬ 
parture, and told me that in a few weeks he should 
be thousands of miles away from me, nor when he 
piled up before me pictures that he had drawn at 
his leisure, during the long summer hours that hung 
heavily upon his hands, would I revoke my decision. 

I would take the finely executed drawings, the pret¬ 
tily framed portrait of himself, but I would have no 
rings. 

At last he went away from us. I shall never for¬ 
get the morning, or how cold, dull, and cheerless it 
seemed to me. How dreary and desolate every¬ 
thing looked because he was going away. It was no 
every-day grief that bore down upon my young 


heart, no childish promise that assured him, as he- 
kissed my quivering lips, that I would never forged 
him, and that I would always be his little Mrs 
Haynes. 

“ Would I write to him and sign that name ? ” 

“ Yes, I would.” 

“ I was a good girl, then, and he would never for¬ 
get me. Good-by ! ” 

“ Good-by ! ” My voice trembled and fluttered 
upon the Word. In my short life they were the 
hardest I had found to speak. 

During the next two years no lady-love could have 
been more faithful to her absent knight than was I 
to Frank Haynes. The brightest moments of my 
life circled about the reception of his letters, the 
greatest joy of life was in answering them. Among 
my schoolmates I had no childish love, no juveniles to 
wait upon me to sleigh-rides and parties, that the 
children in the neighborhood delighted in. If I 
could not go and come alone, I would remain at 
home, whatever might be the inducements offered to 
tempt me from my unswerving course. I w r as little 
Mrs. Haynes, and little Mrs. Haynes I was bent upon 
remaining. 

But while 1 was in the very midst of my heroic de¬ 
votion, a terrible rumor reached my ears, a rumor that 
Frank Haynes, my self-appointed lord and master,was 
engaged to a young and beautiful lady in the city. 
It was a dreadful blow to my precocious hopes and 
plans, though for a long while I battled against 
crediting the report. Hadn’t Frank told me that he 
would never look about for a wife ? that / was the 
only little lady who should bear his name ? Didn’t 
he write me regularly every fortnight, commencing 
his letters “ Dear little Mrs. Haynes,” and telling me 
to be faithful to him ? And—and—would he do this- 
if he was engaged ? No, not a bit of it! Someone 
had maliciously lied about him, had manufactured 
the story from their own wicked imagination. I would 
not believe it, though the whole world stood up be¬ 
fore me and testified to its truth. 

As if to reward me for my faith, and set my prej¬ 
udiced little mind to rights, the next coach sat 
Frank down at our door. He thought he must come 
and see his little wife once more, he said, as I went tim¬ 
idly forward to meet him, though he thought it very 
bad taste in me to grow at such a rapid rate. He 
was afraid I’d grow out of my engagement; he 
should have to put a loaf of hot bread on my head 
to keep me within bounds. We had been engaged 
two years ; I was twelve years old, and a head taller 
than I was at ten. He was going to Europe to stay 
three or four years ; what would I be when he re¬ 
turned ? He did not dare to think. He believed I 
would be as tall as he by that time. Wouldn't I ? 

“ I hoped so,” I answered, tartly, thinking the 
while of the story of his engagement. 

“Whew! You are taking on the airs of a fine 
young lady already, my little Phebe,” he answered, 
laughing heartily. “ You wouldn’t give me one of 








“ Little Mrs. Haynes 


35i 


your brown curls to-day, if my heart should break 
for it; would you ? ” 

“ No, I have none to spare.” 

“ Not one ? ” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ ’Cause-” 

“ ’Cause what ? ” 

“ Because she has heard strange reports of you, 
Frank,” broke in my mother, mischievously. “ She 
hasn’t any idea of letting you rob her of her curls 
while she doubts your sincere allegiance to her. She 
is a lady of spirit, you see.” 

“ On my faith, she is !” he exclaimed gayly, fixing 
his blue eyes upon my face. “And I trow I’m in 
love with her for it. Never mind reports, my little 
lady.” 

I answered only by a curl of my lips, while he 
reached out his hand to draw me to a seat upon his 
knee. 

“ No, I won’t sit there ! ” I cried, pushing away 
his hand, while the tears, which had been crowding 
their way into my eyes, gave a sudden dash down 
my burning cheeks. “ I’ll never sit there again, 
never! ” 

“ My dear little Phebe ! ” 

There was a real pathos in his rich, manly voice, 
a quick, penetrating, surprised look in his clear blue 
eyes as he uttered these words, followed by a rapid, 
wondering expression of tenderness, as he repeated 
them. 

“ My dear little Phebe ! May God bless you ! ” 

I stole quietly away from him out of the house, 
with that fervent benediction lyin^ fresh and deep 
upon my childish heart, and threw myself down in 
the shade of the old orchard trees, and sobbed out 
the heaviness that pressed upon my spirits. For 
hours I lay there in the mellow September sunshine, 
brooding over the little romance that had so silently 
and strangely grown into th^ woof of my almost 
baby life. I wept before my time for the delicious 
griefs that forever cling to a sweet and conscious 
womanhood. 

When I returned to the house Frank had taken 
his leave, but in my little work basket he left a small 
pearl box, which contained a plain gold ring ! Did 
I wear it ? Are you a woman, reader, and ask it ? 

II. 

“ Phebe, Phebe ! mother says, come down stairs ! 
There is a gentleman in the parlor who wishes to see 
you.”* 

The words broke harshly into my pleasant dreams 
which I had been weaving all the long, golden July 
afternoon, in the unbroken stillness of my little 
chamber. At my feet, upon the carpet, with its 
leaves rumpled and crushed, lay my neglected Virgil 
in close proximity to a huge Latin dictionary, while 
upon my lap, in a wrinkled condition, my sewing 
was lying, with a needle hanging by a long line of 
thread, nearly to the floor, as if escaped luckily from 


a round of monotonous hemming, which as vet 
boasted but two or three stitches at its commence¬ 
ment. 

“ Who can it be that wishes to see me ! ” I ex¬ 
claimed, rising hastily and calling after my little six- 
year old brother. “ Who is it, Charlie ? ” 

“ Don’t know ; it’s somebody. Mother says come 
down.” 

“ Who can it be ? ” An hour since I had seen a 
gentleman with a heavily bearded face come up 
the walk, but I was too busy with my dreams to no¬ 
tice him very particularly. Still as I recalled his 
face and figure, and his quick springing step, there 
seemed something strangely familiar in them. Who 
could it be ? My heart beat rapidly. Surely I had 
seen that face and form before, and a name that was 
singularly dear to me trembled upon my lips— 

Frank Haynes ! ” 

But I could not go down to meet him, though 1 
was summoned a thousand times. I did not wish to 
see him ; why should I ? There was no occasion for 
it. I was not the foolish little girl of twelve sum¬ 
mers whom he had left five years ago in short frocks 
and curls, but a full-grown woman instead. No, I 
was not the same. I would not go down. Besides, 
a sudden headache was nearly blinding me. Mother 
could not ask it of me when I was hardly able to sit 
up. But what would he think ? Would he care ? 
Would he still remember, tenderly, the little Mrs. 
Haynes of five years ago. 

Little ! I repeated the word as I stood before 
the long mirror, which gave back to me an accurate 
picture of myself. A slender, passable form ; a 
dark, clear complexion ; large gray eyes ; a mouth 
whose redness seemed to have robbed my cheeks 
of their color ; white teeth ; a forehead broad, but not 
high ; large, heavy braids of chestnut-brown hair, 
was the likeness framed before my eyes. I turned 
away with a sigh, and glanced down to my hand. 
Upon the third finger of the left was a plain gold 
circlet. The hot blood rushed up into my cheeks 
as I looked at it. I would wear it no longer. He 
should never know that I had worn it at all. Just 
then my brother came again to the door of my room, 
crying out a new message. 

“ Mother says little Mrs. Haynes is wanted down¬ 
stairs.” 

“ I have a terrible headache, Charlie. Please tell 
mother so ; ” and I sank down upon a chair close by 
the window, and leaned my head upon a chair- 
handle. 

“ Dear, dear ! if they would but forget me ! ” 1 
murmured to myself, as the hum of their conversa¬ 
tion came clearly to my ears. An hour passed away, 
and I heard a sound of voices in the hall, then steps 
in the walk below. I did not glance eagerly from 
the window, or peer carefully from the half-closed 
shutters, but clasped my hands tightly over my eyes 
till the sound of footsteps died away in the distance ; 
then I crept stealthily down-stairs and stepped softly 







352 


Treasury of Tales . 


into the silent parlor, where so lately he had been. 
I was half across the room before I noticed that I 
was not alone, and then, before I could make a 
hasty retreat, a glad, merry voice, rich with its 
golden music, exclaimed : “ My own dear little Mrs. 
Haynes, as I live ! How happy I am to see you ! ” 
and a hand clasped mine tightly, while a pair of 
bearded lips were bent down to mine. I drew my 
head back haughtily. I was a little child no longer. 
I would not accept, even from him, the caresses 
that he had bestowed upon me five years before. 

“ Ah, Mr. Haynes,” I said, bowing in a dignified 
way, “ I am pleased to see you.” 

My manner chilled at once his warm, genial nat¬ 
ure. Stepping backward from me and releasing my 
hands, he said with a curl of his finely cut lips, 
“ Your pardon, Miss Lester ; I had quite forgotten 
that you had grown to be a fine lady ! ” 

I bowed him back a reply, flashing a quick, im- 
petous glance upon him, as I did so. But there 
was no pleasantry attempted on his part, and w T hen 
my mother entered the room a few moments after, 
and referred, laughingly, to our old engagement, he 
answered her in a few evasive words, as though the 
subject was not an agreeable one to him. 

Affairs had taken an unhappy turn, but it was too 
late to remedy them, and day after day passed away, 
leaving Mr. Haynes as cold and distant as he had 
been from the moment I first repulsed him. I would 
have given worlds to have recalled my unlucky words; 
yet, since they were spoken, I would not unbend a 
moment from my calm, cool dignity, though I was 
as miserable and wretched as I could well be, and 
knew that Mr. Haynes shared my wretchedness. 

All the time that I could spend in my chamber, 
without being absolutely rude, was passed there, till 
my strange, unusual appearance was noticed by my 
father and mother, and my mood commented freely 
upon before our guest. 

“ You appear so strange, Phebe,” said my mother 
one morning, ‘*1 really do not know how to under¬ 
stand you. I’m afraid that Mr. Haynes will think 
you are not pleased to see him. Every chance that 
occurs you resolutely avoid him, as though he were 
the veriest monster, instead of a dear friend. What 
is the matter ? ” 

“ Nothing. The strangeness of my appearance is 
but a reflection. I cannot help it. Mr. Haynes 
hates and despises me now,” I said, burying my tear¬ 
ful eyes in my hands. 

“ Phebe ! ” 

My mother’s voice was stern and reproachful, but 
I did not heed it. 

“ He does hate me, mother ! hates me with-” 

“ Your pardon, little Phebe—Miss Lester, but he 
does not! ” broke in the clear, rich voice of Mr. 

Haynes. “ Of all persons in the world-” He 

paused, and in a moment more I heard my mother 
step lightly from the room. 

“ I am not cold, haughty, and proud,” I said ex¬ 


citedly, looking up into his face, “ and I do like 
you just as well—as well-” 

“ What, little Phebe ? ” he asked, eagerly, a quick 
expression of joy lighting up his blue eyes. 

“ As well as ever I did ! ” I faltered. 

“And how well is that? So well that during all 
these weary years you have not cherished a dream 
of the future that did not encircle me ? So well 
that every strong, passionate hope of your womanly 
nature has reached out constantly to me ? As well 
as I bave liked, ay, loved you—till every pulse of 
your heart beats for me ? As well as this, Phebe ?” 

I covered my face that he might not read the 
whole expression of my love in my tell-tale eyes, and 
be shocked that it had grown to be so near a wild, 
passionate idolatry. 

“ Will you become Mrs. Haynes in truth, in earn¬ 
est, Phebe ? ” he asked, drawing me to my old seat 
upon his knee. 

“ Yes ? ” 

“ And will at last wear the ring ? ” 

I held up my finger before his eyes. 

“ My own darling little wife ; at last my little Mrs. 
Haynes, in good faith ! ” he exclaimed, covering my 
lips with kisses. 

That night there were sly looks and glances cast 
toward me at every turn, and at the supper-table 
my father quite forgot himself, and called me “ little 
Mrs. Haynes ” again. 

Reader, I have been a happy wife for some three 
blessed, sunshiny years, and as you may have al¬ 
ready conjectured, “ my name is Haynes ! ” 


A DEADLY FEUD. 

A TALE FROM FRANCE. 

BY RUDOLPH LINDAU. 

A T sixty-five M. Isidore Tisson, professor of 
history at the University of Montpellier, had 
still one great passion and one dear friend. 
He was a collector of rare books, and loved to be 
called a bibliophile. His friend’s name was Colonel 
Casimir Coste. 

M. Tisson had been a widower thirty years. His 
two daughters—who, after their mother’s death, had 
been educated by an old aunt of a very religious 
turn of mind—were both married. One of them 
was settled at Nimes, the other at Lunel. They 
were highly proper and highly respected ladies, who 
punctually performed all their duties without a mur¬ 
mur and without any pleasure. They paid their 
father frequent short but formal visits, and never 
stopped a night in Montpellier, so that they in no 
way interfered with the quiet routine of the profes¬ 
sor’s life. 

Colonel Coste was a bachelor. Isidore Tisson 
and Casimir Coste, whose parents had been next- 
door neighbors, had begun to play together when 








A Deadly Feud. 


n £ -j 


they were only five years old. They had been to 
the same school, and had parted for the first time 
when they were seventeen. Tisson then went to the 
University of Toulouse, while Coste was sent to the 
military college of St. Cyr. They did not meet 
again for forty years, and by that time they had 
completely forgotten each other. 

During this long interval M. Tisson had published 
several learned works, and had obtained the chair 
of professor of history in his native town. Coste 
had fought the Bedouins in Algeria and the Russians 
at Sebastopol, and had been obliged to retire from 
active service in consequence of a severe wound 
received at the storming of Fort Malakoff. He was 
a lieutenant-colonel, and an officer of the Legion of 
Honor. On leaving the hospital, the lonely, weary 
man returned to his native town, which he had not 
visited Since the days of his youth. But he had 
often felt a strange longing to spend there in quiet 
the evening of his restless life, and now he hoped to 
do so. 

He found Montpellier but little altered during the 
long years of his absence, and soon recognized in 
■one of its narrow streets the very house in which his 
parents had lived and where he was born. It so 
chanced that a small apartment was to be let there. 
He hired it, furnished it simply, and established him¬ 
self there at once. Behind the house was a large 
garden ; and the colonel, as a favored tenant, 
obtained permission of the landlord to walk in it 
when he chose. 

One evening in September, as Coste was passing 
up and down the gravel walk in this garden, smok¬ 
ing his short pipe and thinking of Africa, the Crimea, 
and friends that were dead or lost, he heard himself 
called in a fashion that startled him,— 

“ Casimir ! Casimir ! ” 

For nearly forty years no one had called him by 
that name. His superiors and his soldiers during 
that time had addressed him successively as lieuten¬ 
ant, captain, major, and colonel ; his brother officers 
as Coste. He had lost his father and mother many 
years ago, and had never had any brothers or sisters. 
He might well-nigh have forgotten that he had a 
Christian name, and now some one was calling him 
by it! 

“ Casimir ! Casimir ! ” 

He turned round and saw at a window of the first 
floor of the house next to his own a middle-aged 
gentleman, who was smiling and nodding to him in 
the most friendly manner. For a moment the colo¬ 
nel remained motionless. Then with an oath, which 
it was his habit to utter whenever he wanted to 
express joy, anger, astonishment, or, in short, any 
sudden emotion, he called out in return,— 

“ Isidore ! Is it possible ? ” 

A few moments later the professor was in the gar¬ 
den with his friend. He told him that he had re¬ 
turned that very morning from a trip which he had 
taken during the vacation, and had only just learned 


that a Colonel Coste, a native of Montpellier, had 
come to live next door. 

“ I at once thought it must be you, and would 
have called upon you to ascertain if my conjecture 
was correct, but I saw you in the garden and recog¬ 
nized you at once. You are not a bit altered.” 

The colonel upon this laughed so loudly that the 
sparrows in the tree flew away in affright 

“Well,” he said, “I think that’s just a little ex¬ 
aggeration. When I accompanied you to the dili¬ 
gence that took you to Toulouse you were a hand¬ 
some, slender lad, with a soft down on your upper 
lip and a profusion of dark, curly locks. Now you 
can boast of a very respectable circumference, and 
your dark hair has turned gray. I was then a mere 
boy, with bright eyes, sound teeth, active legs, and 
magnificent head of hair which I used to part some¬ 
times on the right, sometimes on the left side, not 
being sure which way was most becoming. Now I 
require spectacles to read, I munch like a rabbit, 
because I have lost my back teeth, I walk lame 
because the Russians sent a bullet into my right leg, 
and I have so little hair left that the natural parting 
of it reaches from one ear to the other. Frankly, I 
cannot think I am very like the Casimir you 
knew'.” 

“ Still I recognized you at once. I would have 
known you among thousands, and would have said : 
‘ That’s my old friend and schoolfellow, Casimir 
Coste.’ ” 

“ Well ! and did I, I should like to know, hesitate 
as to your name ? ” 

Then the two old gentlemen shook hands for the 
twentieth time, and laughed, while their eyes grew 
moist. Both talked at the same time, so that neither 
understood what the other was saying, until at last 
they came to regular questioning. 

“ Are you married ? ” 

“ No ; and you ? ” 

“ I have been a widower many years.” 

“ Children ? ” 

“ Two married daughters.” 

“ Here, in Montpellier ? ” 

“ No ; one at Lunel and one at Nimes. Are you 
going to live in Montpellier ? ” 

“ Of course ; and you ? ” 

“ I am a professor at the University. But come ; 
it is getting cold. Pascal, my old housekeeper, 
shall give us some supper. We will drink a bottle 
of rare wine and have a good chat together.” 

The colonel made no objection, and the two friends 
sat together till a late hour in the professor’s snug 
drawing-room, telling each other the simple stories 
of their lives. They met again the next day, and 
the colonel dined at the professor’s. On taking 
leave he invited his old friend to be his guest the 
next day at the table d'hote , where he was in the reg¬ 
ular habit of taking his meals. 

“ I have never kept house,” the colonel said, “ and 
I am too old to begin now. Wherever I have been 




354 


Treasury of Tales. 


stationed, the table d'hote has been my table. I 
hope you will dine with me there to-morrow.” 

But M. Tisson objected. “ We dine together,” he 
said, “ because we like one another’s company, not 
because we want to do a polite thing. I have no 
fancy for restaurants and hotels. There are always 
strangers there, and one cannot talk comfortably and 
freely. Besides, to tell you the truth, Pascal has 
spoiled me. I am accustomed to her cooking, and 
hotel fare does not agree with me. Please withdraw 
your invitation. We do not stand on ceremony. 
Dine here again to-morrow and the day after—every 
day; you cannot do me a greater favor.” 

The colonel consented to dine with his friend the 
next day. 

Two weeks went by. The friends spent several 
hours together every day, and the bachelor had 
dined maybe a dozen times at the widower’s house, 
when one day after dinner—old Pascal having left 
the room after serving coffee—Coste lit his pipe, 
cleared his throat, and made the following speech, 
for which he had been preparing himself for the last 
week. 

“ This is all very fine, Isidore, but things cannot 
go on in this way.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I have never lived better in my life than I do 
now with you, yet I do not like my board.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ When I was a lieutenant I used to pay sixty 
francs a month for my dinner ; when I became cap¬ 
tain, it cost me eighty francs ; since I have been ma¬ 
jor, I have always reserved a hundred and fifty francs 
for that purpose. I must stick to these old habits to 
be comfortable ; and if you cannot think of some 
way in which I can spend my-money and have your 
company, I must give up dining with you.” 

“ Excuse me, Coste, but really you are not speak¬ 
ing like a sensible man.” 

“ Well, I have been thinking that I would be very 
sorry not to see your familiar face opposite me at 
dinner ; and, somehow, I fancy that you would miss 
me." 

“You may take your oath of that.” 

“ And therefore I want to make a rational pro¬ 
posal to you.” 

There was a long pause. The colonel cleared his 
throat again. 

“ Well, go on,” said the professor, gently. “ I 
see what you are driving at in your clever way ; but 
let me tell you, I consider your proposal childish. 
Yes—be angry if you like—positively childish.” 

“ Childish or not, I stick to it. And if you care as 
much for me as I do for you, if you are not afraid 
of having too much of me, you will accept it.” 

The professor resisted for some time. He tried 
hard to persuade the colonel to continue to be his 
guest; but the old soldier would not yield, so the 
professor had to give up. 

“ You were always obstinate and self-willed,” he 


said, “w'hereas I was always the good-natured and 
sensible one of us two. Let it be as you wish : 
henceforth you shall pay for your board.” 

But this did not settle the question. Coste pro¬ 
posed to pay too much—Tisson asked for too little. 
At last they agreed that Pascaline, W'ho for thirty 
years had been the professor’s housekeeper, should 
act as arbitrator. She was what is called in France 
a maitresse-fcmmc, and had a clear, sensible answer 
ready for any question that might be put to her ; sa 
after a short conference with her, it was settled that 
M. Tisson would not be a loser if the colonel con¬ 
tributed a hundred and twenty francs a month. 
Thus this long discussion came at last to an end. 

From that day a new and brighter life began for 
the two lonely old men, which made them forget 
their age, and which continued without interruption 
for many years. The professor had little to do ; 
the colonel nothing at all. They spent many hours 
together every day : they walked arm in arm up and 
down the “ Perou ” and the “ Esplanade ”— the two 
principal promenades of Montpellier ; they sat to¬ 
gether in the professor’s library ; or they went out 
together on the “ Links,” being passionately in¬ 
terested in an interminable game of “golf ”—a pas¬ 
time which is almost as much in honor at Montpellier, 
and at Montpellier alone of all French towns, as at 
St. Andrews in Scotland. Their evenings were 
spent at the club, where they found their regular 
whist-party. They became daily more dependent 
on each other,—as happens with old people from 
whom the rest of the world is gradually withdrawing, 
who love few, and are loved by few, and whose 
interest centres in a narrow circle. 

Very soon they became indispensable to each 
other. Tisson became uneasy if Coste was five 
minutes late for dinner, and the colonel had every 
morning a confidential talk with Pascaline to inquire 
if the “master” had passed a good night, if his 
cough had been troublesome, and if he had enjoyed 
his breakfast. He was a regular attendant at the 
professor’s lectures. His venerable head, his atten¬ 
tive, earnest, mild countenance, soon became known 
to the whole University. The young students took 
a liking to the quiet old gentleman, and made room 
for him respectfully when he entered the lecture- 
room. And he greeted them kindly : “ Good-morn- 
ing, gentlemen.” 

When the lecture was over, the colonel liked to 
have a talk with the professor—often asking for 
explanation of some obscure point. The professor 
would offer it with a pleasant smile, and with an air 
of innocent, gentle pride. Now and then the colonel 
would quote some Latin sentence, in order to show 
that he, too, was not deficient in classical knowledge : 

“ Dulce est pro patria mori “ In vino veritas,” and 
other sayings of that sort. On such occasions the 
learned professor was wont to look a little embar¬ 
rassed, though he smiled approvingly, and he would 
change the conversation. But when the old soldier 





355 


A Deadly Feud. 


spoke of his campaigns, the professor, in his turn, 
would listen for hours, and put encouraging ques¬ 
tions so as to induce the narrator to continue his 
story. 

The friendship of these two old gentleman had 
become proverbial. The professor’s daughters were 
perhaps the only beings who did not look upon it 
favorably. They complained of the dreadful pro¬ 
fanity of the colonel’s speech, and of his poisoning 
the house with that horrible short pipe of his, which 
he smoked indiscriminately in every room. 

“But papa approves of everything the colonel 
does,” they said. “ Let us hope that he will have no 
cause to repent some day.” 

This remark was not quite correct, however. 
Their father was far from approving entirely the 
views and the mode of life of his friend. The 
professor was an earnest Catholic, and, like most 
members of the upper classes in the south, a stanch 
Legitimist. Coste, on the other hand, possessed an 
inexhaustible stock of rather scandalous stories, in 
which priests, monks, and nuns were not always 
mentioned with the respect that Tisson thought due 
to them. In politics he was a Liberal, inclining 
toward Republicanism. Tisson would sometimes 
call Coste “ Charras,” and the colonel would retort 
by “ Polignac.” Their discussions, which were long 
and frequent, were generally brought to a close by 
one of them reminding the other that the time for a 
rubber or a game of golf was come. Then the 
excited countenance of his opponent would at once 
assume a calm expression ; both would take their 
hats and sticks, and walk to the club or to the 
“ Links,” chatting cheerfully by the way, as if noth¬ 
ing had ever disturbed the perfect harmony of their 
intercourse. 

The terrible year 1870-1871 put an end to these 
discussions between the two friends. Both were 
true patriots, and in their grief for France they for¬ 
got all differences of opinion. Both blamed the em¬ 
peror and the empress, the ministers and the gen¬ 
erals, with the same severity. They believed with 
the same implicit confidence all the stories which 
were told of the heroism of the French soldiers and 
the barbarity of the Germans. They felt the same 
indignation toward Russia, which did not hide its 
sympathy for the enemy; the same disdain for the 
English, “ that nation of shopkeepers,” who had for¬ 
gotten Sebastopol ; the same contempt for those 
“ ungrateful ” Italians, who abandoned their old ally 
in her distress ; and they shed tears together when 
the news of Sedan reached Montpellier. 

About this time a peculiar kind of feverish, ner¬ 
vous excitement had taken possession of the w r hole 
French nation. Our two friends did not escape the 
contagion. The cheerful equanimity of former 
years was gone. They never touched a card, and 
dust gathered on their golf clubs and balls, lying un¬ 
heeded in the hall. They read the papers with pas¬ 
sionate eagerness ; they made strategical plans, and 


discussed them as earnestly as if armies had been at 
their command ; they hoped against hope ; they be¬ 
lieved that the fortune of war would take another 
turn ; they never despaired, for it seemed to them 
simply impossible that France, their prcud, mighty, 
beautiful country, could succumb in a war with any 
other nation—and they felt almost crushed when the 
dreadful truth at last dawned upon them, when they 
knew that the power of France was broken, and they 
saw her, humbled to the dust, at the mercy of the 
conqueror. 

Coste and Tisson spent day after day together, 
silent and mournful, feeling that their common 
sorrow had drawn them even more closely together 
than the peaceful happiness of former years. But 
as, in spite of their advanced age, they had pre¬ 
served a good deal of that liveliness and elasticity of 
mind which characterizes the inhabitants of southern 
France, they shook off after a time that dull, oppres¬ 
sive sense of gloom. Nervous irritability and great 
bitterness of feeling remained, however, and showed 
themselves in frequent and violent explosions of 
anger against the supposed authors of the great 
national misfortune. 

Then the papers brought the news that a Revolu¬ 
tion had broken out in Paris, and that the Commun¬ 
ists had seized the reins of government. At first 
the two friends heard these reports almost with in¬ 
difference. The wounds inflicted by the foreign foe 
were still so fresh that they were unable, so to speak, 
to feel any new pain. But soon the civil war com¬ 
pelled their attention. It became the principal 
theme of conversation. The interest in the struggle 
for the possession of Paris, where Frenchmen fought 
against Frenchmen, soon absorbed every other feel¬ 
ing. 

It was on the 3d of June, 1871. The day had 
been hot and sultry. Dark thunder-clouds had 
gathered, and threatened a storm at every moment. 
The air was heavy. 

The professor was pacing up and down the din¬ 
ing-room in an agitated manner, waiting for the 
colonel, to sit down to dinner. At last Coste arrived 
half an hour after the usual time. He held some 
half-opened, crumpled newspapers in his hand, and, 
on entering, threw them on the table. He looked 
pale and disturbed. 

“I have waited for the papers from Paris,” he 
said ; “read—it is horrible, incredible !” 

Tisson took up the papers and looked at their 
contents. Pascaline had served the soup; the 
steaming plates stood before the two old men, but 
neither thought of touching them. 

The papers reported the horrors committed by the 
Communists : the destruction of the Tuileries, the 
Hotel de Ville, the Ministry of Finance, the Cour 
des Comptes, etc. . . . They related the massacre 
of the hostages, the furious fighting in the streets, 
and lastly, the slaughter among the “ enemies of 
society ” by the avenging Versailles troops. 





35 6 


Treasury 


Tisson looked up and said, with a long-drawn 
breath of relief, “ God be praised ! The good cause 
has triumphed ! ” 

“ It might well have triumphed with more hu¬ 
manity,” retorted Coste, sullenly. 

“ I hope you are not going to defend the Com¬ 
mune ? ” continued Tisson, in an almost threatening 
tone. 

“ No,” replied Coste, turning pale, and speaking 
in a tremulous voice, “ I am not going to do that. 
But I do think that the troops might have shown less 
bloodthirsty cruelty. Fifty thousand ! . . . Think, 
Tisson, what that means. . . . Fifty thousand hu¬ 
man lives have been sacrificed ! . . . Fif-ty thousand ! 
It is dreadful! . . . They have shown no mercy to 
women and children ; they have been killing as if 
they were destroying wild beasts ! ” 

“They have done right!” cried Tisson. “Brave 
men who have fought against wild beasts—a mur¬ 
derous, infamous crew, the scum of humanity, rob¬ 
bers, murderers, incendiaries ! ” 

“ Tisson, Tisson, think of what you are saying! 
You are speaking of Frenchmen, of our countrymen, 
our brothers.” 

“ Your brothers, if you please—not mine, thank 
God ! I have nothing in common with thieves and 
murderers.” 

“ Nor have I.” 

“You have—since you dare to defend them.” 

“Dare? ... You must be out of your senses, 
Tisson, to speak to me in this way.” 

“No, I am perfectly in my senses, and I tell you, 
calmly and deliberately, that it is a shame—a burn¬ 
ing shame—that you should dare to say a word in 
defence of the Commune,—yes, you ought to be 
ashamed of yourself! ” 

“ Recall that word, Tisson ! recall it, or by-! ” 

“You ought to be ashamed, I say. Shame! 
shame ! ” 

The colonel rose, pale as death, with flaming eyes. 
He struck the table with his clenched fist, so that the 
plates and glasses rattled, and he swore with a fear¬ 
ful oath that he would never sit down at that table 
or put his foot in that house again until Tisson 
begged his pardon and retracted what he had said. 

“And I declare,” replied the professor, who of a 
sudden had become strangely calm, but was as pale 
and trembling as his wretched old friend,—“ I de¬ 
clare, without the use of any blasphemous language, 
that the words you require me to say shall never 
pass my lips.” 

Then the colonel went to the door, took his hat 
and stick, and in a moment, without another word or 
look, was gone. Tisson heard his heavy, halting step 
upon the stair. The house-door was opened and 
shut again ; then all was still—the stillness of death. 

For three whole days the colonel and the profes¬ 
sor lived on their passionate wrath. Their anger 
cooled, and both began to understand what they 
had lost. The isolation consequent on their es- 


of 7 ales. 

trangement became unbearable. Coste dared not 
leave his rooms for fear of meeting his old friend ; 
the professor crept stealthily out of his house when 
obliged to go to his lecture,—and the two old hearts 
longed for reconciliation. Yet it could not be- 
They thought over again and again that parting 
scene, and remembered every word and every look. 

“ He should not have insulted me at his own table, 
in his own house,” said the colonel ; and he felt that 
he could not, in honor, break the oath he had sworn- 

“ He was entirely in the wrong,” thought the pro¬ 
fessor. “Howcould he defend the greatest rascals 
and criminals the world has ever seen ?” And he 
remembered with a shudder that he had solemnly 
vowed never to pronounce the words which alone 
could induce the colonel to return to the house as a 
friend. 

One morning old Pascaline came to the colonel. 
“ What have you done to my master, sir ? ” she asked, 
with tears in her eyes. “ He does not eat, he does 
not sleep. He sits all day long in his study without 
opening a book or writing a line. He will see no¬ 
body, he speaks to nobody—he will die. What have 
you done to him, sir? Do help my poor master ! ” 

The colonel had always treated the faithful old 
servant with kind familiarity, and he was quite ready 
to discuss the matter with her. “ You see, Pascaline,” 
he said, in conclusion, “ I have sworn upon my honor 
never to re-enter his house until he has acknowledged 
himself in the wrong—and I cannot break my word.” 

“ It is a wicked thing to take an oath when in 
anger,” said the old woman. “ Ask our vicar, sir ; 
ask the bishop himself. They will release you from 
your vow.” 

“ I have given my word. No human being can 
help that. I must keep it.” Tears stood in the dim 
eyes of the old soldier. He looked miserably sad, 
but he spoke with so much determination that Pas¬ 
caline felt she must give up all hope of reconciling 
the two friends. 

Soon after this the professor’s daughters came to 
pay their customary visit to their father. Pascaline 
told them what had happened. They disliked the 
colonel, whose manners they considered coarse ; and 
they merely remarked that no doubt their father would 
soon find out that the loss he deplored now, was, in 
fact, a gain. They were about to say as much to 
their father, but he stopped them angrily, telling 
them with flashing eyes to keep silent on that subject 
or to leave the house. 

For a whole month there was no change in the 
relations between Tisson and Coste. Their quarrel 
had become the subject of talk in all Montpellier, 
but no one felt inclined to play the part of peace¬ 
maker between the two old men. 

At the end of that time the professor went away 
on his usual holiday trip. For the last ten years 
Coste had been his companion on these occasions. 
They had visited together Paris, the Pyrenees, Au¬ 
vergne, and Switzerland. They had enjoyed them- 










A Deadly Feud. 


35 7 


selves everywhere. But now the professor started 
alone. He thought first of going to Paris—and 
then ? He had not settled where. He wanted to 
leave Montpellier. He could not bear to remain 
there any longer. 

The colonel stood at his window, hidden by the 
curtain, when the cab stopped at his neighbor’s door. 
He felt a heavy load on his chest, and his eyes 
burned in their sockets when he saw the professor 
leave the house with a heavy step and enter the car¬ 
riage. When it had driven off, Coste hid his face in 
his bony hands and wept bitterly ; but he experi¬ 
enced a sort of relief in the thought that Tisson 
was no longer in his immediate neighborhood. He 
walked up and down his garden sadly and thought¬ 
fully, feeling himself free and unobserved. A kind 
of peace stole over him ; and one day, when he got 
up in the morning, he wrote the following letter : 

“Dear Tisson,— I have made up my mind to leave 
Montpellier and to return to Algiers, where my old reg¬ 
iment is stationed, and where I have still a few com¬ 
rades who will be company for me. They cannot 
make up for what I have lost; but at any rate, I shall 
not feel as utterly lonely as I do here. Before I leave, 
never to return, I would like to meet you once more as 
in the good old times. I therefore beg you will write to 
me, on receipt of this, to appoint a place of meeting in 
Paris. We will, as in bygone days, have a stroll through 
the big town, we will dine together in the evening, and 
then bid each other ‘ good-night,’ as we have done for the 
last ten years. On the morrow I will leave Paris. You 
will then be able to think of me as of an absent friend 
from whom you have parted in peace and good-will. My 
anger lasted but a few days. Since I have become cool 
and collected I feel the same old friendship for you 
which I shall ever feel, even if you reject my proposal. 
Believe me, dear Tisson, your faithful friend, 

“ Casimir Coste.” 

Old Pascaline gave him her master’s address. The 
professor was staying at a small hotel in the Rue du 
Helder. The landlord was from Montpellier, and 
Coste and Tisson had lodged there on several occa¬ 
sions. 

The second day after the despatch of this letter 
the colonel received one from Paris. He at once 
recognized the writing of his friend, and tore open 
the envelope with a trembling hand. The letter 
consisted of a few hurried and almost illegible 
lines : 

“ I have sworn never to pronounce the words which you 
require before entering my house ; but I may tell you how 
hard it has been for me to keep my vow. Forgive me 
the pain my anger has caused you. I, too, have suffered 
much, and I remain, till we are parted by death, your 
faithful and attached friend, 

“ Isidore Tisson.” 

The letter fell from the colonel’s hands, and all 
seemed dark for a moment. When he had recov¬ 
ered a little he went to Pascaline. She had received 
no tidings of her master. Coste then telegraphed to 
the landlord in Paris, begging to be informed of the 


health of the professor. In a few hours the answer 
came back—Professor Tisson had died suddenly. 
He had been found dead in his bed on the morning 
of the preceding day. The funeral was to take 
place on the morrow. The daughters of the profes¬ 
sor had been communicated with. 

Coste started that same evening for Paris, and ar¬ 
rived there a few hours after the funeral. He saw 
the daughters and sons-in-law of his friend at the 
hotel. They were in deep mourning, but appeared 
to bear their loss with great equanimity. They 
seemed surprised at the colonel’s troubled counte¬ 
nance when he entered their room unannounced in 
his dusty travelling-dress, and they answered his 
inquiries briefly and precisely. Their father had had 
a stroke. He had gone to bed in his usual health at 
ten o’clock, and had been found dead the next 
morning. The doctor thought he must have died 
about eleven. At any rate, he had been dead some 
hours when found ; and he had died, they hoped, 
without pain. 

Coste went the next morning to visit the grave. 
On his return to the hotel he was informed that “ the 
family from the south ” had left Paris, after ordering 
a tombstone to be placed on the professor’s grave. 

The landlord, M. Doucet, a great talker, who had 
known Coste for many years, and was particularly 
fond of having a chat with him under ordinary cir¬ 
cumstances, became unusually silent and reserved 
when the colonel asked him for the particulars of his 
friend’s death. He was evidently concealing the 
truth, and Coste determined to find it out. He 
bribed the waiter, who at first held back ; but when 
the colonel promised faithfully not to betray him, the 
man related in a nervous, frightened manner all he 
knew. 

M. Tisson had arrived five days ago. He went 
out little, dined alone in his own room, and spoke to 
no one in the house. On Friday morning he wrote 
several letters, which he posted himself. About ten 
o’clock he ordered some tea, and told the waiter that 
he was going to bed, adding that he did not wish to 
be disturbed before the next morning. 

“ When I knocked at his door on Saturday morn¬ 
ing at nine, to give him a letter that had arrived 
from Montpellier, I received no answer, and find¬ 
ing the door locked on the inside, I became alarmed. 
I called M. Doucet, who sent at once for the police, 
and in presence of the commissaire the door was 
opened. M. Doucet, the commissaire, and a doctor 
who had come with him, were the only people who 
went into the room. My master told me to stand at 
the door and not to let any one go in. I had to wait 
a long while. When those three came out of the 
room, M. Doucet was as pale as a ghost. He took 
me aside and said : ‘ I trust that you, an old servant 
of the house, will not talk. It would damage the 
reputation of the hotel.’ I promised to be silent, 
and up to this moment I have not opened my lips 
about it to a single soul, nor will I do so again. But 







35« 


Treasury of Tales . 


you were an old friend of M. Tisson’s and ought to 
know the truth. 

“ A little later the doctor returned with an assistant. 
They locked themselves into the room where the 
dead body was lying, and remained there about an 
hour. Late at night, so as not to alarm the other 
visitors, the coffin was brought quietly into the house. 
The next morning M. Tisson’s relatives arrived. 
They asked to see the body, and I followed them 
into the little drawing-room where it was laid out. 
The features of the dead man were not distorted, 
they were yellow as wax. Round the neck was 
placed a broad white cravat, which reached up almost 
to the ears. I felt a cold shudder when I saw it. 
I told M. Doucet in a whisper that it looked very 
horrible. He made me a sign to be silent, and 
seemed very agitated. It’s my opinion, sir, that M. 
Tisson laid violent hands on himself and-” 

Coste turned deadly pale, staggered back, and 
sank into a chair. The waiter sprinkled some cold 
water on his face and gave him something to drink. 
When he had recovered from the shock, the man 
entreated him once more not to betray him, and 
quietly left the room. 

A few days later Colonel Coste returned to Mont¬ 
pellier, but only to superintend the removal of his 
simple furniture and belongings to Paris, where he 
settled in a remote part of the town at no great 
distance from the cemetery where Tisson was buried. 
He lived there for a year in sadness and solitude. 
Then his health began to fail, and at the end of a 
few weeks he was confined to his bed. The doctor 
advised him to take a sister of charity as a sick-nurse, 
as he had no relation or friend to take care of him. 
Coste assented to everything. The nurse came and 
performed her duties carefully. She was a strong 
young woman with a smooth, calm face, fair, with rosy 
cheeks—a face that looked as if it belonged to one 
pure in body and mind. She nursed the lonely, help¬ 
less old man carefully, unwearyingly, without anxiety 
and without hope, as she had nursed for years many 
othe* sick and dying people. 

“ He is getting weaker and weaker,” she said one 
day to the doctor. “ He does not know me now.” 

The colonel lay on his bed, with half-closed eyes, 
breathing feebly. The doctor felt the pulse, fore¬ 
head, and heart of his patient, and said, while slowly 
drawing on his gloves,— 

“ I do not think he will hold out through the day. 
I will look in again to-night ; in the mean time you 
may go on with the medicine I prescribed yesterday.” 

The sister nodded, and when the doctor was gone, 
took up some needle-work, with which she busied 
herself whenever the patient did not require her 
attendance. 

The day passed quietly, without any perceptible 
change in the state of the dying man. When it grew 
dark the sister left the room noiselessly to fetch a 
lighted lamp. The door had remained ajar. From 
the next room she thought she heard the patient 


speak, and hurried back to his bedside. He had 
raised himself from his pillows, an^l his face, which 
she could not well distinguish in the dim twilight, 
seemed to her to have grown younger. His eyes, 
which during the whole day had remained half- 
closed, were now wide open, and looked kindly and 
peacefully around. That indescribably sweet smile 
with which so many weary ones greet the approach 
of peace-bringing death lighted up his countenance. 

“It is getting dark,” he whispered. “Wait for 
me, Isidore ; we will go home together.” 

He fell back on the pillow. His breathing be¬ 
came slower—slower and fainter—then ceased. 

The sister remained for a few moments perfectly 
still. She then left the room, and soon returned 
with the lighted lamp. She raised it above the 
head of the dead man, so that the bright light fell 
upon his pale, emaciated, and calm features. She 
looked at him attentively, without tenderness, with¬ 
out sorrow, or indeed any visible sign of emotion, 
turned quietly away, and, after placing the lamp on 
the table, returned to the bed to close the eyes of 
the departed. In the same methodical way she 
smoothed the pillow and placed the quiet head care¬ 
fully and gently upon it, drew the sheet up to the 
chin of the dead man, and placed a crucifix in the 
cold hands after having folded them above the 
counterpane. Then she lighted two candles, and 
placed one at the head and the other at the foot of 
the bed. Lastly, she took a small bottle and poured 
the holy water w'hich it contained into a saucer 
already prepared for the purpose, which stood by 
the bedside. 

When she had attended to all this, without hurry, 
as without hesitation, she looked around as if to see 
if anything else remained to be done. Her calm, 
searching glance surveyed with the same serious 
composure the corpse, the tapers, the crucifix, the 
saucer with the holy water, and when she had satis¬ 
fied herself that nothing had been omitted, and that 
everything was in perfect order, she drew from her 
pocket a little well-worn black book, opened it with 
unerring hand at an accustomed place, knelt down, 
made the sign of the cross, and her silent-moving 
lips recited the prayers for the dead. 


THE AMERICAN GENTLEMAN WITH 
THE MOIST EYE. 

BY ARCHIBALD FORBES. 

E was a tall, lean, square-shouldered man, 
whose rather fine head had a plaintive droop 
on the chest, as he sat there wrapped in ab¬ 
straction. There was a fresh color on his long yet 
square-chinned face, the expression of the lower part 
of which was that of alert resolution ; but in the 
high, narrow brow, hollow at the temples, and in the 
full blue eyes suffused with moisture, over which fell 
the shadow of the long brown eyelashes, there was 







359 


The American Gentleman with the Moist Eye. 


a suggestion of emotional dreaminess. I remember 
how, as I looked at him, there recurred to me the 
memory of some of Bret Harte’s characters—“ Ken- 
tuck ” for instance, or “ Tennessee’s Partner.” The 
face as a whole expressed manliness, quaintness, hu¬ 
mor, and sensibility. 

My own seat at table in the saloon of the good 
steamer Tasmanian , of the Northern and Southern 
Hemispheres Connecting Link Line, one day out 
from her Australian port of departure, was at a side 
table near the door ; but as dinner was being fin¬ 
ished, I moved to one of the central tables, for a 
chat with a friend and his wife. It was opposite to 
the latter that the tall, lean man with the drooping 
head and the moist eye was seated. 

I noticed that he raised his head and glanced 
somewhat shyly, as it seemed, across the table at the 
lady. She had whispered to me that the face had 
interest for her, and I suppose the glance revealed to 
him some expression of that, and perhaps also some 
suggestiveness of sympathy. He looked across once 
or twice more, just sweeping us men with that slow, 
limpid glance ; and at length, after a preliminary 
cough or two, he nervously addressed the lady. 
After the little stammer over the first word, he was 
fluent enough, although very deliberate, as is the 
manner of western men. 

‘ M-madam,” said he, “ I guess when you look 
across the table you see a mighty soft fool. Yes, 
madam ” (reflectively), “ I left ’Frisco in the last out¬ 
going steamer, proposing to make a six months’ 
tower in Australia for behoof of my health ; I hed 
been sick with dyspepsy. Well, I hed gotten down 
there to Sydney ; and I admired to see what a fine 
location it hed gotten ; and concluded to strike in¬ 
land after spending a day in taking-in the city. But 
that same night, madam, as I lay in my lone bed 
down in that there city, I fell a-thinking on my little 
wife to home up in ’Frisco. My heart began to yurn 
on the poor woman as hed been left lonely for the 
first time sin’ I took her from her mother seven years 
back. ’Guess you’ll start out a-laughin’ right in my 
face when I tell you as I never slept a wink of sleep 
for longing to be consoling her and remorse for hav¬ 
ing quit her. Bright and airly next morning, madam, 
this ’ere great soft galoot was in the steamboat of¬ 
fice, buying a ticket home to the little woman by the 
next steamer. My Australian tower was through in 
six days, madam, and the outside edge of it was Par¬ 
amatta, fourteen miles inland from Sydney. I don’t 
mind yer laughin’ at me, strangers, ef yer so minded; 
—I spend the balance of the time when I’m not 
thinkin’ about her, softly cussin’ myself for the darnd- 
est fizzle as ever left the port of San Francisco. But 
I don’t go back on it—not a nickel; no, sir ” (fixing me 
rather with that wonderfully eloquent blue eye), “ no, 
sir, I don’t weaken on it, not one continental. Fac’ ” 
(with a little burst of shy radiance that somehow re¬ 
minded me of a rainbow), “ I’m kinder proud on it ! ” 

Then his eyelids fell, the head went down on the 


breast, and he slid into a reverie, the wistful sweet¬ 
ness of which was to be discovered in the face. Our 
lady murmured a few words of interest and sym¬ 
pathy—a little incoherent, perhaps, and sadly con¬ 
ventional, for she is a timid little woman who does 
not quite know what to do with herself when moved. 
But the moist-eyed man seemingly neither heard nor 
heeded. Her husband, a blunt Colonist, threw out a 
vaguely malicious hint that the little woman in 
’Frisco might not welcome with exuberant rapture 
this precipitate and premature return of her lord, 
who indeed might find her very much not at home 
(the gentleman is of. Irish extraction). But as little 
did our vis-a-vis heed the jibe. He sat the very 
presentment of happy abstraction. 

The man interested me, and I did not lose him in 
the general ruck of passengers. Later the same 
evening, he gave me a surprise. I found him in the 
smoking-room, a glass of grog on the table in front 
of him, a little circle of eager disputants around him ; 
he himself voluble, argumentative, and indeed vocif¬ 
erous. He was on politics—American politics. A 
Republican of course, to the core of the marrow. 
Yes, he had been an office-holder, he had held a 
position in the San Francisco customs during Gar¬ 
field’s administration, and had gotten “ fired out ” 
when Arthur’s presidency had given the call to the 
Stalwarts. But this was a mere incident. What he 
w r anted to discuss were general principles. To be¬ 
lieve for a moment, forsooth, that the Democratic 
ticket would carry the next presidential election ! 
Why, he’d take the stump himself to burst the head 
of that bar’l in ! He’d been on the stump before— 
and so on usque ad nauseam. He was constituting 
himself a nuisance, especially to the British and Aus¬ 
tralian section of the smoking-room, which numer¬ 
ically was greatly in the ascendant; and so we 
hooted him down, with threats that he would be 
turned out if he didn’t quit “those confounded Amer¬ 
ican politics.” 

He subsided, and drank his grog in silence thence¬ 
forth. I noticed a little Chicago drummer with a 
yellow moustache, deliberately “ taking in ” the gen¬ 
tleman with the moist eye—it was moister now, as 
the two sat confronting each other, and at length the 
drummer moved across and took a place next to my 
uxorious friend. The drummer recommenced poli¬ 
tics in a low tone, praising the other highly for his 
principles and the eloquence with which he had sup¬ 
ported them. He backed his profuse flattery—a 
Chicago drummer always works with a trowel—by 
having the other’s glass replenished. The moist eye 
grew yet more moist ; its owner seemed to beam; 
and at this crisis the drummer, by an easy divergence, 
abandoned the topic of politics, and significantly ob¬ 
served that he had noticed his friend had spoken of 
having been an officer in the San Francisco customs. 
A nod was the response. Then the drummer’s voice 
waned lower, and I caught but vagrom words, such as 
“ dutiable articles,” and a mysterious phrase which I 





360 


Treasury of Tales. 


may have overheard erroneously, but which sounded 
like “ twirling the elephant’s tail.” 

For several days, except at meal-times, I saw noth¬ 
ing of the moist-eyed gentleman ; but once, when I 
was looking down through a grating into the baggage- 
room, I noticed him pottering around in a curiously 
leisurely fashion among the trunks. If I gave the 
matter a thought at all, I have no doubt I believed 
him, in his own deliberate, sententious way, engaged in 
searching for his own baggage. 

One evening in the smoking-room, our friend, who, 
since his previous discouragement in that peculiarly 
frank-spoken Tabaks-Parlament, had been very quiet 
and retiring, broke out again into eloquence. This 
time he lifted up his voice to pronounce a glowing 
eulogium on the British nationality. He avowed 
himself born a Welshman, and, although expatriated 
in tender years and admitted to American citizen¬ 
ship as soon as he had attained the statutory age, he 
was not the man, like Stanley, to deny the land of his 
nativity. I own that I found a difficulty in recon¬ 
ciling this claim to Welsh extraction with a state¬ 
ment he had made in the course of his confidences to 
“ Madam,” to the effect that he had been “born and 
raised in Keokuk, Iowa,” but these little discrepan¬ 
cies, I was duly sensible, may occur in autobioloquial 
observations without seriously affecting the veracity of 
the average human animal. The eloquence of the 
moist-eyed man, if diffuse, was decidedly stimulating, 
and stirred the enthusiasm of the Britons and Austra¬ 
lians. They are jocund, friendly creatures in the smok¬ 
ing-room after the steward has answered the bell a few 
times ; and at the close of a cheer for Queen Victoria, 
in wffiich the Americans joined with a “ tiger,” an Aus¬ 
tralian jeweller, kindled into hospitality by his loyalty, 
called for champagne round. The champagne in¬ 
spired quite a spasm of international rapprochement. 
Patriotic songs set in—“ Britannia rules the waves ”— 
most of the Britons had been deadly sick for the first 
two days—“ Hail Columbia,” “ The Red, White and 
Blue,” “ The Star-Spangled Banner.” The attempt 
at “ Yankee Doodle ” was scarcely a flowing triumph, 
since no one person appeared to know any words to 
that air which complied wflth the requirements of the 
strict propriety always maintained in the smoking- 
room of an ocean-steamer, as indeed in every part of 
such a vessel ; and the impromptu concert fitly con¬ 
cluded with “God Save the Queen.” Presently the 
smoking-room thinned. The American gentleman 
with the moist-eye remained, leaning back in seeming 
slumber ; the Australian jeweller was still on hand, 
fidgeting about as if there were something on his 
mind ; I sat smoking silently in my own dark corner. 
Presently the jeweller awoke the American with a 
touch on the shoulder, and sat down beside him. 
The cautious Australian murmured some words of 
which I caught “ false bottom ”—“ are they very 
sharp ? ” The American spoke out like a man. 
“ Guess I know some of the boys—see you right 
through, partner ! ” and then followed hot toddy. 


Two days after this episode, the unusual spectacle 
was afforded of the moist-eyed man having after¬ 
noon tea tete-a-tete with a lady in the most retired 
corner of the great saloon. “ Madam ” and I had 
both disseminated the quaint tale we had been told 
at the beginning of the voyage, and the big blue¬ 
eyed man with the far-off expression so often on his 
face was regarded with no little kindly interest. Then 
it became pretty well known that he had been in the 
’Frisco customs employ, and that he was a civil, 
pleasant-natured, softish sort of fellow generally. His 
entertainer at the four o’clock tea refection was a 
gaunt, withered little grig of a Scoto-New-Zealand 
w T oman, who called herself Mrs. Lome and professed 
to be a widow, both of which pretensions were con¬ 
siderably inaccurate. She had “ corralled ” the 
moist-eyed man on the subject of her baggage, about 
which, ever since she joined the ship at Auckland, 
she had been betraying nervousness among her in¬ 
timates. At least I gathered this had been her little 
game from the frank, hearty remark the moist-eyed 
man made as he stood up from the tea-table : “ Don’t 
you skear worth a cent, madam, don’t ye. Colonel 
O’Driscol, the boss on the jetty, is an old-time crony 
of mine. I’ll say one word to the Colonel and you’re 
through as slick as an eel ! ” whereat the bogus- 
widow Lome blushed and looked half pleased, half 
confused. 

Among the passengers who joined the Tasma¬ 
nian at Auckland was a droll little American from 
Fiji, a hard-bitten beachcomber style of old repro¬ 
bate, with a keen zest for liquor. This old fellow 
professed lightness of purse, and arranged with the 
people of the ship that he should occupy one of the 
state-rooms in the “ second cabin ” department which 
was quite empty, having the run of the first-class 
saloon for his rations. “ Fiji V had a good thing of 
it with that six-berthed state-room all to himself ; 
and he improved his opportunity by having all his 
baggage, of which he had no inconsiderable quantity 
and some of which looked suspiciously unlike “ per¬ 
sonal effects,” stowed in the state-room to keep him 
company. From his first day he went at the drink, 
but, even in an advanced state of cocktail, the queer 
gnarled old stick maintained a curiously saturnine 
demeanor. The American gentleman with the 
moist eye drank with him industriously, standing 
treat with quite a reckless freehandedness, and get¬ 
ting, to all appeararce, himself into a more mixed 
temperament than “ Fiji ” ever exhibited. But the 
American gentleman had a marvellous faculty of swift 
self-recuperation. I spoke to him once or twice 
when he seemed very far gone ; he drew a long 
breath, shook himself, looked at me out of those 
wonderful blue eyes, whose limpidness no alcohol 
seemed to affect, with the original quaint contem¬ 
plative gaze, and replied with deliberate coherency. 
And, stranger still, no sooner had we parted than he 
had visibly lapsed again into hiccoughs, incoherency, 
and other ugly testimonials to insobriety. One 





The American Gentleman with the Moist Eye. 


afternoon, while both the gentlemen were liquoring 
up as usual, the moist-eyed man complained vehe¬ 
mently to the assistant purser of the heat of his berth, 
which it seemed was adjacent to the engines. He 
explained in proof of this complaint that he always 
kept a bottle of grog on tap in his state-room for his 
friends, who, when they came down to partake of a 
convivial glass with him, growled because the liquor 
he gave them was lukewarm. “ Why don’t you come 
aft my way f” cried “ Fiji” with a hiccough, and on 
this genial hint, which probably had been drawn 
from “ Fiji ” by the mention of the moist-eyed gen¬ 
tleman’s facilities for refreshment, the latter effected 
a transfer of residence. I am bound to say that this 
added propinquity did not seem to inspire in the 
room-mates any practical admiration for total ab¬ 
stinence. One night “ Fiji ” evacuated the smoking- 
room more than commonly disguised. Next morn¬ 
ing I overheard him fulminating at his steward for 
not having secured his baggage by lashing it. The 
trunks, he said, had gone adrift during the night be¬ 
cause of the roll of the ship,—which struck me as 
strange, for she had not been rolling more than her 
somewhat emphatic wont. He grumbled consumedly 
that the wax on the seal of a special little trunk had 
got smashed in the fall. “ I sleep like a dead whale,” 
he grunted across to the moist-eyed gentleman, who 
had begun to sputter and yawn in his bunk over the 
way, “ but darn it, I wonder the muss among the 
baggage didn’t rouse you up ! ” 

“ Boss,” replied the moist-eyed one, genially, “ I 
guess I sleep like a dead whale as has been resur¬ 
rected, got tired o’ the bother of keepin’ alive, and 
gone dead again for good ! ” 

“ Great Scott ! ” exclaimed “ Fiji,” as he scrambled 
for his raiment, “seems to me that defunct insec’ 
has been gayly friskin’ around my pants. They’re 
right out from under the pillow where I stowed ’em 
last night, an’ dog-goned ef my keys ain’t loose in 
the spit-box ! ” 

“ Blow your pants ! ” retorted the moist-eyed gen¬ 
tleman; “ don’t you feel like washin ’down them ’ere 
cinders as is stickin’ in your ventilator?” and with 
that he passed over the grog-bottle. 

The pair continued inebriate, and at length their 
names were given to the bar-tender, a measure which 
stopped the supplies. I heard the moist-eyed gen¬ 
tleman, one evening, complaining touchingly of thirst 
to a little American Jew-with-a-dash-of-the-Cockney, 
who was one of the passengers, and who was travel¬ 
ling up from Australia professedly in the buggy in¬ 
terest. The Jew volunteered to procure drink if the 
moist-eyed man was ready with the compensation. 
The latter, I noticed, got strangely soon affected. I 
supposed that the old debauch was not yet quite 
dead in him. It was then that the little Jew, taking 
him aside, imparted to him a secret, which I over¬ 
heard. The Hebraic worthy had two trunks stuffed 
with “ dutiable goods,” on which he was most anx¬ 
ious to make no contribution to the Federal revenues. 


361 

Far gone as he was, the moist-eyed man was promptly 
equal to the occasion. “ Ask for Colonel O’Driscol 
on the jetty, an’ square him. I know he can be got 
at. Besht thing, before you come ashore of yourself, 
send on to the wharf a little note addressed to the 
Colonel, with twenty-five dollars an’ your card en¬ 
closed ; and then strike him as soon as you land. 
You’ll find him hunky, you bet. That’ll pass you 
along as easy’s slipping off a log. Only never give 
a soul a hint I put you up to this ! ” “ All right, 

pardner,” was the philosophic comment of the 
astute Hebrew, “guess the lot on you roosters un¬ 
derstand each other, kinder,—eh ? ” The moist-eyed 
man winked and hiccoughed, and Mr. Moses retired 
to rest in the pleasing consciousness of not having 
wholly wasted his friendly offices in circumventing 
the bar-tender. 

At Honolulu the Tasmanian embarked a large 
draft of passengers for San Francisco—rather a 
mixed lot. A large number of these had to take their 
meals in the empty second saloon, the table seats in 
the chief saloon being all previously occupied. Two 
nights after leaving Honolulu, while dinner was be¬ 
ing served in the latter apartment, the gentleman 
with the moist eye compromised himself by a miscel¬ 
laneous resort to strong expressions uttered by no 
means sotto voce ; and was summarily ejected by the 
chief steward, who characterized him in allegorical 
language as having been “ as full of drink as the 
Baltic Sea.” At the subsequent court-martial in the 
captain’s cabin, he received the mild sentence of 
modified ostracism to the second saloon, where there 
were neither ladies nor a bishop, and whose denizens 
were not nasty particular over a little mild cursing, 
so long as the gentleman displaying this weakness 
was not backward in desiring to ascertain practically 
the form of poison held in highest esteem by his con¬ 
vives. If he committed himself beyond bearing in 
this society, however, added the captain, with a 
sternness that struck me as a little forced, he was 
to be relegated to the outer darkness of the steerage. 
There was much good fellowship in the second sa¬ 
loon, where the moist-eyed man speedily found 
marked favor ; and sooner or later, as I noted dur¬ 
ing occasional visits to that bower of jollity, most of 
the Honolulu folks had whispered confidences of an 
apparently satisfactory nature with him, in regard to 
the idiosyncrasy of the customs inquisitors on the 
San Francisco quay. These confidences had a uni¬ 
form sequel in the shape of copious libations, not at 
the expense of the moist-eyed gentleman. 

For myself, I observed with unfeigned sorrow and 
no little amaze all those evidences of a fallen nature 
on the part of a man by whose simple and touching 
manifestation of a purer and better spirit I had been 
so much touched at the outset of the voyage. But 
as I grieved because of the feet, or rather stomach, 
of clay, and very porous clay at that, which disfigured 
the golden head, I found one consolation, in that 1 
recognized this man with the moist-eye as a type 





362 


Treasury 

He became to me more and more identified with 
the Bret Harte character—this Pacific slope man 
with the chronic crave to see them “ put up,” 
with the callous disregard of high principle, with 
the propensity to grisly oaths, and yet withal, 
with the strange holy streak of exquisite, genuine 
tenderness. At the end of the voyage I thought 
him more like “ Kentuck ” than I had done at the 
beginning. 

As the Tasmanian steamed by Alcatraz Island 
it was an open secret among a good many of the 
passengers that the moist-eyed gentleman was to 
scramble on to the wharf by the first cable, and give 
a quiet, significant intimation to “ Colonel O’Driscol ” 
and the “ boys ” that in certain specific instances a per¬ 
functory inspection would be highly appreciated and 
not be quite barren of complimentary recognition. 
As he stood in readiness for the acrobatic feat I 
noticed his vest pocket considerably bulged by quite 
a little packet of letters, which I had reason to be¬ 
lieve all bore a superscription to “ Colonel O’Dris¬ 
col.” The moment came, and we saw him slip off 
the cat-head down the hawser on to the jetty with 
an agility which was much admired by all spectators ; 
some believing that he was thus urgent that he might 
clasp to his bosom the little wife to whom he had 
hurried back ; others commending his alertness to 
execute the genial and delicate commissions he had 
undertaken. He disappeared into the interior of the 
shed, and we saw him no more. 

Half an hour elapsed before the gang-plank was 
practicable, and then the passengers streamed down 
into the shed. The baggage began to be rapidly 
dumped. 1 happened to be near the little American 
Jew-with-a-dash-of-the-Cockney. He asked a cus¬ 
toms officer where he should find “ Colonel O’Dris¬ 
col.” “Yonder he is!” replied the man steadily, 
pointing to a tall man with a gold lace cap who was 
standing behind an enclosed desk with his back to us, 
busied with some papers on a nail on the wall. The 
Jew approached and touched the tall man on the 
elbow. 

“ Colonel O’Driscol, sir ! ” he uttered in a con¬ 
fident tone. 

The colonel remained engrossed among his 
documents. 

“Colonel O’Driscol, sir!” repeated the Jew in a 
tone that had a little ring of perhaps not unjustifi¬ 
able peremptoriness. 

“ At your service, sir ! ” said the colonel, as he 
turned sharply round ; and from under the visor of 
the gold-lace cap there beamed upon the Jew from 
under their long brown lashes a pair of moist blue 
eyes. The Jew gave one gulp of wild astonishment, 
then staggered back, and sat down in silence on the 
floor of the shed. He was too much discomfited 
even to swear. 

Very few witnessed this little scene, most people 
being engrossed in the work of getting their baggage 
together. The colonel sat down and bent his head 


of Tales. 

over his desk. Presently little Mrs. Lome came 
jauntily sailing up to the desk. 

“Colonel O’Driscol! ” she sweetly said. 

“ At your service, madam ! ” replied the colonel, 
raising his head. 

Mrs. Lome gave a little shriek ; but she was a 
woman, and a woman is always nimbler in a tight 
place than a man. She rallied with surprising quick¬ 
ness, and spoke with low emphasis. 

“ Colonel,” said she, “ there is a lady in the case, 
and I know that you are a gentleman ! ” 

“Yes, madam,” responded the colonel with a 
gallant bow, “ and I don’t go back on my word—to 
a lady”—the last three words with a curious deliber¬ 
ate intonation. “ Here, officer, just open this lady’s 
grip-sack and then chalk her baggage, and then call 
a porter for her. Good morning, Mrs. Lome ! ” 
concluded the gallant officer with ineffable sweetness 
and grace. 

Mrs. Lome didn’t hang around much. The same 
afternoon I noticed the American Jew and the Aus¬ 
tralian jeweller, each tramping around the city in 
the close society of a gentleman in uniform. It 
appeared they were looking for bail, in default of 
which they would have to “go across the bay.” 
“ Fiji,” in blank despair of bail, .had gone to the 
cells direct from the quay, where, according to 
personal testimony, trouble did not cease until night¬ 
fall. 

There had been a good deal of smuggling into 
’Frisco by the steamers of the Hemisphere Line, and 
a smart officer had been sent out to the Antipodes 
to “ shadow ” a cargo of passe'ngers. The colonel’s 
tender story about the little wife was a pretty in¬ 
vention to avert any suspicion that might have 
attached to a man who came out in one steamer 
going back in the next. The captain was in the 
secret. I subsequently heard O’Driscol was a very 
temperate man. I think he ought to have been an 
actor. 


MY UNCLE’S WILL. 

BY J. ARBUTHNOT WILSON. 

I. 

Y dear Mr. Payne,” said my deceased uncle’s 
lawyer, with an emphatic wag of his fore¬ 
finger, “ I assure you there’s no help for it. 
The language of the will is perfectly simple and ex¬ 
plicit. Either you must do as your late uncle desired, 
or you must let the property go to the representative 
of his deceased wife’s family.” 

“ But surely, Blenkinsopp,” I said, deprecatingly, 
“ we might get the Court of Chancery to set it aside, 
as being contrary to public policy, or something of 
that sort. I know you can get the Court of Chan¬ 
cery to affirm almost anything you ask them, espe¬ 
cially if it’s something a little abstruse and out of the 
common ; it gratifies the Court’s opinion of its own 







363 


My Uncle s Will. 


acumen. Now, clearly, it’s contrary to public policy 
that a man should go and make his own nephew 
ridiculous by his last will and testament, isn’t it ? ” 

Mr. Blenkinsopp shook his head vigorously. “ Bless 
my soul, Mr. Payne,” he answered, helping himself 
to a comprehensive pinch from his snuff-box (an 
odious habit, confined, I believe, at the present day 
to family solicitors), “ bless my soul, my dear sir, the 
thing’s simply impossible. Here’s your uncle, the 
late Anthony Aikin, Esquire, deceased, a person of 
sound mind and an adult male above the age of 
twenty-one years—to be quite accurate, cetatis suce 
seventy-eight—makes his will, and duly attests the 
same in the presence of two witnesses ; everything 
quite in order : not a single point open to exception 
in any way. Well, he gives and bequeaths to his 
nephew, Theodore Payne, gentleman—that’s you— 
after a few unimportant legacies, the bulk of his real 
and personal estate, provided only that' you adopt the 
surname of Aikin, prefixed before and in addition to 
your own surname of Payne. But,—and this is very 
important,—if you don’t choose to adopt and use the 
said surname of Aikin, in the manner hereinbefore 
recited, then and in that case, my dear sir—why, then 
and in that case, as clear as currant jelly, the whole 
said residue of his real and personal estate is to go 
to the heir or heirs-at-law of the late Amelia Maria 
Susannah Aikin, wife of the said Anthony Aikin, 
Esquire, deceased. Nothing could be simpler or 
plainer in any way, and there’s really nothing on 
earth for you to do except to choose between the 
two alternatives so clearly set before you by your 
deceased uncle.” 

“ But, look here, you know, Blenkinsopp,” I said, 
appealingly, “ no fellow can really be expected to go 
and call himself Aikin-Payne, now can he ? It’s 
positively too ridiculous. Mightn’t I stick the Payne 
before the Aikin, and call myself Payne-Aikin, eh ? 
That wouldn’t be quite so absurdly suggestive of a 
perpetual tooth-ache. But Aikin-Payne ! Why, the 
comic papers would take it up immediately. Every 
footman in London would grin audibly when he an¬ 
nounced me. I fancy I hear the fellows this very 
moment flinging open the door with a violent at¬ 
tempt at seriousness, and shouting out, ‘ Mr. Haching- 
Pain, ha, ha, ha ! ’ with a loud guffaw behind the 
lintel. It would be simply unendurable.” 

“ My dear sir,” answered the unsympathetic Blenk¬ 
insopp (most unsympathetic profession, an attorney’s, 
really), “the law doesn’t take into consideration the 
question of the probable conduct of footmen. It 
must be Aikin-Payne or nothing. I admit the col¬ 
location does sound a little ridiculous, to be sure ; 
but your uncle’s will is perfectly unequivocal upon 
the subject—in fact, ahem ! I drew it up myself, to 
say the truth : and unless you call yourself Aikin- 
Payne, ‘ in the manner hereinbefore recited,’ then 
and in that case, observe (there’s no deception), then 
and in that case the heir or the heirs-at-law of the 
late Amelia Maria Susannah aforesaid will be en¬ 


titled to benefit under the will as fully in every re¬ 
spect as if the property was bequeathed directly to 
him, her, or them, by name, and to no other person.” 

“ And who the dickens are these heirs-at-law, 
Blenkinsopp ? ” I ventured to ask after a moment’s 
pause, during which the lawyer had refreshed him¬ 
self with another prodigious sniff from his snuff¬ 
box. 

“ Who the dickens are they, Mr. Payne ? I should 
say Mr. Aikin-Payne, ahem !—why, how the dickens 
should I know, sir ! You don’t suppose I keep a 
genealogical table and full pedigree of all the second 
cousins of all my clients hung up conspicuously in 
some spare corner of my brain, do you, eh ? Upon 
my soul I really haven’t the slightest notion. All I 
know about them is that the late Mrs. Amelia Maria 
Susannah Aikin, deceased, had one sister,who married 
somebody or other, somewhere, against Mr. Anthony 
Aikin’s wishes, and that he never had anything fur¬ 
ther to say to her at any time. ‘ But where she’s 
gone and how she fares, nobody knows and nobody 
cares,’ sir, as the poet justly remarks.” 

I was not previously acquainted with the poet’s 
striking observation on this matter, but I didn’t stop 
to ask Mr. Blenkinsopp in what author’s work these 
stirring lines had originally appeared. I was too 
much occupied with other thoughts at that moment 
to pursue my investigations into their authorship and 
authenticity. “ Upon my word, Blenkinsopp,” I said, 
“ I’ve really half a mind to shy the thing up and go 
on with my schoolmastering.” 

Mr. Blenkinsopp shrugged his shoulders. “Be¬ 
lieve me, my dear young friend,” he said senten- 
tiously, “ twelve hundred a year is not to be sneezed 
at. Without inquiring too precisely into the exact 
state of your existing finances, I should be inclined 
to say your present engagement can’t be worth to 
you more than three hundred a year.” 

I nodded acquiescence. “ The exact figure,” I 
murmured. 

“ And your private means are ? ” 

“ Non-existent,” I answered, frankly. 

“ Then, my dear sir, excuse such plainness of 
speech in a man of my profession ; but if you throw 
it up you will be a perfect fool, sir—a perfect fool, 
I assure you.” 

“ But perhaps, Blenkinsopp, the next-of-kin won’t 
step in to claim it ! ” 

“ Doesn’t matter a bit, my dear fellow. Executors 
are bound to satisfy themselves before paying you 
over your legacy that you have assumed and will use 
the name of Aikin before and in addition to your 
own name of Payne, in the manner hereinbefore re¬ 
cited. There’s no getting over that in any way.” 

I sighed aloud. “ Twelve hundred a year is cer¬ 
tainly very comfortable,” I said. “ But it’s a con¬ 
founded bore that one should have a condition tacked 
on to it which will make one a laughing-stock for life 
to all the buffoons and idiots of one’s acquaintance.” 

Blenkinsopp nodded in modified assent. “ After 




364 


Treasury of Tales. 


all,” he answered, “ I wouldn’t mind taking it on the 
same terms myself.” 

“Well,” said I, “ che sara sara —if it must be, it 
must be ; and you may put an advertisement in the 
Times accordingly. Tell the executors that I accept 
the condition.” 

II. 

“ I won’t stop in town,” said I to myself, “ to be 
chaffed by all the fellows at the club and in the mas¬ 
ter’s room at St. Martin’s. I’ll run over on the Con¬ 
tinent until the wags (confound them) have forgotten 
all about it. I’m a sensitive man, and if there’s any¬ 
thing on earth I hate it’s cheap and easy joking and 
punning on a name or personal peculiarity which 
lays itself open obviously to stupid buffoonery. Of 
course I shall chuck up the schoolmastering now— 
it’s an odious trade at any time—and I may as well 
take a pleasant holiday while I’m about it. Let me 
see—Nice or Cannes or Florence would be the best 
thing at this time of year. Escape the November 
fogs and January frosts. Let’s make it Cannes, then, 
and try the first effect of my new name upon the 
corpus vile of the Cannois.” 

So I packed up my portmanteau hurriedly, took 
the 7.45 to Paris, and that same evening found my¬ 
self making my way as fast as the Lyons line would 
carry me en route for the blue Mediterranean. 

The Hotel du Paradis at Cannes is a very pleas¬ 
ant and well-managed place, where I succeeded in 
making myself perfectly at home. I gave my full 
name to the concierge boldly. “ Thank heaven,” I 
thought, “Aikin-Payne will sound to her just as 
good a label to one’s back as Howard or Cholmon- 
dely. She won’t see the absurdity of the combina¬ 
tion.” She was a fat Vaudoise Swiss by origin, and 
she took it without moving a muscle. * But she an¬ 
swered me in very tolerable English—me, who 
thought my Parisian accent unimpeachable! “Very 
well, sirr, your lettares shall be sent to your apart¬ 
ments.” I saw there was the faintest twinkle of a 
smile about the corner of her mouth, and I felt that 
even she, a mere foreigner, a Swiss concierge, per¬ 
ceived at once the incongruity of the two surnames. 
Incongruity! that’s the worst of it! Would that 
they were incongruous ! But its their fatal and ob¬ 
vious congruity with one another that makes their 
juxtaposition so ridiculous. Call a man Payne, and 
I venture to say, though I was to the manner born, 
and it’s me that says it as oughtn't to say it, you 
couldn’t find a neater or more respectable surname in 
all England ; call him plain Aikin, and though that 
perhaps is less aristocratic, it’s redeemed by all the 
associations of childhood with the earliest literature 
we imbibed through the innocuous pages of “ Even¬ 
ings at Home ; ” but join the two together, in the 
order of alphabetical precedence, and you get an 
Aikin-Payne, which is the thing to make a sensitive 
man, compelled to bear it for a lifetime, turn perma¬ 
nently red like a boiled lobster. My uncle must have 
done it on purpose, in order to inflict a deadly blow 


on what he would doubtless have called my con¬ 
founded self-conceit! 

However, I changed my tourist suit for a black 
cutaway, and made my way down to the salle-a-man- 
ger. The dinner was good in itself, and was en¬ 
livened for me by the presence of an extremely 
pretty girl of, say nineteen, who sat just opposite, 
and whose natural protector I soon managed to 
draw casually into a general conversation. I say 
her natural protector, because though I took him at 
the time for her father, I discovered afterward that 
he was really her uncle. Experience has taught me 
that when you sit opposite a pretty girl at a hotel, 
you ought not to open fire by directing your obser¬ 
vations to herself in person ; you should begin diplo¬ 
matically by gaining the confidence of her male 
relations through the wisdom or orthodoxy of your 
political and social opinions. Mr. Shackleford— 
that, I found afterward, was the uncle’s name—hap¬ 
pened to be a fiery Tory, while I have the personal 
misfortune to be an equally rabid Radical; but on 
this occasion I successfully dissembled, acquiescing 
with vague generality in his denunciation of my 
dearest private convictions, and by the end of din¬ 
ner we had struck up quite an acquaintance with one 
another. 

# 

“ Ruby,” said the aunt to the pretty girl, as soon 
as dinner was over, “shall we take a stroll out in the 
gardens ? ” 

Ruby ! what a charming name, really ! I wonder, 
now, what is her surname ? And what a beautiful 
graceful figure, as she rises from the table, and 
throws her little pale blue Indian silk scarf around 
her pretty shoulders! Clearly, Ruby is a person 
whose acquaintance I ought to cultivate. 

“ Uncle won’t come, of course,” said Ruby, with a 
pleasant smile (what teeth !). “ The evening air 

would be too much for him. You know,” she added, 
looking across to me, “ almost everybody at Cannes 
is in the invalid line, and mustn’t stir o-ut after sunset. 
Aunt and I are unfashionable enough to be quite 
strong, and to go in for a stroll by moonlight.” 

“ I happen to be equally out of the Cannes fash¬ 
ion,” I said, directing my observation with great 
strategic skill, rather to the aunt than to Miss Ruby 
in person ; “and if you will allow me I should be 
very glad to accompany you.” 

So we turned out on the terrace of the Paradis, 
and walked among the date-palms and prickly pears 
that fill the pretty tropical garden. It was a lovely 
moonlight evening in October ; and October is still 
almost a summer month on the Riviera. The feath¬ 
ery branches of the palms stood out in clear-cut 
outline against the pale moonlit sky ; the white 
houses of Cannes gleamed with that peculiarly soft 
greenish Mediterranean tint in the middle distance ; 
and the sea reflected the tremulous shimmer in the 
background, between the jagged sierra of the craggy 
Esterel and the long low outline of the He Ste. 
Marguerite. Altogether, it was an ideal poet’s even- 






My Uncle s IVilL 


365 


ing—the very evening to stroll for the first time 
with a beautiful girl through the charmed alleys of 
a Provencal garden ! 

Ruby Estcourt—she gave me her name before 
long—was quite as pleasant to talk to as she was 
beautiful and graceful to behold. Fortunately, her 
aunt was not one of the race of talkative old ladies, 
and she left the mass of the conversation entirely to 
Ruby and myself. In the course of half an hour or so 
spent in pacing up and down that lovely terrace, I 
picked out, bit by bit, all that I most wanted to 
know about Ruby Estcourt. She was an orphan, 
without brothers or sisters, and evidently without 
any large share of this world’s goods ; and she lived 
with her aunt and uncle, who were childless people, 
and who usually spent the summer in Switzerland, 
retiring to the Riviera every winter for the benefit of 
Mr. Shackleford’s remaining lung. Quite simple 
and unaffected, Ruby seemed, though she had passed 
most of her lifetime in the too knowing atmosphere 
■of continental hotels, among that cosmopolitan pub¬ 
lic which is so very sharp-sighted that it fancies it can 
see entirely through such arrant humbug as honor 
in men and maidenly reserve in women. Still, from 
that world Ruby Estcourt had somehow managed 
to keep herself quite unspotted ; and a simpler, 
prettier, more natural little fairy you wouldn’t 
find anywhere in the English villages of a dozen 
•counties. 

It was all so fresh and delightful to me—the 
palms, the Mediterranean, the balmy evening air, 
the gleaming white town, and pretty Ruby Estcourt— 
that I walked up and down on the terrace as long as 
they would let me ; and I was really sorry when 
good Mrs. Shackleford at last suggested that it was 
surely getting time for uncle’s game of cribbage. 
As they turned to go, Ruby said good-evening, 
and then, hesitating for a moment as to my name, 
said quite simply and naturally, “ Why, you haven’t 
yet told us who you are, have you ? ” 

I colored a little—happily invisible by moonlight— 
as I answered : “ That was an omission on my part, 
certainly. When you told me you were Miss Est¬ 
court, 1 ought to have mentioned in return that my 
own name was Aikin-Payne, Theodore Aikin-Payne, 
if you please ; may I give you a card ? ” 

“ Aching Pain ! ” Ruby said, with a smile. “ Did 
I hear you right ? Aching Pain, is it ? Oh, what a 
very funny name ! ” 

I drew myself up as stiffly as I was able. “ Not 
Aching Pain,” I said, with a doleful misgiving in my 
heart—it was clear everybody would put that odd 
misinterpretation upon it for the rest of my days. 
“ Not Aching Pain, but Aikin-Payne, Miss Est¬ 
court. A-i-k-i-n, Aikin, the Aikins of Staffordshire ; 
P-a-y-n-e, Payne, the Paynes of Surrey. My original 
surname was Payne—a surname that I venture to say 
I’m a little proud of ; but my uncle, Mr. Aikin, from 
whom I inherit property”—I thought that was rather 
a good way of putting it—“ wished me to adopt his 


family name in addition to my own—in fact, made 
it a condition of my receiving the property.” 

“ Payne—Aikin,” Ruby said, turning the names 
over to herself slowly. “Ah, yes, 1 see. Excuse 
my misapprehension, Mr.—Mr. Aikin-Payne. It was 
very foolish of me ; but really, you know, it does 
sound so very ludicrous, doesn’t it now ? ” 

I bit my lip, and tried to smile back again. 
Absurd that a man should be made miserable about 
such a trifle ; and yet I will freely confess that at 
that moment, in spite of my uncle’s twelve hundred 
a year, I felt utterly wretched. 1 bowed to pretty 
little Ruby as well as I was able, and took a couple 
more turns by myself hurriedly around the terrace. 

Was it only fancy, or did I really detect, as Ruby 
Estcourt said the two names over to herself just 
now, that she seemed to find the combination a 
familiar one ? I really didn’t feel sure about it ; but 
it certainly did sound as if she had once known 
something about the Paynes or the Aikins. Ah, 
well ! there are lots of Paynes and Aikins in the 
world, no doubt; but alas ! there is only one of them 
doomed to go through life with the absurd label of 
an Aikin-Payne fastened on his unwilling shoulders. 

III. 

“ Good morning, Mr.—Mr. Aikin-Payne,” said 
Ruby Estcourt, stumbling timidly over the name, as 
we met at breakfast next day. “ I hope you don’t 
feel any the worse for the chilly air last evening.” 

I bowed slightly. “You seem to have some diffi¬ 
culty in remembering my full name, Miss Estcourt,” 
I said suggestively. “ Suppose you call me simply 
Mr. Payne. I’ve been accustomed to it till quite 
lately, and to tell you the truth, I don’t altogether 
relish the new addition.” 

“ I should think not, indeed,” Ruby answered 
frankly. “ I never heard such a ridiculous combi¬ 
nation in all my life before. Your uncle must have 
been a perfect old bear to impose it upon you.” 

“ It was certainly rather cruel of him,” I replied, 
as carelessly as I could, “ or at least rather thought¬ 
less. I dare say, though, the absurdity of the two 
names put together never struck him. What are 
you going to do with yourself to day, Mr. Shackle¬ 
ford ? Everybody at Cannes has nothing to do but 
to amuse themselves, I suppose.” 

Mr. Shackleford answered that they were going 
to drive over in the morning to Vallauris, and that 
if I cared to share a carriage with them, he would 
be happy to let me accompany his party. Nothing 
could have suited my book better. I was alone, I 
wanted society and amusement, and I had never 
seen a prettier girl than Ruby Estcourt. Here was 
the very thing I needed, ready cut out to my hand 
by propitious fortune. I found out as time went on 
that Mr. Shackleford, being a person of limited in¬ 
come, and a bad walker, had only one desire in life, 
which was to get somebody else to pay half his 
carriage fares for him by arrangement. We went to 






366 


Treasury 

a great many places together, and he always divided 
the expenses equally between us, although I ought 
only to have paid a quarter, as his party consisted 
of three people, while I was one solitary bachelor. 
This apparent anomaly he got over on the ingenious 
ground that if 1 had taken a carriage by myself it 
would have cost me just twice as much. However, 
as I was already decidedly anxious for pretty little 
Ruby Estcourt’s society, this question of financial 
detail did not weigh heavily upon me. 

We had a delightful drive along the shore of that 
beautiful blue gulf to Vallauris, and another delight¬ 
ful drive back again over the hills to the Paradis. 
True, old Mr. Shackleford proved rather a bore 
through his anxiety to instruct me in the history and 
technical nature of keramic ware in general, and of 
the Vallauris pottery in particular, when I wanted 
rather to be admiring the glimpses of Bordighera 
and the Cap St. Martin, and the snow-clad summits 
of the Maritime Alps, with Ruby Estcourt. But in 
spite of all drawbacks—and old Mr. Shackleford 
with his universal information really was a serious 
drawback—I thoroughly enjoyed that first morning 
by the lovely Mediterranean. Ruby herself was ab¬ 
solutely charming. Such a light, bright, fairy-like 
little person, moving among the priceless vases and 
tazzas at Clement Massier’s as if she were an em¬ 
bodied zephyr, too gentle even to knock them over 
with a whiff of her little Rampoor shawl—but there, 
I can’t describe her, and I won’t attempt it. Ruby, 
looking over my shoulder at this moment, says I 
always was an old stupid ; so that, you see, closes 
the question. 

An old stupid I certainly was for the next fort¬ 
night. Old Mr. Shackleford, only too glad to have 
got hold of a willing victim in the carriage-sharing 
fraud, dragged me about the country to every avail¬ 
able point of view or object of curiosity within ten 
miles of the Square Brougham. Ruby usually 
accompanied us ; and as the two old people naturally 
occupied the seat of honor at the back of the car¬ 
riage, why, of course Ruby and I had to sit together 
with our backs to the horses—a mode of progress 
which I had never before known to be so agreeable. 
Every evening Ruby and I walked out on the terrace 
in the moonlight ; and I need hardly say that the 
moon, in spite of her pretended coldness, is really 
the most romantic and sentimental satellite in the 
whole solar system. To cut a long story short, by 
the end of the fortnight I was very distinctly in love 
with Ruby ; and if you won’t think the avowal a 
conceited one, I venture to judge by the sequel that 
Ruby was almost equally in love with me. 

One afternoon, toward the close of my second 
week at Cannes, Ruby and I were sitting together 
on the retired seat in the grounds beside the pond 
with the gold-fish. It was a delicious sunny after¬ 
noon, with the last touch of southern summer in the 
air, and Ruby was looking even prettier than usual, 
in her brocade pattern print dress and her little 


of Tales. 

straw hat with the scarlet poppies. (Ruby always; 
dressed—I may say dresses—in the very simplest 
yet most charming fashion.) There was something 
in the time and place that moved me to make a con¬ 
fession I had for some time been meditating ; so I 
looked straight in her face, and not being given to- 
long speeches, I said to her, just this : “ Ruby, you 
are the sweetest girl I ever saw in my life. Will you 
marry me ? ” 

Ruby only looked at me with a face full of merri¬ 
ment, and burst out laughing. “ Why, Mr. Payne,” 
she said (she had dropped that hideous prefix long 
ago), “ you’ve hardly known me yet a fortnight, and 
here you come to me with a regular declaration. 
How can I have had time to think about my answer 
to such a point-blank question ? ” 

“ If you like, Ruby,” I answered, “ we can leave it 
open for a little ; but it occurs to me you might as 
well say ‘ yes ’ at once, for if we leave it open, com¬ 
mon sense teaches me that you probably mean to 
say ‘ yes ’ in the long run.” And to clinch the matter 
outright, I thought it best to stoop across and kiss 
Ruby just once, by way of earnest. Ruby took the 
kiss calmly and sedately ; so then I knew the matter 
was practically settled. 

“ But there’s one thing, Mr. Payne, I must really 
insist upon,” Ruby said very quietly, “ and that is 
that I mustn’t be called Mrs. Aikin-Payne. If I 
marry you at all, I must marry you as plain Mr. 
Payne, without any Aikin. So that’s clearly under¬ 
stood between us.” 

Here was a terrible condition indeed ! I reasoned 
with Ruby, I explained to Ruby, I told Ruby that if 
she positively insisted upon it I must go back to my 
three hundred a year and my paltry schoolmaster- 
ship, and must give up my Uncle Aikin’s money. 
Ruby would hear of no refusal. 

“ You have always the alternative of marrying - 
somebody else, you know, Mr. Payne,” she said, 
with her most provoking and bewitching smile, “ but 
if you really do want to marry me, you know the 
conditions.” 

“ But, Ruby, you would never care to live upon 
a miserable pittance of three hundred a year ! I 
hate the name as much as you do, but I think I 
should try to bear it for the sake of twelve hundred 
a year and perfect comfort.” 

No, Ruby was inexorable. “ Take me or leave 
me,” she said, with prpvoking calmness ; “but if you 
take me, give up your uncle’s ridiculous suggestion. 
You can have three days to make your mind up. Till 
then, let us hear no more about the subject.” 

IV. 

During those three days I kept up a brisk fire of 
telegrams with old Blenkinsopp in Chancery Lane, 
and at the end of them I came mournfully to the con¬ 
clusion that I must either give up Ruby or give up the 
twelve hundred a year. If I had been a hero of ro¬ 
mance I should have had no difficulty at all in decid- 





The 


n 7 C* A / 

__' //W- ^/Vl*^6/ 


ing the matter : I would have nobly refused the 
money off-hand, counting it as mere dross com¬ 
pared with the loving heart of a beautiful maiden. 
But, unfortunately, I am not a hero of romance ; 1 am 
only an ordinary graduate of an English university. 
Under these circumstances, it did seem to me very 
hard that I must throw away twelve hundred a year 
for a mere sentimental fancy. And yet, on the other 
hand, not only did I hate the name myself, but I 
couldn’t bear to impose it on Ruby ; and as to telling 
Ruby that I wouldn’t have her because I preferred 
the money, that was clearly quite impossible. The 
more I looked the thing in the face, the more certain 
it appeared that I must relinquish my dream of 
wealth and go back (with Ruby) to my schoolmaster¬ 
ing and my paltry three hundred. After all, lots of 
other fellows marry on that sum ; and to say the 
truth, I myself positively shrank from going through 
life under the ridiculous guise of an Aikin-Payne. 

The upshot of it all was that at the end of the 
three days I took Ruby a little walk alone among 
the olive gardens behind the shrubbery. “ Ruby,” I 
said to her, falteringly, “you’re the most fantastic, 
self-willed, imperious little person I ever met with, 
and I want to make just one more appeal to you. 
Won’t you reconsider your decision, and take me in 
spite of the surname ? ” 

Ruby grubbed up a little weed with the point of 
her parasol, and looked away from me steadfastly as 
she answered, with her immovable and annoying calm¬ 
ness, “ No, Mr. Payne, I really can’t reconsider the 
matter in any way. It was you who took three days 
to make your mind up. Have you made it up yet 
or not, pray ? ” 

“ I have made it up, Ruby.” 

“ And you mean-? ” she said interrogatively, 

with a faint little tremor in her voice which I had 
never before noticed, and which thrilled through me 
with the ecstasy of a first discovery. 

“ And I mean,” I answered, “ to marry you, Ruby, 
if you will condescend to take me, and let my Uncle 
Aikin’s money go to Halifax. Can you manage, 
Ruby, to be happy as a poor schoolmaster’s wife in 
a very tiny cottage ? ” 

To my joy and surprise, Ruby suddenly seized 
both my hands in hers, kissed me twice of her own 
accord and began to cry as if nothing could stop 
her. “ Then you do really and truly love me?” she 
said through her tears, holding fast to my hands all 
the time ; “ then you are really willing to make this 
great sacrifice for me ? ” 

“ Ruby,” I said, “my darling, don’t excite your¬ 
self so. And indeed it isn’t a very great sacrifice 
either, for I hate the name so much I hardly know 
whether I could ever have endured to bear it.” 

“You shan’t bear it,” Ruby cried, eagerly, now 
laughing and clapping her hands above me. “You 
shan’t bear it, and yet you shall have your Uncle 
Aikin’s money all the same for all that.” 

“ Why, what on earth do you mean, Ruby ? ” I 


3°7 

asked in amazement. “ Surely, my darling, you can’t 
understand how strict the terms of ‘.he will actually 
are. I’m afraid you have been deluding yourself 
into a belief in some impossible compromise. Put 
you must make your mind up to one thing at once, 
that unless I call myself Aikin-Payne, you’ll have to 
live the rest of your life as a poor schoolmaster’s 
wife. The next-of-kin will be sharp enough in com¬ 
ing down upon the money.” 

Ruby looked at me and laughed and clapped her 
hands again. “ But what would you say, Mr. 
Payne,” she said, with a smile that dried up all her 
tears, “ what would say if you heard that the next-of- 
kin was—who do you think ?—why me, sir, me, Ruby 
Estcourt ? ” 

I could hardly believe my ears. “You, Ruby? ” 
I cried in my astonishment. “You ! How do you 
know ? Are you really sure of it ? ” 

Ruby put a lawyer’s letter into my hand, signed by 
a famous firm in the city. “ Read that,” she said, sim¬ 
ply. I read it through, and saw in a moment that 
what Ruby said was the plain truth of it. 

“ So you want to do your future husband out of 
the twelve hundred a year ! ” I said, smiling and 
kissing her. 

“ No,” Ruby answered, as she pressed my hand 
gently. “ It shall be settled on you, since I know 
you were ready to give it up for my sake. And there 
shall be no more Aikin-Paynes henceforth and for 
ever.” 

There was never a prettier or more blushing bride 
than dear little Ruby that day six weeks. 


THE DOOMED SKATER. 

FROM “CHAMBERS JOURNAL.” 

E had cast our lot, my twin brother and my¬ 
self, in the roughest township of Upper 
Canada. Twenty years are in their graves 
since then—twenty years, rung out and rung in by 
the clang of the woodman’s axe—and still that town¬ 
ship lies in the heart of its primeval forest. Clotted 
woods overhang the solitary village, composed of a 
few log-huts, nightly drenched, as with a death- 
sweat, from the malaria of the swamp. But we came, 
young and impressionable, from the Old Country, 
on a venturous quest after fortune, and the dishev¬ 
elled wilderness of thicket had its charms for us. 

A river reft the huge tangle of the woods with its 
dark sluggish waters, which crept and oozed in 
among decaying trees on either side. Banks there 
were none, and the bleached skeletons of the rotten 
trees alone marked off the channel of the river from 
the dark fen, fetid with myriad impurities. Such was 
the aspect of the melancholy Scugog. Our village 
was by no means a large one. The scattered huts 
which made it up had been knocked together by a 
sprinkling of hardy pioneers, on a solitary bluff which 







3 68 


Treasury of Tales. 


repelled the river from its base, and gave the fearless 
settlers some ground of vantage over the surround¬ 
ing swamp. There was not, however, much cleared 
ground — nay, very little ; everywhere we were 
hemmed in by battalion after battalion of monoto¬ 
nous trees. As for our fellow-settlers, we found them 
of a piece with the country—rough and hardy, as 
they had need to be who, twenty years ago, colon¬ 
ized the Scugog. 

We were twins, Jack and I, but otherwise unlike. 
He was a fine fellow ; I acknowledged his suprem¬ 
acy, and rejoiced in his bold, free spirit. From his 
childhood he had been the most impulsive creature 
that ever pointed a moral for headlong youth. Ever 
in scrapes and difficulties, but never to his dishonor, 
Jack fought one half his acquaintance into loving 
him, which the rest did of their free will; and my 
heart still warms involuntarily toward the wild im¬ 
pulsive boy, with his headstrong soul all agog for 
mischief. 

I confess I was somewhat dismayed by the aspect 
of our new country ; fresh from the sunny lanes of 
Kent, and the loved circle at home, could it be 
otherwise ? But as for Jack, he was in raptures with 
everything that disquieted me. Nothing was more 
charmingly romantic than our hut on the bluff, 
and no river could equal the brown, melancholy 
Scugog. 

We did not settle down to the regulation-life of the 
settler all at once ; we determined to sip the nectar 
of life on the Scugog, if, indeed, there was any of that 
ambrosial draught to be drained in the township. 
The fascination of the swift canoe kept us almost 
constantly on the dark mysterious river ; and, in 
truth, there was scarcely any other outlet from our 
dwelling save on its waters. By day, we fished and 
we shot from our frail skiffs ; and by night, when 
the moon was up, we would paddle them in her sil¬ 
very wake. 

I have said that a few rough settlers formed our 
society on the Scugog ; among them were some half- 
breeds—a species of degenerate Indian—who had 
sunk from the dignity of forest-life to the servitude 
and buffeting of the white settlers. They were lazy, 
good-for-nothing fellows, except in the matter of 
fishing or shooting, wherein they were proficients. 
We found them useful in giving instruction in the 
canoe-life of our river-home. I preferred, for my 
own part, to go pretty much by myself on our water 
excursions. Jack, however, had no such idea of 
placid enjoyment, and speedily leaving me to my 
aquatic reveries, he hired a hang-dog looking scoun¬ 
drel named Olier to assist him in the management of 
his canoe. I am no great disciple of Lavater, but I 
never liked that half-breed. All these dregs of In¬ 
dian nobility are sallow, bleared-eyed creatures, with 
a world of cunning, but this fellow was chief of them 
all for every repulsive trait. Of course, Jack ridi¬ 
culed my sentiments about his new servitor : he was 
a match for half-a-dozen, twenty fellows like Olier, 


he said ; and it was all right, and I was not to bother 
my head about him. 

It was getting late in the fall ; the Indian summer 
—that beautiful dream of loveliness—had restored to 
us in evanescent beauty the glories of a Canadian 
autumn. The forests were as gay with color as a 
herald’s tabard, and the air was yet balmy with the 
lingering sweetness of summer. One exquisite even¬ 
ing, born of one of these lovely days, I was listlessly 
smoking as I lay on the top of the bluff, vacantly 
sketching home-landscapes in the dark Scugog roll¬ 
ing beneath. A canoe shot round the bend of the 
river below the village ; it was paddled by a solitary 
figure, who turned out to be Jack. I knew he had 
gone down the Scugog to fish along with Olier ; but 
now no half-breed squatted in the opposite end of 
the canoe. A vague dread seized upon me as Jack, 
running his little bark sheer up the bank, shouldered 
his paddle, and marched up to me. 

“ How now, Jack ? what have you done with your 
charming companion ? ” I inquired, disguising my 
conjectural fear. 

“ Gad ! I don’t know,” replied my brother, sitting 
down, oriental fashion, beside me. 

“ Not know ? ” 

“Not a bit,” was his answer. “How should I 
be acquainted with all the ins and outs of that Rosa¬ 
mond’s Bower ? ” Here he indicated as much forest 
with his arms as would have made a few thousands 
of the Bower in question. 

“Oh, I perceive: he’s gone tracking deer, or some¬ 
thing of that sort,” said I, immensely relieved by 
Jack’s manner. There was a slight pause. My fears 
returned : I felt there was something wrong. 

“ Well,” said Jack, “ I’ll tell you ; I don’t see why 
there need be any secret about it. You were quite 
right about that Olier—you were. He’s a good-for- 
nothing fellow, and coolly refused this afternoon to 
paddle me, when I wanted to go down the river a 
bit farther than usual.” 

“And you ? ” 

“ I ran the canoe upon a yard of bank—whether an 
island or not, I cannot tell—gave the insolent rascal 
a good bastinado with the paddle, and set him 
ashore.” 

“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed with horror, 
“ don’t you know, Jack—haven’t you sense enough 
to understand—that these Indian fellows are vindic¬ 
tive to the last degree—that they will never forget 
or forgive a blow ? ” 

“ Pooh ! ” said he, getting up quite merrily, and 
marching homeward, saying over his shoulder : “Oh, 
don’t you bother yourself! Olier will be down on 
his marrow-bones to-morrow—see if he isn’t. Besides, 
I owe him half a dollar.” 

To-morrow came, unfruitful with the half-breed’s 
submission. The story got abroad among the huts, 
and the old settlers, who knew their man, shook their 
heads ominously, and boded no good to my impul¬ 
sive brother. However, two days passed harmlessly. 





The Doomed Skater. 


during which Jack and I fished and shot together. 
Olier had not reappeared, and I began to breathe 
more freely. Doubtless, he had left the district. He 
was an unsettled fellow at any rate, and had no 
property or tie in the village to tempt his stay. 

Twenty miles below the village, the dark Scugog 
whitens into rapids, and is hurled with gigantic 
power over a lofty precipice. I had often wished to 
see the falls, but it had been hitherto impossible to 
accomplish the distance by my single arm. At last 
my wish was to be gratified. A shooting-party was 
made up by some of the villagers, and, at my urgent 
request, I was included. The arrangement was to 
spend a night at the falls, campkig out on the bank, 
and return the following day. Instead of canoes, we 
were to sail down in a large flat-bottomed boat, 
termed, in Canadian parlance, a scow. Strange to 
say, Jack did not care about going, saying that he 
would enjoy himself more in his own canoe ; and, as 
we were already crowded for room, we did not press 
him to change his resolution. 

Our expedition had little in it noteworthy. The 
river for over twenty miles’ sail remained the same, 
monotonous, melancholy Scugog, never varying for 
the space of a hand. Not a vestige of clearance was 
there between our village, and the falls, not a glimpse 
of bank. The trees lined the waters like a wall, and, 
save the wild game, no one ever tried to force a way 
through their close-knit ranks, woofed at the base 
by a tangle of unwholesome verdure. This aspect I 
had stern reason for remembering. The only bright 
thing was the patch of cloudless.blue sky seen at the 
extremity of this long reach of wood and water. 
Over all brooded the intensest silence. No bird 
trilled us a single song : all was still, save for the 
lugubrious woodpecker, which, perched on a rotting 
tree, hammered its hollow sides with its beak. Tap, 
tap, tap !—it was a most unearthly sound. 

We had seen the stupendous falls in their lonely 
majesty, and were steering homeward in our scow. 
As we neared the village again, distant only some 
five or six miles, the sun was sinking behind the tree 
horizon. A slight blue haze bathed the long reaches 
of the river with ineffable softness and beauty. We 
voyaged on a liquid field of cloth of gold. But ever 
and again, marring my intense perception of its love¬ 
liness, came the ghastly tap, tap, tap of the wood¬ 
pecker. I could not resist a chilly sensation of hor¬ 
ror as I listened to the measured cadence, echoing 
through the solitude. It sounded like a coffin-maker 
hammering at his dismal task. A relief suggested 
itself. Some of my companions were French Cana¬ 
dians, and the evening before had cheered our biv¬ 
ouac with some gay refrains of sunny France. I 
asked them for a stave ; but I said nothing about 
the woodpecker, whose note I wished them to drown. 
A strong chorus soon vanquished the bird of ill 
omen, and rang up the vaulted river. I recollect the 
strain well ; it was a favorite voyageurs’ ditty, sung 
to the dash of the oar. 


• 369 
■ 

Suddenly, the song lulled, and again I shuddered 
as I heard the reverberating tap, tap of the ominous 
bird aloft on a spectral fir. My companions had 
ceased rowing, too, and called my attention to a 
canoe, which was floating down the river a few yards 
ahead of us. They thought it was a break-loose, 
and stood by to strike a boat-hook into it, with the 
prospect of a reward from the owner up at the vil¬ 
lage. It soon dropped down to us, and came, like 
the note of that ghostly woodpecker, tapping against 
our skiff. There was a stifled cry of horror from the 
settler at the bow; and as we crowded forward to 
see what was the matter, another cried out the awful 
tale of blood: “ Here, young fellow, see your 

brother—stalked by Olier, as sure’s there’s death in 
a rifle-bullet ! ” 

It was an awful end ! My poor brother lay bent 
over his idle paddle in the canoe, weltering in his 
heart’s blood. An avenging bullet had passed 
through his heart. Stalked by Olier ! Fiendish In¬ 
dian, that was thy work, and my brother’s blood 
rested on thy head. I shall not now detail the ag¬ 
onies of that Indian summer. Through all my grief 
ran the thought of an exterminating vengeance. 
Vengeance ? nay, scant justice. I sought what has 
been law since the world began—blood for blood. 
It was vain in those early times of a judicial system 
in Canada, to seek for a rigorous pursuit from the 
dispensers of legal justice : the criminal executive 
might be willing, but their arm was weak. Retribu¬ 
tion, in the trackless wild of wood and water where 
I dwelt, could proceed only from my own steady 
purpose and solitary endeavor. 

I could depend for but small aid on the settlers. 
Some of them, indeed, cursed the foul murder in no 
stinted speech ; but others, again, imputed little 
crime to the blood-stained redskin, and even went so 
far as to justify his sneaking code of vengeance. 
Olier had left the district, but a certain instinct told 
me he would ere long come back again. Likely 
enough, he would suppose I could not long remain 
in a place to which such hateful memories clung, and 
that he might then safely venture back. I waited 
my time. Safe he was in the tangled thicket; but, to 
the end, I knew that no covert under heaven would 
preserve him harmless from my wrath. 

Winter set in, hard, and white, and cold. The 
river Scugog was a level road of ice ; the trees were 
choked up with snow, and on each side of the ice¬ 
bound river the forests towered like massive cliffs of 
chalky rock. No path could now be forced into the 
recesses of the forest below our village. Scarcely 
had winter settled down for his undisturbed reign, 
when I heard whisperings that the villain half-breed 
was again hovering on the outskirts of the settlement. 
It was told me that he was living in a kind of wig¬ 
wam above the village, and also that he had more 
than once come to the very dwellings of the settlers 
by night, to visit his friends, and obtain various ar¬ 
ticles for his camp. I knew it would be vain to at- 






370 . 


Treasury of Tales. 


tempt to track him to his wigwam, or, at all events, 
to surprise him ; his wood-craft was much too deep 
to admit of such a possibility. But a strange, wild joy 
trembled through my being when I heard he came 
by night to the village. A terrible scheme of ven¬ 
geance swept across my soul; and I felt, no matter 
how fiendish the spirit, that the doom of the half- 
breed was fixed, and that I was to be his unrelenting 
executioner. 

Night after night I lay concealed at the bluff, 
awaiting the murderer ; I was armed with pistols, 
and wore skates. Skating was an amusement which 
I had excelled in when a school-boy, and facility in 
the art was of the last importance to my scheme of 
retribution. At length he came. It was an exquisite 
night; the white expanse around sparkled in the 
sheen of a young Canadian moon which sailed 
calmly through a cloudless sky. I could have shot 
the villain as he skated by me within fifty yards, but 
I would not risk the chance, and, besides, my ven¬ 
geance cried for a sterner fate than death by the 
pistol. No sooner was he past my hiding-place 
than, with a shout of exultation, I started on his 
track. Olier swerved a moment, to see who his pur¬ 
suer was, then, quick as lightning, tried to double up 
the river again. But I had anticipated this, and 
with a cocked pistol in either hand I barred his pas¬ 
sage. With a curse, he turned, and sped swiftly 
down the ice. 

And now the race for life began. Mile after mile 
we swept along in silence. An awful, portentous si¬ 
lence it was, through which nothing broke save the 
hollow boom of the swift steel cutting its way over 
the imprisoned river. The moon lit me nobly to 
my vengeance. He could not escape me, for I found 
with savage glee that I was a match for the swift¬ 
footed Indian. Olier soon became aware of this too, 
for, now and again, he would skate close to the 
woods, looking in vain for an aperture. But no ; 
there was but one outlet from this walled-in-river ; 
and that was over the falls ! 

Faster and faster yet we skated toward the cata¬ 
ract. It could not be far off. I pictured to myself 
what Olier’s thoughts might be. Did he know 
whither he was hastening ? or had that awful light 
yet to flash on his guilty mind ? The half-breed 
made answer to my thought. I saw him in the pale 
shimmer start convulsively, and throw his arms in 
the air ; but he dared not stop, and on he darted 
again with a yell of despair, which echoed weirdlike 
up the frozen channel. Another sound came to my 
ear, and I knew what had caused that cry of agony 
to burst from Olier; it was the dull thunder of the 
falls ! We were nearing them fast. Still the walls 


of snow shut in my victim, and every moment less¬ 
ened his frail hopes of escape. One chance was left 
him—to distance me, and hide somewhere in the 
snow from my scrutiny. Vain hope, the wings of 
the bird could scarce have saved him ! 

Hoarser and louder grew the noise of the waters. 
If I thanked the Almighty in frantic prayer that the 
murderer was delivered into my hand, I humbly trust 
that it is forgiven me now. From the time I had 
first started on Olier’s track, we had maintained ex¬ 
actly the same distance between us—perhaps about 
a hundred or a hundred and fifty yards. I still 
grasped my loaded pistols, ready for any stratagem on 
the part of the murderer. 

And now the crash of the falls came loud and om¬ 
inous on the ear. Another five minutes would de¬ 
cide the hunt. Suddenly, Olier turned and stood at 
bay. He was not armed ; I had felt certain of that 
all along, for otherwise he would have measured 
strength with me before. Without bating my pace, 
I skated down upon him, holding a leveled pistol 
in each hand. Still, my purpose was as fixed as ever 
only to shoot the villain as a last resource. When I 
was within twenty yards of him, the coward faltered, 
and again turned swiftly down the river. With a 
yelling laugh I pursued him, pressing still more 
hotly on his track. 

Deafening was the roar of the cataract; high into 
the pale sky ascended the mist of its spray, through 
which the splintered lines of the moonlight darted in 
rainbow-tinted beauty. I could see directly in front 
the jagged line of the ice, where it was broken by the 
rapids immediately above the cataract, and beyond I 
could trace the dark volume of the Scugog, as it 
emerged from its prison of snow and ice. For an 
instant the half-breed turned his face toward me, as 
I pressed with concentrated hate on his footsteps. 
Never shall I forget the horrible despair that distorted 
the villain’s features. It was a mercy that the sullen 
roar of the falls drowned his curses—I knew he was 
shrieking curses on me—for they would have 
haunted me in after-years. 

With the courage which is begotten of the darkest 
despair, he dashed on to the brink of the rapids, and 
the next moment I was alone on the ice ! I gazed 
with stern joy on the dark flood w r hich had seized in 
its resistless hands the shedder of blood, and was 
hurrying him over the falls. For a moment I thought 
I could perceive the murderer struggling in the ed¬ 
dies ; but the illusion, if it was one, could live only 
for an instant. The cataract was within pistol-shot, 
and as I turned back over the dreary wilderness of 
ice and snow, I knew that the doom of the guilty 
skater had been fulfilled. 






An Accident. 


37 * 



AN ACCIDENT. 

BY FRANCOIS COPPEE. 

NE evening last winter, the Abbe Faber, 
struggling against a storm with his umbrella 
open, was painfully ascending the Rue Mouf- 
fetard on his way to his church of Saint Medard. As 
he was almost certain of having disturbed himself 
for nothing, he was regretting inwardly the good 
fire which he had just quitted in his little room, 
and the folio volume he had left open on his table, 
with his spectacles on the leaves. But it was a 
Saturday evening, a day when the old widows 
living in the cheap boarding-houses of the neigh¬ 
borhood, sometimes came for absolution before tak¬ 
ing the communion the following day. 

The good priest, then, could not avoid taking his 
place in his oaken confessional, and opening his little 
window. As the result of the bad weather was that 
the street was deserted, the Abbe Faber arrived 
at his church without being annoyed by the usual 
Saturday night crowds. He dipped his forefinger in 
the holy water, crossed himself, made a slight bow 
to the high altar and went toward his confessional. 
At least he had not come for nothing : a penitent 
was waiting for him. 

* 

* * 

A male penitent—a very rare and exceptional thing 
at Saint Medard! However, perceiving by the red light 
of the lamp that hung from the vault of the chapel, 
the short, white jumper and the hob-nailed shoes of 
the kneeling man, Abbe Faber thought it was some 
workman who had kept his country boy’s faith and 
religious practices. Beyond doubt the confession 
he was about to hear would be as commonplace as 
that of the cook of the Rue Monge, who, after accus¬ 
ing herself of pilfering from her master always grum¬ 
bled at the mere mention of restitution. Accordingly 
the priest quietly entered the confessional, and after 
having indulged in a good pinch of snuff, drew back 
without any emotion the green serge curtain that 
covered the window. 

“ Monsieur le Cur6,” stammered a rough voice 
which was trying to speak low. 

“ I am not the Cur£, my friend. Say your Confttcor, 
and call me ‘Father.’” 

The man, whose face, hidden in shade, the Abb£ 


Faber could not see, mumbled slowly the prayer, 
which he seemed to have some difficulty in remem¬ 
bering, and then went on with his confession. 

“ M. le Cure—no—Father—excuse me if I do 
not speak correctly, but I have not confessed 
for twenty-five years—no, not since I came up 
from the country. You know what men are in 
Paris. I was no worse than any one else. But now 
I have a load on my conscience too heavy for me 
to bear alone, and you must listen to me, Father: 
I have killed a man” 

The abbe started from his seat. A murderer! 
It was no longer a question of inattention during 
worship, of gossip about neighbors and other chat- 
terings of old women which he heard without atten¬ 
tion and absolved with confidence. A murderer! 
That brow so near to his had conceived and carried 
the thought of a crime ! those hands clasped before 
his confessional were perhaps still w r et with blood ! 
In his agitation, not unmixed with terror, the Abb6 
Faber could only articulate the routine words, 
“ Confess, my son ; the mercy of God is infinite.” 

“ Listen, then, to the whole story,” said the man 
in a tone vibrating with deepest grief. “ I am a work¬ 
ing mason, and I came to Paris more than twenty 
years ago, with another country lad I had known 
since childhood. We had robbed nests and learned 
to read at school together. Almost a brother, was 
not he ? His name was Philippe,—mine is Jacques. 
He was a great, handsome fellow ; I w r as always 
hulking and awkward. No better workman than he 
—while I am only a ‘ duffer ’: good and brave, and 
wearing his heart on his sleeve. I was proud of 
being his friend, of walking alongside him, proud 
when he slapped me on the shoulder and called me 
‘old hoss.’ I loved him because I admired him. 
Once—what luck! we were both hired by the 
same master. Still, in the evening, he would leave 
me alone three-fourths of the time ; he was amusing 
himself with his comrades. He loved pleasure, 
which he could enjoy, for he was free from respon¬ 
sibilities and cares, while I was forced to be 
economical, for I still had my sick mother in the 
country, and I sent her my earnings. 

“ At that time I took my meals in the house where 
I lodged and which was kept by a fruit-seller who 
used to cook for the masons. Philippe did not dine 































37 2 


Treasury of Tales. 


there ; he had made other arrangements, and, to 
speak the truth, the cooking was not first-rate. But 
the fruit-seller was a widow who was not doing well, 
and to whom I saw my custom was of service, and, 
then, to be frank, I had from the first fallen in love 
with her daughter. Poor Catherine! You will 
soon know, Father, what came of it. I waited three 
years without being able to tell her my feelings to¬ 
ward her. I have told you I am only a poor work¬ 
man, and the little that I earned was barely suffi¬ 
cient for myself and what I sent to mother. So 
there was no use to think of housekeeping. At last 
my good mother went to heaven ; I was a little less 
pinched ; I put some money away, and when I 
thought I had enough to start housekeeping I spoke 
to Catherine of my love. At first she said neither 
yes nor no. I knew right well that she would not 
fling herself at me, for there’s nothing attractive 
about me. Still, Catherine consulted her mother, 
who looked on me as a steady workman, a good fel¬ 
low, and the marriage was arranged. Ah ! I had 
some happy weeks : I saw that Catherine did noth¬ 
ing more than merely take me, that she was not 
drawn toward me ; but as she had a good heart I 
hoped some day to succeed in making her love me. 

“ Of course I had told all this to Philippe, whom I 
saw every day on the scaffolding, and when Cather¬ 
ine was engaged to me I wished to make them ac¬ 
quainted. You can guess what followed. Philippe 
was a handsome man, very lively, very good-natured, 
everything I was not, and without doing it on pur¬ 
pose, quite innocently he made Catherine crazy for 
him. Catherine had a frank, honest heart, and as 
soon as she knew her real feelings she told me all. 
But, all the same, I shall never forget that moment. 
It was her birthday, and, to wish her many happy 
returns, I had bought a little gold cross and ribbon 
that I had put in a box with some cotton. We were 
alone in the back shop, and she had just brought me 
my soup. I drew the box from my pocket, opened it, 
and showed her the trinket. She burst into tears. 

“‘ Pardon me, Jacques,’ she said, ‘ and keep it for 
the girl you shall marry—I—I can never become 
your wife : I love another—I love Philippe ! ’ ” 

* 

* * 

“I was mortified, Father, deeply mortified. 
But what could I do since I loved them both ? 
Why, only what I thought their happiness, by 
heaven : get them married ; and as Philippe had 
always given himself a good time, and was short 
of money, I lent them my savings to buy furniture.' 

“ Then they married, and all went well at first, 
and they had a little boy to whom I stood godfather 
and named Camille, after my mother. It was soon 
after his birth that Philippe began to go wrong. I 
was deceived in him ; he was not fit for married life ; 
he loved to amuse himself and cut work. You live 
in a district of poor people, Father ; you must know 
by heart this sad story—the workman who slips, bit 
by bit, into idleness and drunkenness, who goes on 


a spree for two or three days, who never brings back 
his week’s wages, and never goes home but to make 
scenes and beat his wife when he is broken up by 
drink. Well, in less than two years Philippe had 
become one of these unlucky dogs. At first, I tried 
to talk to him, and sometimes he blushed for his 
conduct and strove to amend. But it did not last 
long, and then my remonstrances ended in exasper¬ 
ating him, and when I went to his house and he 
noticed the sad looks I cast on his room, the furni¬ 
ture of which had gone to the pawn-shop, and on 
Catherine, thin and pale with sorrow, he became fu¬ 
rious. One day he had the audacity to show 
some jealousy of his wife, who is as good as 
the Virgin Mary, and to remind me that I once 
was in love with her, and to accuse me of be¬ 
ing so still, and the like stupid nonsense w’hich I am 
ashamed to repeat. That day we had very nearly 
come to blows. I did my duty. I gave up seeing 
Catherine and my godchild, and as to Philippe, I 
only met him by accident when we were at work on 
the same scaffold. 

“ Only, you must understand, I had too much af¬ 
fection for Catherine and the little Camille to lose 
sight of them altogether. Of Saturday evenings, 
when I knew that Philippe had gone with his com¬ 
rades to drink his wages, I used to prowl about the 
neighborhood to meet the boy. I would make him 
talk, and if they were suffering at home, he did not 
return empty-handed, you know. I believe that this 
wretch Philippe knew I assisted his wife and shut 
his eyes to it, thinking it convenient. 

“I cut my tale short, for it is too distressing. 
Years passed by, Philippe meanwhile sinking deeper 
into vice ; but Catherine, whom I aided as much as 
I could, brought up her son, who is now a fine lad 
of twenty, good and brave as she. He is not a 
working-man, he is a scholar ; he has learned to draw 
at the night-schools, and is now with an architect, 
where he gets good wages. And now, although the 
house is still saddened by the presence of the drunk¬ 
ard, things are going better, for Camille is very good 
to his mother, and for a year or two when I have 
met Catherine—she is much changed, poor woman— 
on the arm of her son dressed like a gentleman, the 
sight has warmed my heart. 

“ But yesterday, coming out of my dining-place, I 
met Camille, and shaking hands with him—oh, he is 
not proud, and never blushed at my plaster- 
bespattered blouse—I saw that he seemed quite out 
of sorts. 

“ ‘ Why, what’s the matter ? ’ 

“‘Yesterday I drew my lot in the conscription,” 
he replied, ‘and got number ten, one of those which 
send you to die of fever in the colonies. In any 
case, here I am in for five years, and must leave 
mother alone, without means, and with father—and 
he has never drunk more, or been worse—and 
she will die of it, godfather. Poor people are 
accursed ! ’ 




Mesmerist of the Years Gone By. 


373 


“I passed a horrible night. Just think, Father, 
twenty years of struggle by this poor woman undone 
in a minute by the stupidity of luck, because a lad 
put his hand into a bag and drew out a bad number. 
This morning I was bent like an old man, by a sleep¬ 
less night, when I went to the house we were en¬ 
gaged in building on the Boulevard Arago. How¬ 
ever distressed one is, one must work all the same. 
Well, then, I climb up aloft on the scaffold,—we had 
raised the walls to the fourth story—and I begin to 
lay my blocks. All at once I feel a stroke on my 
shoulder. It is Philippe. He worked now only when 
the fancy took him, and had come to do a day’s 
work to get something to drink, apparently. But the 
master, who would incur a forfeit if he did not finish 
the house by a fixed day, took the first comers.” 

* 

* * 

“ I had not seen Philippe for a long time, and could 
scarcely recognize him. Burnt up by brandy, with 
his beard quite gray, and with his trembling hands, 
he was not an old man but a ruin. 

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘the boy has drawn a bad 
number.’ 

“ ‘ And then ? ’ he replied, in a hoarse voice, and 
with an evil look : ‘ are you, too, going to bore me 
with that, like Catherine and Camille ? The lad 
must do like the others. He will serve his country. 
I know what bothers them, my wife and son. If I 
were dead, he would not go. But, so much the 
worse for them. I am still at my post, and Camille 
is not a widow’s son-’ 

“A widow's son / Ah, Father, why was he so un¬ 
fortunate as to utter those words ? The evil thought 
came to me at once, and never quitted me all that 
morning, while I was working side by side with that 
wretch. I imagined what Catherine would suffer when 
she had no longer her son to support her and protect 
her, and when she was left alone with that wretched 
drunkard, who had become a brute, a wild beast, 
capable of anything. Eleven struck on a neigh¬ 
boring clock, and our mates went down for break¬ 
fast. We remained the last, Philippe and I, but 
as he was stepping on to the ladder to descend in 
his turn, what did he do but look at me with a grin, 
and say, with his voice husky with cut-throat brandy, 

“ ‘You see, I have my sea-legs still—Camille is a 
long way off from being a widow’s son.’ 

“ I felt as if I had a rush of blood and wrath to 
the brain. I seized with both hands the rungs of the 
ladder to which Philippe was clinging crying ‘ Help,’ 
and with one shove, I sent it toppling over. 

“ He was killed on the spot, and people thought 
it an accident. But now Camille is a widow’s son, 
and will not need to go away. 

“ This is what I have done, Father, and what I 
must tell to you and to God. I repent my deed, and 
do most humbly ask pardon for it. But I must not 
see Catherine in her black dress, happy on her son’s 
arm. I should be capable then of not regretting my 
crime. To avoid this I shall emigrate to America. 


For penance—see, Father, the little gold cross which 
Catherine refused when she confessed to me that 
she was in love with Philippe. I have kept it always 
in memory of the only happy days I have had in my 
life. Take and sell it. The money can go to the 
poor.” 

* 

* * 

Did Jacques rise from his knees absolved by 
Father Faber ? 

Certain it is, the old priest did not sell the little 
gold cross. He paid into the church funds the price 
of it, and hung the trinket as an ex-voto on the altar 
of the Lady Chapel where he often goes to pray for 
the poor mason. 


A MESMERIST OF THE YEAI^S 
GONE BY. 

BY MRS. HENRY WOOD. 

I. 

NE afternoon in the spring of 1854, two dis¬ 
tinguished looking men might have been 
seen in Paris, strolling along the Boulevard 
des Italiens. Handsome, tall, and straight of limb 
they were, with sufficient resemblance in the general 
air and contour of feature to prove that kindred 
blood united them—that of brotherhood. The elder 
was of dark hue and of resolute, but sombre, cast of 
countenance ; while the fair features, with their ever- 
ready smile, the wavy auburn hair, and bright com¬ 
plexion of the younger seemed to say that he was 
cast in a less stern mould. 

They were descendants of the old nobilty, the an- 
ciemie noblesse of the Faubourg St. Germain, a race 
which seemed to be gradually disappearing from the 
surface of revolutionized France. Their father was a 
St. Sevron, but he had been dead some years, and 
they had been reared in all the pride, the exclusive 
ideas, and the poverty of their mother, who was of 
the family of the De Montcarsons. Gaston, the 
younger, was serving in the French army, as yet but 
a lieutenant, but Andre pursued no occupation. 

They had met by chance on the Boulevard, and 
Gaston put his arm through his brother’s, and turned 
to pursue with him the same way. The utmost af¬ 
fection had always subsisted between them. The 
difference in their ages—ten years—caused Gaston to 
regard his elder brother with the love and reverence 
due to a father ; whilst Andr£ was fervently attached 
to him, who in infancy had nestled his curly head 
upon his breast, as its resting-place, and looked up 
to him through his childish tears, and told him all 
his little troubles. 

“ Where are you bound to ? ”, asked the elder 
brother. 

“ I was looking for Cartier. He promised to meet 
me, and he has missed his appointment. And you ? ” 

“ I don’t know. Anywhere. Gaston ! I am nearly 
sick of this inert life.” 








374 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ By Jove ! I’m nearly sick of having too much to 
do,” laughed the more active younger brother. 
“ What with morning drills and mid-day exercises, 
afternoon visits and gossip, and evening amusements, 
I seldom find the day long enough.” 

“You were born to see things couleur de rose!” 
grumbled the melancholy elder brother. 

“ What’s the use of looking at them couleur de 
noir ? ” retorted Gaston. “ It is a pity you are not 
in the army, Andre : there will be occupation enough, 
if this war goes on.” 

“/ in the army ! ” haughtily returned Andre. “ You 
are mocking me. No, no. I must be my own master. 
If the Legitimists, indeed, were on the throne— 
but it is profitless to enter upon these topics with 
• you.” 

“That it is,” replied Gaston, good-humoredly. 
“ I am content to enjoy things as I find them, with¬ 
out tormenting myself after what’s past. There goes 
Cartier ! Where’s he off to, in that quarter ? ” 

Unlinking his arm from his brother’s, Gaston de 
St. Sevron set off, full speed, to catch his friend 
Cartier. Andre pursued his way till he came to the 
Rue de Rivoli, where he ascended to a handsome 
apartment in one of its handsome houses. As he 
was shown into the drawing-room, a lady rose to re¬ 
ceive him—a quiet, calm English lady of middle age, 
Mrs. Elliot. 

She had come to Paris a year previously, with her 
niece, bringing, amongst other letters of introduction, 
one for old Madame de St. Sevron. The families 
had become intimate, for they mutually liked each 
other. Mrs. Elliot admired the fine old dame of the 
ancient regime, so resigned, yet still so simply grand 
in her fallen fortunes, and the two young Frenchmen 
began by liking Miss Alice Dare, and ended by lov¬ 
ing her. She was so different, this English maiden, 
from all the young French ladies of their experience. 
Never losing the self-possession of her manners, her 
speech was frank, and her intercourse with them free 
and open as that of a sister. It surprised them with 
its novelty, while it charmed them with its pleasing 
trustingness; and when, at the end of three months’ 
sojourn, the ladies quitted Paris, it may be questioned 
which of the two young men missed them most. 
“ You will be sure to return ?” they had said to her, 
and she had laughingly replied, “ Perhaps yes : per¬ 
haps no.” She did return. One frosty day, some 
months afterward, in the January of 1854, if the old 
apartment of the St. Sevrons, which, dirty and 
confined as it was, was situated in the aristocratic 
Quartier de St. Germain, could have looked down 
into the street, which it could not, being so high, it 
would have seen Miss Dare’s carriage at the great 
door, and Miss Dare, followed by her aunt, stepping 
out of it, to gladden the eyes of poor Madame de St. 
Sevron : to gladden another person’s also, who was 
sitting there ; but let that pass for the present. Mrs. 
Elliot had no other home than the one she enjoyed 
as the protectress of Miss Dare ; for Miss Dare was 


an orphan and an heiress, and moreover being of 
age, she was mistress of herself and her fine fortune. 
She could not boast of beauty, this young English 
lady, but there was a peculiar charm of manner 
about her which rendered her eminently attractive. 

To return. When Andre de St. Sevron made his 
call this day, he found Mrs. Elliot alone, and sat 
w r ith her, almost in silence, restlessly watching the 
door—watching for one who did not enter. Pres¬ 
ently he asked whether mademoiselle was out. 

“Alice is not out,” replied Mrs. Elliot. “ I fancy 
she is writing letters. Judith,” she added, rising to 
speak to a young woman who sat sewing in the ante¬ 
room, “ see where Miss Alice is. Tell her Mr. De 
St. Sevron is here.” 

“ My mistress is writing, ma’am,” said the girl, 
presently returning. “ She says she knew Mr. de 
St. Sevron was here, for she heard his voice, but she 
hopes he will excuse her, for she fears to be too late 
for the post.” 

A warmer shade—it could scarcely be called color— 
rose in the dark cheek of Andre de St. Sevron. Ere 
it faded, to leave the face more sallow than before, 
the door opened and his brother entered. 

He was at no loss for conversation. He chatted 
with Mrs. Elliot, he joked his brother on his idle¬ 
ness, he told a piquant anecdote of the day, he 
hummed over for them a song in the last new drama. 
And he did not break it off, the humming, when 
Miss Dare came in, but carried the tune through to 
the end. 

“ Will you pardon my rudeness ? ” he said, with 
his sunny smile, as he went up and held out his 
hand. “ I had just caught the air, and Mrs. Elliot 
was anxious to hear it.” 

“ You went, then, on Sunday night ? ” she ex¬ 
claimed. 

“To be sure,” he replied. “I told you I should 
go. Don’t frown, Miss Alice. You in England 
are taught to think these Sunday pleasures sins ; it 
is part of our religion to enjoy them.” 

“Very good,” returned Miss Dare, quietly. “But 
why do you say I frowned ? ” 

“ Because I feared you might. You must go and 
see this new drama, Miss Alice.” 

“ Shall I get you places for to-night ? ” interposed 
Andr£, eagerly. “It is creating a perfect furore.” 

“ Then I think I shall wait till the furore’s over,” 
returned Miss Dare. “ I don’t like these crowded 
nights.” 

“ Have you finished your letters, Alice ? ” said Mrs. 
Elliot. 

“ No. I got tired. They will do to-morrow.” 

“ She would not come when she heard my voice : 
did she come at his2” asked Andre, of himself. 
And he continued to look at her, as she sat there 
smiling at the apt phrases of his gay and gallant 
brother. He rose to leave. 

“ Are you coming, Gaston ? ” he inquired. 

“ Not I; not for this hour,” protested Gaston. 




"> ** r* 

o/5 


A Mesmerist of the Years Gone By. 


“ I am relating a story to Miss Alice, and you have 
interrupted it.” 

“ What story ? ” 

“ Something Cartier told me to-day about the new 
Court and our charming Imperatrice. I would ad¬ 
vise you not to inquire particulars ; they will not suit 
your Legitimist reverence.” 

Andre left the house, and made his way home to 
the Faubourg St. Germain. Toiling up the five 
flights of stairs, he opened the outer door of the 
apartment with his pass-key. A very narrow ante¬ 
chamber, encumbered with trunks and firewood, 
passed, he found himself in the small and dingy 
sitting-room. The cloth was laid for dinner, and his 
mother sat in an attitude of waiting, her hands and 
her black mittens crossed before her. She was re¬ 
markably like her eldest son, especially in the 
expression of the face and eye, half stern, half 
melancholy. 

“ It is a quarter-past five, my son, and Nannette 
is waiting to serve the soup,” she said. “ Have you 
seen your brother ? ” 

“ I left him in the Rue Rivoli,” replied Andre. 
“ Let us begin. I am sorry I kept you waiting, 
mother.” 

Nannette, an ancient dame, who had lived in 
Madame’s family unheard-of years, and remembered 
some of its former grandeur, but who had long fallen 
to be the solitary maid-of-all-work, put the potage 
on the table, and they sat down to it. An hour 
afterward, the repast concluded, Gaston was heard. 
He ascended the stairs in a great bustle, leaping up 
three at a time, and burst into the room. 

“ I hope you did not wait dinner for me ! ” 

“ No. But where have you been, my child ! ” It 
was the mother’s familiar mode of expression : Andre 
was “my son,” Gaston, “my child.” 

“ I stayed on at Mrs. Elliot’s, mother, unconscious 
of the time, and when I left, was astonished to find 
it was half-past five. Just then Cartier came up, and 
made me go to dine with him, knowing I should be 
late here.” 

“ Where are you flying to now, child ? ” demanded 
Madame de St. Sevron, as Gaston opened the op¬ 
posite door. 

“ To dress. I am going to the theatre : the Porte 
St. Martin. And it is late. I don’t know who’s not 
waiting for me.” 

He entered and closed the door, as he spoke. It 
was the joint dressing-room of himself and Andre. 
Their beds were in two enclosed recesses in the same 
chamber—shut-up cupboards, an English bed-room 
would call them. Madame de St. Sevron slept in a 
recess partitioned off from the ante-room, and where 
old Nannette slept never could be divined, unless 
it was on the pile of wood, outside, or on the stove 
in the kitchen. 

Not long was Gaston dressing : he was never long 
over anything ; and out he went, as dashing a young 
officer as Paris could show. Andre remained by the 


side of the fire, moodily looking into it. His mother 
sat on the other side, lost in dreams of the nation’s 
and her own departed greatness. As the clock struck 
eight, Andre rose and stretched himself. 

“ Going out, my son ? ” 

“ I shall take a stroll as far as the Porte St. Martin. 
They play a sterling afterpiece there to-night. Good 
night, dear mother. You may be in bed before I 
return.” 

Andre de St. Sevron reached the Porte St. Martin, 
but he found some difficulty in getting into the pit of 
the theatre. An attractive piece was on, and the 
audience were closely packed. He did manage, 
somehow, to wedge his way in, and obtain a side- 
view of the stage. 

He obtained a view of something else. Ranging 
his eyes round the house, they were arrested by a 

box, amidst whose brilliant crowd was the distin¬ 
guished form of his brother, laughing and talking to 
Miss Dare. She was not talking ; she was only list¬ 
ening ; the more dangerous pastime, in such a case, 
of the two ; and Andre knew it. 

Andre de St. Sevron looked no more at the stage. 
He bent his dark brows, and, covered by the crush 
and crowd around, watched keenly that box, in one 
of whose inmates all the hopes of his future life 
were concentred. Once he started up and would 
have made for it, but he remembered his careless 
costume, and remained where he was. Before the 
close of the performance he left the house, and 
walked rapidly home. His mother had retired, and 
Andre sat down before the nearly burnt-out fire. 
Mechanically, with the air of one whose mind knows 
not what his hands are doing, he pushed the pieces 
of wood together, that they might blaze up, and fell 
into a train of thought. 

“ Is it real or imaginary, this nightmare which 
oppresses me? For some time, ever since she re¬ 
turned to Paris, its shadows have hovered over 
me. They are growing darker: more dark than 
ever have they been to-day. If I thought he loved 
her, I think I could give her up—pshaw ! a soldier 

boy, of five-and-twenty, love ? Not he. His heart 
is in his profession ; in his amusements ; in his 
companions, light and void of care as is the 
wind. Why, to tie that lad down to matrimony, 
even with her, would be like chaining him to the 
grave ! And if she, if it be true ”—Andre winced 
visibly—“ if indeed her fancy is temporarily caught 
by him, the kinder course to him, to both, would be 
to remove him from the danger. I must look to it. 
Why did I suffer myself to become enthralled by 
this English girl ? I, who have hitherto made a stone 
of my feelings as regards women ? But—if one must 
marry some time—as well Alice as another. We 
should be equally matched. Thirty-five years to her 
two-and-twenty: all well : the husband should have 
more experience than the wife. She has a large 
fortune and I have an ancient name. What can 
either side desire more ?” 




376 Treasury of Tales . 


Not many mornings after this, Paris awoke with 
the news that certain regiments were ordered to Mar¬ 
seilles, on their way to commence the war, now de¬ 
clared against Russia, the regiment in which Gaston 
de St. Sevron served not being one. “ God be 
thanked ! ” murmured Madame de St. Sevron, though 
she said it not in the hearing of her sons. She 
owned a brave heart, this lady, one which did not dis¬ 
grace her high lineage ; and if needs must have 
been that her son had gone forth to meet his coun¬ 
try’s enemies, she would have struggled for a calm 
voice in which to bid God speed him. But there was 
something behind. 

From the very first faint rumor of an impending 
war, certain mouldy prophecies, rummaged out from 
it is impossible to say what hidden archives of 
Paris, had been secretly circulated among parties 
inimical to the war and to the new imperial 
power. They had found their way to the hands of 
Madame de St. Sevron. Not much could she make 
out of them : those who were able to read them in 
their original Latin, professed to make more. They 
were written in the reigns of Charles IX. and Henri 
IV. They were carried down to, and indeed beyond, 
the present time, pointing clearly to a war to be be¬ 
gun in the year 1854 against Russia, and which 
would bring desolation in its train ; famine, pesti¬ 
lence, and wholesale slaughter, till the earth should 
be partially decimated. “ Oh not for that,” mur¬ 
mured Madame de St. Sevron, ‘‘did I bear my son. 
Engaged with an open, honorable enemy, he must 
take his chance and trust in heaven ; but famine— 
—pestilence—indiscriminate butchery—my God, I 
thank thee that he is spared the risk ! ” She did 
not tell her sons she had seen these old, yellow sheets 
of parchment: she knew that Andre would have 
haughtily sneered over them and Gaston made 
merry. 

In the afternoon of this day, so full of gossip and 
excitement for Paris, Gaston went to call in the Rue 
Rivoli. Alice Dare rose and stood by the centre 
table as he entered, glancing at him with a searching 
gaze. “ Is it true?” were her first words, scarcely 
replying to his greeting. 

“ Is what true, Miss Alice ? ” 

“ That the war has begun ? That you soldiers are 
ordered off ? ” 

“ True that w r e are ordered off. But the war has 
not actually begun. And it never may begin. Some 
of our wiseacres think it never will.” 

“ Are you ordered out?’’she continued in a low 
voice. 

“ No : our regiment has not received the honor. 
We remain here.” 

She drew a long breath as if relieved, took her 
hand from the table on which it had leaned, and sat 
down on her favorite sofa by the window. Her 
spirits seemed to rise high. 

“Now don’t impose upon us with the nonsense 
that you are disappointed ! ” she exclaimed, inter¬ 


rupting something he was saying to Mrs. Elliot. 
“ You soldiers like to uphold your martial character 
and so pretend to great bravery. Had you been 
ordered out, Monsieur Gaston, you might have gone 
with a downcast heart; or perhaps have invented 
some plausible excuse for staying at home, not car¬ 
ing to get into the way of cannon balls.” 

“ Alice ! Alice ! ” remonstrated Mrs. Elliot. “ She 
is fond of joking, Monsieur Gaston.” 

The young man’s cheek and brow flushed a glow¬ 
ing red, showing that he felt her words. Not in¬ 
dividually : for never did a braver or more cour¬ 
ageous heart beat than that of Gaston de St. Sevron. 
And there was something in the conscious, averted 
eye of Alice, as she turned it from his gaze, which 
told him that she knew the reproach of cowardice 
never could come near him. 

II. 

What could it be that Andre de St. Sevron was so 
busy over? For some days he was not seen in his 
old haunts ; he did not call in the Rue Rivoli ; he 
was only at home night and morning. He was- 
mingling, instead, with military officers—a thing he 
rarely condescended to do ; he was in and out of the 
bureau of financiers ; he was haunting the cabinet of 
the war ministers. The secret of the whole was, 
that he was endeavoring to accomplish the exchange 
of his brother from one regiment to another. 

And he effected it. One afternoon it was settled. 

Andre was at rest now. He had scarcely taken 
food for some days ; but he now turned into a cheap 
restaurant, and dined for twenty-five sous, he, this 
proud descendant of the once-sumptuous regime. 
The lamps were lighted in the streets when he 
reached home, and he ascended the high staircase 
by feel, not by sight. His mother was reclining in 
her fauteuil, in the warm corner. 

“You don’t seem well, mother!” he exclaimed, 
affectionately, for both boys deeply loved and rever¬ 
enced their mother. “ Is it the old pain at your 
chest ? ” 

“ I am free to-night from bodily ailments, my son,” 
replied Madame de St. Sevron, “ but my spirits are 
unusually depressed. Some calamity seems to be 
hanging over me. My old friend the Comtesse de 
Morny was here this afternoon, and she was going 
on in a melancholy strain about this miserable war 
which is looming in the future. It set me thinking 
about Gaston. His regiment is left tranquil as yet; 
but how long may it remain so ? ” 

“ Mother,” began Andre, in a hesitating voice, as 
he drew his chair close to hers, and took her hand, 
“ it would be fortunate for Gaston to go out to the 
war. Do you know what I have been occupied with 
these last few days ? ” 

“ How should I know, my son ? ” 

“ I have been effecting for Gaston what his own 
luck did not effect for him. I have procured his ex¬ 
change into one of these departing regiments.” 





A Mesmerist of the Years Gone By. 


377 


I he old lady turned her face slowly toward the 
speaker, and her lips parted as if with extreme aston¬ 
ishment or perplexity ; not so much yet with terror, 
for her senses had not fully taken in the purport of 
the words. 

“ You can’t imagine the trouble I had,” continued 
Andre, “ the officers, one and all, are so eager to get 
out, and be doing. Marshal St. Arnaud managed it 
at last. He knows what a fine fellow Gaston is.” 

Oh, the sharp, shrill cry of anguish that issued 
from the lips of Madame de St. Sevron ! She clinched 
Andre’s arm with a pressure of which he had deemed 
her aged and thin fingers incapable, and a torrent of 
reproaches burst from her. 

“ You have done this ! you have acted the part of 
Judas by your own brother ! You would drive him 
out to swell the dead on those far-off plains !—where 
the corpses are to lie in heaps, stricken down by 
war and pestilence ! ” 

“ Oh, mother ! don’t talk like that. War ! pesti¬ 
lence ! What pestilence ? And as to war, our brave 
soldiers can hold their lines .against the Russians. 
Whence got you such ideas ? ” 

“ They are not my ideas,” interrupted Madame de 
St. Sevron, fiercely ; “ they are the revelations of one 
who lived and died ages ago. Every political event 
that has since come to pass in France is written 
down in these dread prophecies, especially those of 
later times : the Revolution ; the murder of the king; 
our downfall ; the rising of the Eagle, its triumph, 
its bloody sway, and then its fall; the Orleans dy¬ 
nasty ; the Republic, swayed over by a second Eagle ; 
the second Empire, and this fearful war which is to 
destroy the flower of the Western armies, and bring 
pestilence, famine, woe, madness in its train ! ” 

“ Dear mother,” interposed the astonished Andre, 
“ you must be lapsing into your dotage. Prophe¬ 
cies ! ” he continued, in a tone of haughty scorn. 
“ Because some fools—though more knaves than 
fools—are circulating these wicked absurdities to 
answer their own ends, you must attach importance 
to them— you! Mother, be yourself again : remem¬ 
ber you are a De Montcarson.” 

“ I will be myself again when you are again a 
brother,” she retorted. “ What are we to do without 
Gaston ? how exist, wanting him ! Is he not the sun¬ 
shine of our miserable household—is it not he, with 
his sweet temper and joyous spirit, that brings what 
light comes into it ? Has he not been something for 
us both to love—an end to live for—a continuous 
happiness to look forward to day by day as we awake ? 
Andre ! if you indeed drive my child out to death, 
may God forgive you, for I never will ! ” 

At this moment the door of the inner room opened, 
and Gaston came out. He had been making ready 
for a party at Mrs. Elliot’s. 

“ Gaston,” exclaimed Andre, drawing up his tall 
form fearlessly, “our mother seems to have some 
mist before her eyes, causing her to see things in 
false colors. I have been exerting all the energy 


and influence I possess to advance your interest, and 
have succeeded in effecting an exchange for you into 
one of the regiments ordered to the East. It-” 

“ Parbleu ! but I think you might have consulted 
me first! ” ejaculated the amazed young soldier. “ I 
may have interests that bind me, if possible, to 
Paris.” 

“ Tush, my brother ! guard against frittering away 
time until you become a useless dreamer, as I have 
done. I have had, in this step, but your true wel¬ 
fare at heart; I swear it to you, by the honor of our 
name ! Go forth and prosper. Use your sword 
bravely, and come back to us a captain—a colonel— 
a general : no rank is inaccessible to him who shows 
himself a lion on the battle-field.” 

“ The battle-field gives stepping-stones, and it 
blows off heads,” returned the careless Gaston. “ If 
I go out, I must bear my chance of one, as of the 
other ; and I should flinch from neither.” 

Again that cry of anguish from Madame de St. 
Sevron, but this time it was low and wailing, as she 
threw her feeble hands round her boy. “ Oh, Gas¬ 
ton, my latest born ! ” she murmured, “ if you die 
out there, you take my life with you ! ” 

Andre looked on, and saw, and heard. He might 
have hesitated, might have endeavored to undo his 
work, but that he truly believed the interest of Gas¬ 
ton lay in his being in active service. 

It was late in the evening when Gaston de St. 
Sevron entered the reception-rooms of Mrs. Elliot. 
A gay party was assembled. In the course of the 
night he contrived to find himself alone with Miss 
Dare. Some people were at cards, and others had 
gathered round the piano, where a lady was shrieking 
through some Italian songs. 

“ Why have you brought me into this room ? ” de¬ 
manded Alice. “ There’s no one in it, you see.” 

“That is why I did bring you,” replied Gaston. 
“ I may not be able to call upon you again, so I 
would say a word of adieu to you now : and I hate 
saying it in a crowd.” 

“Just tell me what you mean !” she exclaimed. 
“ I don’t like riddles. Take leave till when ?—till to¬ 
morrow ? ” 

“ To-morrow, no ! ” he replied. “ Probably for 
ever. I am going out to the East. Ere eight-and- 
forty hours we shall be on our road.” 

Her face, even her lips, turned of a ghastly white¬ 
ness. Gaston saw it. 

“ Why did you deceive me ? ” was her first question. 
“ The other day, you said your regiment remained 
in Paris.” 

“ The regiment remains. But I have exchanged 
into one going out. You did me the honor to sug¬ 
gest that, were I ordered off, I might be capable of 
inventing some disgraceful ruse to evade it,” he 
added, determined to hazard a little joke. “ Do you 
not think the insinuation was enough to make a fel¬ 
low apply for permission to seek the risk ? ” 

“ Oh, Gaston ! ” she exclaimed, wildly, her livid 





378 Treasury 

features one keen expression of dismay, “ do not tor¬ 
ture me ! You knew that all I said was but in jest.” 

“ How could I know it ? On my honor, I did 
not know whether you were in jest or earnest.” 

“ You are but jesting with me now ! ” she uttered, 
laying her trembling hands upon his arm in her ex¬ 
citement. 

“ Alice, my love, why this emotion ? ” he whispered, 
more tenderly than he had ever permitted himself to 
speak to her. “ Sit down and be calm.” 

“ You are not going ! ” she exclaimed, in agitation, 
raising her head and checking the tears, as the color 
flashed into her cheeks. “ And I am foolish and 
nervous to-night. But you are not going ? ” 

“ My dear Alice, I am assuredly going. But when 
I said I made the exchange in consequence of your 
observations to me, that was not true. I never ap¬ 
plied—I never wished to apply, or to leave Paris : 
and till eight o’clock this night, I knew no more of 
the matter than you knew. It is Andre who has 
done it. He believes that my interests lie in being 
in active service, and he has exerted himself to effect 
an exchange. I am now in the — regiment.” 

The first shock had passed, and she was still and 
quiet. “When do you leave?” she asked. 

“ The day after to-morrow.” 

“ And when return ? ” 

“ Alice ! as well inquire when the next comet will 
be discovered, or any other event which may or may 
not happen. If I do return, you are the first friend 
I shall seek a welcome from. And now I must 
leave you.” 

She stood up by his side, her eyes cast down, and 
her cheeks crimson. He took her hand in his, and 
pressed it to his heart. He did more. He threw his 
arm round her waist, and kissed, five or six times, 
those glowing cheeks, and she resisted not. But 
when he had finally left the room, she flew up-stairs 
to her chamber, and, bolting herself within, indulged 
in a hysterical burst of tears. 

Ill 

The following summer was one of suspense and 
anxiety to many people ; to France, as well as to our 
own country. Sickness was not spared to the French 
capital, any more than to ours ; and varied reports 
from the East, where the allied armies were gathered, 
kept up a continual excitement. Now they were at 
Malta, now at Gallipoli, now some of them at Con¬ 
stantinople, and now in the desert plains surrounding 
Varna. Rumors came to Paris of minor engage¬ 
ments with the enemy, more than rumors of fearfully 
devastating sickness : but a brave heart sat in every 
Parisian breast. “ The British Lion and the French 
Eagle,” they shouted, “ can never be subdued ! ” 

Several letters arrived from Gaston de St. Sevron : 
to his mother, to Andre, to former companions : let¬ 
ters as gay as himself. It was evident he contrived 
to lead a merry life amid all the discomforts that 
attended the army ; but Gaston carried happiness 


of Tales. 

with him in his own sunny heart. Andre de St. 
Sevron had made no progress in his wooing—if it 
was wooing he meant. A few days after the depart¬ 
ure of Gaston, Miss Dare had left, with her aunt, for 
Switzerland. “I am tired of Paris,” was her reply 
to Mrs. Elliot’s comment upon the suddenness of her 
resolution. 

Now at that period, as is well remembered yet, a 
certain class of people had begun to exercise a won¬ 
derful influence in Paris—the mesmerists. Some 
persons called them charlatans ; others bowed to 
their power, and were terrified at it. One of them 
was especially noted for her revelations—a woman ; 
but for obvious reasons her name is not given here. 
It was a recognized fact that many a heavy trans¬ 
action was done on the Bourse, the secret incentive 
to which was neither more nor less than a seance 
with one or other of the mesmerists regarding news 
from the seat of war. It was a curious thing, diffi¬ 
cult to understand—that they should be able to 
reveal events passing in the far-off East. And, when, 
days afterward, authentic tidings would come to 
prove their truth, people knew not what to think. 
Their fame grew. Individuals of all classes, high 
and low, scoffers once, scrupled not to consult the 
mesmerists in secret—few of them cared to own it. 
One gentleman, a well-known financier in Parisian 
circles, was banteringly accused, in evening society, 
of having gone that morning to visit one. He indig¬ 
nantly denied it, and was believed. Nevertheless, he 
had been. They assumed to possess the"^>ower of 
revealing everything ; from the general doings of 
the army to the thoughts and movements of those 
forming it. 

One day, toward the latter end of September, 
Andre de St. Sevron was dragging himself and his 
legs along the Tuileries garden in his usual listless 
mood, when he suddenly encountered Miss Dare and 
her maid. He brightened up to energy. 

“ This is indeed an unexpected pleasure ! ” he ex¬ 
claimed. “ When did you arrive ? ” 

“ Last night, ’ she replied ; “ and we have seen no 
one yet. What news is there ? ” 

“ The troops have landed in the Crimea,” said 
Andre, thinking the word “ news ” could only refer 
to the all-engrossing topic. “ Where is Mrs. Elliot ? ’’ 

“ She was busy with her packing-cases when I 
came out. I expect her to join me presently. Do 
you mind sitting down, for I am tired with yesterday’s 
journey ? Judith,” she continued, turning to the girl, 
“ you can go and execute the commission my aunt 
gave you. You will find me here.” And the servant 
departed on her errand, and Andre sat down on the 
bench by Miss Dare’s side. 

“Have you heard recently from your brother ?” 
she inquired, turning her face away. 

“ No, we have not/' answered Andre. “ His letters 
used to come pretty regularly at first, but latterly we 
have received none. I may confess to you that I 
am getting anxious. Not that there’s fear on Gas- 




A Mesmerist of the Years Gone By. 


379 


ton’s account, for if anything unfortunately happened 
to him, his brother-officers would write ; but my poor 
mother torments herself out of her life. She is now 
a mere skeleton.” 

“ I attach no importance to the non-receipt of letters 
from this allied expedition of ours,” observed Miss 
Dare. “ My aunt has a son out there, a young en¬ 
sign, and though we know he writes regularly, more 
of his letters are lost or delayed than come to 
hand.” 

“ There has been a disagreeable rumor flying about 
Paris these last few hours,” proceeded Andre, un¬ 
consciously dropping his voice, “ but I cannot find 
that it proceeds from any source save the prolific 
brains of the mesmerists. I was at the telegraph 
office this morning, and nothing of it had been heard 
there.” 

“ Mesmerists ! ” exclaimed Miss Dare. “ Are they 
busying themselves about the war ? ” 

“ They are : and, what’s worse, they keep Paris in 
a hotter fever than it would otherwise be. Some 
events, it cannot be denied, they have described ex¬ 
actly ; aye, nearly in the very hour in which they 
occurred.” 

“ But what is this present rumor you allude to ? ” 

“ I don’t put any faith in it,” said Andr£, imperi¬ 
ously. Yet his uneasy, nervous movement, as he 
spoke, proved he did. “ It is that the troops have 
landed in the Crimea—but that was known—that some 
days afterward, upon encountering the Russians, a 
desperate battle ensued, and that thousands of the 
allies, men and officers, are down.” 

Miss Dare compressed her lips. “ But, you say 
even the telegraph has no news of this ? ” she ob¬ 
served, in a cheerful voice, after some minutes’ 
thought. 

“ No, no ; it all comes from these infernal mes¬ 
merists—I beg your pardon for the word. But, you 
see, as they have been right before, they may be 
again. I have been in a state of worry since the 
morning, lest the report should reach my mother.” 

“ Have you been yourself to consult the mesmer¬ 
ists ? ” inquired Miss Dare. 

“ Thank you. There are enough idiots who go, 
without my making one.” 

“ Then, were I you, I should go and hear what 
they do say,” she rejoined, firmly, “ and exercise my 
own judgment as to whether there was anything in 
it. It seems to me that such imposture, if it be im¬ 
posture, must be readily detected.” 

Andre de St. Sevron sat silent. He did not choose 
to confess to her that it was the very plan he had 
been debating in his own mind. 

“ Do ladies go ? ” proceeded Miss Dare. 

“ Some have gone. I suppose you are aware that 
we have women speculators on the Bourse as well as 
men. And it is chiefly for these speculations that 
the clairvoyants are consulted.” 

“ Do you know,” she said, in a low, timid voice, 
“ I should much like to go.” 


“ Go where ? ” ejaculated AndrA 

“ To hear, or see—which do you call it ?—one of 
these mesmerists. It has never fallen to my chance 
to be present at any of their exhibitions, though I 
have often wished it. Why not now, as well as at 
another time ? Will you take me, Andre ? ” 

“You English demoiselles are remarkably inde¬ 
pendent ! ” was Andre’s observation. 

“Yes,” she said, “it is our privilege. But we re¬ 
tain our dignity and self-possession, Andre, and no 
harm can come near ug. Will you go ? ” 

“ If you are in earnest in wishing it. When shall 
it be ? Some hour that will suit Mrs. Elliot.” 

“ I will not have Mrs. Elliot, or tell her of it,” inter¬ 
rupted Miss Dare. “ I ask you to accompany me, 
for it might not be right for a young lady to ap¬ 
pear there alone. Take me to the first of them all— 
the woman with the wonderful reputation. I will 
be ready this evening.” 

“ At what hour ? ” 

“ Seven.” 

IV. 

It was before a house in the neighborhood of the 
Rue St. Denis, that a hired cab stopped that night, 
soon after the hour named by Miss Dare. She 
stepped out of it, attended by Andre de St. Sevron. 
Her own man-servant sat on the box with the driver. 
This may be looked upon as a curious adventure 
for her, or any other English lady, to engage in, but 
she was troubled and anxious, and thought not of 
forms and ceremonies ; and she went through with it. 

It was the house of the renowned mesmerist, for 
Andre had obeyed her wishes. They were shown 
into the waiting-room, a sort of badly-furnished 
and worse-lighted salle-a-manger, and were told they 
would soon be called for, but the clairvoyant was 
just then engaged. 

Alice Dare grew impatient at the delay, and be¬ 
gan to pace the room. Perhaps she did not feel 
quite satisfied with what she had undertaken. “ If 
we are kept here much longer,” she observed to her 
companion, “ I shall return.” 

Andr6 opened the door, with a view of looking 
for the person who had shown them in. He could 
see no one. On the right was the staircase they 
had ascended ; on the left, a long corridor, which 
was lighted by a bit of candle, stuck in a tin sconce 
nailed to the wall. Suddenly, as he stood, a door 
at the extreme end of the passage opened and closed, 
and a gentleman was walking down the passage 
toward him. It was a friend of St. Sevron’s, a man 
of sixty years. 

“ What! you here, St. Sevron ! ” was the excla¬ 
mation. “ Have you, the cynical, come to pray ad¬ 
vice of the oracle ? ” 

“ I may retort by the same question,” replied St. 
Sevron, drawing to the door behind him, that Alice 
might not be seen. “ What has the oracle done for 
you ? ” 

“ Little for me, by all that’s sombre ! ” replied the 




380 


Treasury of Tales. 


old man. “ If what she says is true, the funds will go 
down awfully.” 

“What does she say.” 

“You’ll hear enough, if you go in, without my 
telling you. One thing I trust she may be wrong 
in—that St. Arnaud’s dead.” 

“ Bah ! ” 

“ She affirms it. Not killed in the battle. Died 
of natural disease after it—after another attack of 
cholera ! * I say ! a compact ! ” 

“ Well ? ” returned St. Sevron. 

“ That neither of us has seen the other here.” 

“ Be it so.” 

As the gentleman passed down the staircase, St. 
Sevron and Miss Dare were summoned to the re¬ 
ception-room. A woman, attired in black silk, with 
a white bandage over her eyes, leaned back asleep 
—at least was in the attitude of sleep—in an easy- 
chair. A man, short of stature, with round, cun¬ 
ning eyes, likewise dressed in black, and well-dressed, 
sat at a table. 

“ You must put your questions to Madame through 
me,” he observed to the visitors. “ What is it you 
wish to know ? ” 

“ Of the welfare of one who is serving in the 
Crimea,” rejoined Andre. “An officer.” 

“ Have you aught belonging to him about you ? ” 
inquired the man. 

“ I have a piece of his hair and a letter,” was St. 
Sevron’s reply. For, be it observed, the last time 
Gaston wrote to his mother from Varna, he enclosed 
to her a lock of his hair, according to a request she 
had made. This letter and hair Andre had borrowed 
for that evening, knowing something of the requi¬ 
sitions of mesmerists. The man returned the letter 
to Andre as useless, but he took the hair, and placed 
it on the top of the woman's head. 

The woman became restless, stirred and sighed 
heavily. It was some minutes before she spoke. 

“ What do you see ? ” inquired the man of her. 
“How is he employed now from whom that hair 
was severed?” 

“ I see a plain whose heights are rugged and un¬ 
even,” she murmured. “ I see it strewn with corpses. 
They are burying them ; but they are often called 
off. There are many wounded, hundreds upon hun¬ 
dreds. I see a wide expanse of water and ships_” 

“ Is he who owns that hair among the wounded ? 
Ask her,” interrupted Andre, eagerly, while Alice 
clung to his arm, partly in suspense, partly in terror. 
And the man put the question. 

“ I cannot find him,” she went on to murmur, 
speaking at intervals, and with difficulty. “ Ah ! I 
see now. His luxuriant hair is fair and bright, but 
it is all bloody, and his face is white, and his jaw 
fallen. He is with the dead.” 

“ Dead ! ” breathed Andr£, who, much as he de¬ 

* It is certain that the death, and its cause, of Marshal de St. 
Arnaud were positively affirmed in secret, in Paris, some days 
before the telegraph brought news of the fact. 


spised himself for it, could not shake off the feel¬ 
ing of horror that was creeping over him. 

“Dead. One—two—three—four wounds, all in 
front. He died bravely. Stay! stay! they have 
come to him—they are taking him—now they search 
his pockets—there’s a knife, and letters, and—and 
things I can’t see—they get in the light. Where to 
now ? There they go ! Ah ! they are bearing him 
to the great pit, where so many are being thrown.” 

Nothing more could he get out of the woman— 
and the reader will probably think this was quite 
enough. She went rambling on to other sights she 
saw, or made believe to see, on the battle-field. An¬ 
dre de St. Sevron conducted his companion from the 
room. She never spoke a word ; nor he. But in 
the coach he recovered his spirits. His common sense 
and judgment returned to him with the fading away 
of the mesmeric scene, and he no longer conde¬ 
scended to admit apprehension for the fate of his 
brother. “ It was all absurd ; nothing but a clap¬ 
trap ; a disgraceful mode of swindling the credulous 
out of money ! ” he indignantly exclaimed, but he 
was interrupted by the sound of a sob, and turning 
to Miss Dare, he found she w r as weeping silently. 
He went over to the side of the coach where she sat, 
and took her hand, and essayed to soothe her. But 
she shrank from him. 

“ Nay, do not push me away, Alice,” he whispered, 
affectionately ; “ suffer me to comfort you. I have 
long hoped that I might be your comforter through 
life. I should have told you this in the spring but 
for your sudden departure from Paris. I have only 
waited your return to speak.” 

“You my soother in life!” she passionately ex¬ 
claimed, through her convulsive sobs—“you, who 
plotted and worked in slyness and in secret till you 
succeeded in driving your brave brother out to the 
death he has met ! ” 

“ Hush, hush, Alice ! ” remonstrated Andre ; “ my 
brother has met with no death. How can you suffer 
the ridiculous farce we have come from to scare away 
your reason ? Alice, you are the only woman I ever 
cared for : you must promise to be my dear wife.” 

“ Listen ! ” spoke Miss Dare, arresting her sobs by 
a resolute effort. “ I will tell you a history. I might 
shrink from repeating it at most times, but this night 
I am in no mood to stand on ceremony. I am the 
promised wife of one in my own land. When I en¬ 
gaged myself, I thought I liked him ; and so I did. 
But I came to Paris ; I saw your brother ; I became 
intimate with him ; and then I found I had mistaken 
liking for love. Andre de St. Sevron, I loved your 
brother ; I loved him ; had you not forced him from 
me I know that in time I should have been his wife, 
for I would have given up that other engagement at 
his bidding. Are you answered ? ” 

“ These fancies will wear away in time,” observed 
Andre, gloomily. « Let me hope-” 

“ Hope nothing,” interrupted Alice, with fearless 
impetuosity. “ When these fancies, as you call them. 









Father Giles of Ballymoy. 


shall have worn away, I shall marry him who is wait¬ 
ing for me ; and perhaps not make him the less good 
wife, because I, for a few months, passionately loved 
one who is in his grave.” 

“ I would endeavor to render you happy, Alice,” 
he persisted, clinging even against hope. 

“Your endeavors have not been so directed hith¬ 
erto,” she retorted. “ You have contrived to tear 
from me what romance I had in life ; you have been 
the means of slaying your brother. Look there, An¬ 
dre de St. Sevron ! ” she suddenly exclaimed, pulling 
him toward the coach window, “ do you see these 
men who are passing home from their day’s work— 
some in blouses, some in rags ?—there is not one 
among them that I would not marry in preference 
to you ! ” 

He left Alice Dare at her residence ; and, dismiss¬ 
ing the cab, walked, with the moody step of grief 
and despair, to the Faubourg St. Germain. Her re¬ 
proaches had told home. If it should indeed prove 
that Gaston had fallen, why, he had driven him out 
to perish. And what would be his own future ? To 
live on alone—to hear that she had married one of 
her own nation, one to whom she had been engaged 
for years ! He looked across the fire-place at his 
poor old mother, now so near her end, but there was 
no comfort for him there. Comfort! Even her life 
he had contributed to shorten. Andre de St. Sevron 
was apt to say he was born under a miserable star, 
but never had he felt the conviction so keenly as on 
that night. 

* * * Some days afterward, on Sunday, the first 

of October, came the official tidings of the battle of 
the Alma. And when the lists of killed and wound¬ 
ed appeared, the name of Gaston de St. Sevron was 
among the slain. 


FATHER GILES OF BALLYMOY. 

ANONYMOUS. 

T is nearly thirty years since I, Archibald Green, 
first entered the little town of Ballymoy, in the 
west of Ireland, and became acquainted with 
one of the honestest fellows and best Christians 
whom it has ever been my good fortune to know. 
For twenty years he and I were fast friends,—though 
he was much my elder. As he has now been ten 
years beneath the sod, I may tell the story of our 
first meeting. 

Ballymoy is a so-called town—or was in the days 
of which I am speaking,—lying close to the shores 
of Lough Corrib, in the county Galway. It is on the 
road to no place, and, as the end of a road, has in 
itself nothing to attract a traveller. The scenery of 
Lough Corrib is grand,—but the lake is very large, 
and the fine scenery is on the side opposite to 
Ballymoy, and hardly to be reached, or even seen, 
from that place. There is fishing, but it is lake 
fishing. The salmon fishing of Lough Corrib is far 


381 

away from Ballymoy,—where the little river runs 
away from the lake down to the town of Galway. 

There was then in Ballymoy a single street, of 
which the characteristic at first sight most striking 
to a stranger was its general appearance of being 
thoroughly wet through. It was not simply that the 
rain-water was generally running down its ungut¬ 
tered streets in muddy, random rivulets, hurrying 
toward the lake with true Irish impetuosity, but that 
each separate house looked as though the walls were 
reeking with wet; and the alternated roofs of thatch 
and slate,—the slated houses being just double the 
height of those that were thatched,—assisted the 
eye and mind of the spectator in forming his opin¬ 
ion. The lines were broken everywhere, and at 
every break it seemed as though there was a free 
entrance for the waters of heaven. The population 
of Ballymoy was its second wonder. There had 
been no famine then ; no rot among the potatoes; 
and land round the town was let to cottiers for nine, 
ten, and even eleven pounds an acre. At all hours 
of the day, and at nearly all hours of the night, able- 
bodied men were to be seen standing in the streets, 
with knee-breeches unbuttoned, with stockings 
rolled down over their brogues, and with swallow¬ 
tailed frieze coats. Nor, though thus idle, did they 
seem to suffer any of the distress of poverty. There 
were plenty of beggars, no doubt, in Ballymoy, but 
it never struck me that there was much distress in 
those days. The earth gave forth its potatoes freely, 
and neither man nor pig wanted more. 

It was to be my destiny to stay a week at Bally¬ 
moy, on business, as to the nature of which I need 
not trouble the present reader. I was not, at that 
time, so well acquainted with the manners of the 
people of Connaught as I became afterward, and I 
had certain misgivings as I was driven into the vil¬ 
lage on a jaunting car from Tuam. I had just come 
down from Dublin, and had been informed that there 
were two “ hotels ” in Ballymoy, but that one of the 
“ hotels ” might, perhaps, be found deficient in some 
of those comforts which I, as an Englishman, might 
require. I was therefore to ask for the “ hotel ” 
kept by Pat Kirwan. The other hotel was kept by 
Larry Kirwan ; so that it behooved me to be particu¬ 
lar. I had made the journey down from Dublin in a 
night and a day, travelling, as we then did travel in 
Ireland, by canal-boats and by Bianconi’s long cars ; 
and I had dined at Tuam, and been driven over 
after dinner on an April evening; and when I 
reached Ballymoy I was tired to death and very cold. 

“ Pat Kirwan’s hotel,” I said to the driver, almost 
angrily. “ Mind you don’t go to the other.” 

“ Shure, yer honor, and why not to Larry’s ? You’d 
be getting better enthertainment at Larry’s, because 
of Father Giles.” 

I understood nothing about Father Giles, and 
wished to understand nothing. But I did under¬ 
stand that I was to go to Pat Kirwan’s “ hotel,” and 
thither I insisted on being taken. 






Treasury of Tales. 


382 


It was quite dusk at this time, and the wind was 
blowing down the street of Ballymoy, carrying before 
it wild gusts of rain. In the west of Ireland March 
weather comes in April, and it comes with a violence 
of its own, though not with the cruelty of the English 
east wind. At this moment my neck was ricked by 
my futile endeavors to keep my head straight on the 
side car, and the water had got under me upon the 
seat, and the horse had come to a standstill half a 
dozen times in the last two minutes, and my apron 
had been trailed in the mud, and I was very un¬ 
happy. For the last ten minutes I had been think¬ 
ing evil of everything Irish, and especially Connaught. 
I was driven up to a queerly shaped three-cornered 
house that stood at the bottom of the street, and 
which seemed to possess none of the outside appur¬ 
tenances of an inn. “ This can’t be Pat Kirwan’s 
hotel,” said I. “ Faix and it is then, yer honor,” 
said the driver. “ And barring only that Father 
Giles—” But I had rung the bell, and as the door 
was now opened by a barefooted girl, I entered the 
little passage without hearing anything further about 
Father Giles. 

Could I have a bedroom immediately,—with a fire 
in it ? Not answering me directly, the girl led me 
into a sitting-room, in which my nose was at once 
treated by that peculiar perfume which is given out 
by the relics of hot whiskey punch mixed with a 
great deal of sugar,—and there she left me. 

“ Where is Pat Kirwan himself ? ” said I, coming 
to the door, and blustering somewhat. For, let it be 
remembered, I was very tired ; and it may be a fair 
question whether in the far west of Ireland a little 
bluster may not sometimes be of service. “ If you 
have not a room ready, I will go to Larry Kirwan’s,” 
said I, showing that I understood the bearings of the 
place. 

“ It’s right away at the furder end then, yer hon¬ 
or,” said the driver, putting in his word, “ and we 
corned by it ever so long since. Butshure yer honor 
wouldn’t think of leaving this house for that ? ” This 
he said because Pat Kirwan’s wife was close behind 
him. 

Then Mrs. Kirwan assured me that I could and 
should be accommodated. The house, to be sure, 
was crowded, but she had already made arrange¬ 
ments, and had a bed ready. As for a fire in my 
bedroom, she could not recommend that “ becase 
the wind blew so mortial sthrong down the chimney 
since the pot had blown off—bad cess to it; and that 
loon, Mick Hackett, wouldn’t lend a hand to put it 
up again, becase there were jobs going on at the 
big house ;—bad luck to every joint of his body, 
thin,” said Mrs. Kirwan, with great energy. Never¬ 
theless she and Mick Hackett the mason were excel- 
cent friends. 

I professed myself ready to go at once to the bed¬ 
room without the fire, and was led away up-stairs. I 
asked where I was to eat my breakfast and dine on 
the next day, and was assured that I should have the 


room so strongly perfumed with whiskey all to my¬ 
self. I had been rather cross before, but on hearing 
this I became decidedly sulky. It was not that I 
could not eat my breakfast in the chamber in ques¬ 
tion, but that I saw before me seven days of absolute 
misery, if I could have no other place of refuge for 
myself than a room in which, as was too plain, all 
Ballymoy came to drink and smoke. But there was 
no alternative, at any rate for that night and the fol¬ 
lowing morning, and I therefore gulped down my 
anger without further spoken complaint, and followed 
the barefooted maiden up-stairs, seeing my portman¬ 
teau carried up before me. 

Ireland is not very well known now to all English¬ 
men, but it is much better known than it was in those 
days. On this my first visit into Connaught, I own 
that I was somewhat scared lest I should be made a 
victim to the wild lawlessness and general savagery of 
the people ; and I fancied, as in the wet, windy 
gloom of the night, I could see the crowd of natives 
standing round the doors of the inn, and just discern 
their naked legs and old battered hats, that Bally¬ 
moy was probably one of those places so far removed 
from civilization and law as to be an unsafe resi¬ 
dence for an English Protestant. I had undertaken 
this service, with my eyes more or less open, and 
was determined to go through with it;—but I con¬ 
fess that I was by this time alive to its dangers. It 
was an early resolution with me that I would not al¬ 
low my portmanteau to be out of my sight. To that 
I would cling ; with that ever close to me would I , 
live ; on that, if neejdful, would I die. I therefore 
required that it should be carried up the narrow 
stairs before me, and I saw it deposited safely in the 
bedroom. 

The stairs were very narrow and very steep. 
Ascending them was like climbing into a loft. The 
whole house was built in a barbarous, uncivilized 
manner, and as fit to be a hotel as it was to be a 
church. It was triangular and all corners,—the most 
uncomfortably arranged building I had ever seen. 
From the top of the stairs I was called upon to turn 
abruptly into the room destined for me ; but there 
was a side step which I had not noticed under the 
glimmer of the small tallow candle, and I stumbled 
headlong into the chamber, uttering imprecations 
against Pat Kirwan, Ballymoy, and all Connaught. 

I hope the reader will remember that I had travelled 
for thirty consecutive hours, had passed sixteen in a 
small, comfortless canal-boat without the power of 
stretching my legs, and that the wind had been at 
work upon me sidewise for the last three hours. I 
was terribly tired, and I spoke very uncivilly to the 
young woman. 

“ Shure, yer honor, it’s as clane as clane, and as 
dhry as dhry, and has been slept in every night since 
the big storm,” said the girl, good-humoredly. Then 
she went on to tell me something more about Father 
Giles, of which, however, I could catch nothing, as 
she was bending over the bed, folding down the bed- 





Father Giles of Ballymoy. 


clothes. “Feel of ’em,” said she, “they’s dhry as 
dhry.” I did feel them, and the sheets were dry and 
clean, and the bed, though very small, looked as if 
it would be comfortable. So I somewhat softened 
my tone to her, and begged her to call me the next 
morning at eight. “ Shure, yer honor, and Father 
Giles will call yer hisself,” said the girl. I begged 
that Father Giles might be instructed to do no such 
thing. The girl, however, insisted that he would, 
and then left me. Could it be that in this savage 
place, it was considered to be the duty of the parish 
priest to go round, with matins perhaps, or some 
other abominable papist ceremony, to the beds of all 
the strangers ? My mother, who was a strict woman, 
had warned me vehemently against the machinations 
of the Irish priests, and I, in truth, had been disposed 
to ridicule her. Could it be that there were such 
machinations ! Was it possible that my trousers 
might be refused me till I had taken mass ? Or that 
force would be put on me in some other shape, 
perhaps equally disagreeable ? 

Regardless of that and other horrors, or rather, I 
should perhaps say, determined to face manfully 
whatever horrors the night or morning might bring 
upon me, I began to prepare for bed. There was 
something pleasant in the romance of sleeping at 
Pat Kirwan’s house in Ballymoy, instead of in my 
own room in Keppel Street, Russell Square. So I 
chuckled inwardly at Pat Kirwan’s idea of an hotel, 
and unpacked my things. There was a little table 
covered with a clean cloth, on which I espied a small 
comb. I moved the comb carefully without touch¬ 
ing it, and brought the table up to my bedside. I 
put out my brushes and clean linen for the morning, 
said my prayers, defying Father Giles and his mach¬ 
inations, and jumped into bed. The bed certainly 
was good, and the sheets were very pleasant. In 
five minutes I was fast asleep. How long I had 
slept when I was awakened I never knew. But it 
was some hour in the dead of night, when I was dis¬ 
turbed by footsteps in my room, and on jumping up, 
I saw a tall, stout, elderly man standing with his 
back toward me, in the middle of the room, brushing 
his clothes with the utmost care. His coat was still 
on his back, and his pantaloons on his legs ; but he 
was most assiduous in his attention to every part of 
his body which he could reach. I sat upright, gazing 
at him, as I thought then, for ten minutes,—we will 
say that I did so perhaps for forty seconds,—and of one 
thing I became perfectly certain,—namely, that the 
clothes-brush was my own ! Whether, according to 
Irish hotel law, a gentleman would be justified in 
entering a stranger’s room at midnight for the sake 
of brushing his clothes, I could not say ; but I felt 
quite sure that in such case he would be bound at 
least to use the hotel brush or his own. There was 
a manifest trespass in regard to my property. 

“ Sir,” said I, speaking very sharply, with the idea 
of startling him, “ what are you doing here in this 
chamber ? ” 


“ ’Deed, then, and I’m sorry I’ve waked ye, my 
boy,” said the stout gentleman. 

“ Will you have the goodness, sir, to tell me what 
you are doing here ? ” 

“ Bedad, then, just at this moment it’s brushing 
my clothes, I am. It was badly they wanted it.” 

“ I dare say they did. And you were doing it 
with my clothes-brush.” 

“ And that’s thrue, too. And if a man hasn’t a 
clothes-brush of his own, what else can he do but use 
somebody else’s ? ” 

“ I think it’s a great liberty, sir,” said I. 

“ And I think it’s a little one. It’s only in the 
size of it we differ. But I beg your pardon. There 
is your brush. I hope it will be none the worse.” 
Then he put down the brush, seated himself on one 
of the two chairs which the room contained, and 
slowly proceeded to pull off his shoes, looking me in 
the face all the while. 

“ What are you going to do, sir ? ” said I, getting 
a little farther out from under the clothes, and lean¬ 
ing over the table. 

“ I am going to bed,” said the gentleman. 

“ Going to bed ! where ? ” 

“ Here,” said the gentleman, and he still went on 
untying the knot of his shoestring. 

It had always been a theory with me, in regard 
not only to my own country, but to all others, that 
civilization displays itself never more clearly than 
when it ordains that every man shall have a bed for 
himself. In older days, Englishmen of good posi¬ 
tion—men supposed to be gentlemen—would sleep 
together and think nothing of it, as ladies, I am told, 
will still do. And in outlandish regions, up to this 
time, the same practice prevails. In parts of Spain 
you will be told that one bed offers sufficient ac¬ 
commodation for two men, and in Spanish America 
the traveller is considered to be fastidious who 
thinks that one on each side of him is oppressive. 
Among the poorer classes with ourselves this 'grand 
touchstone of civilization has not yet made itself 
felt. For aught I know there might be no such 
touchstone in Connaught at all. There clearly 
seemed to be none such at Ballymoy. 

“ You can’t go to bed here,” said I, sitting bolt 
upright on the couch. , 

“You’ll find you are wrong there, my'friend,” 
said the elderly gentleman. “ But make yourself 
aisy, I won’t do you the least harm in life, and I sleep 
as quiet as a mouse.” 

It was quite clear to me that time had-come for 
action. I certainly would not let this gentleman get 
into my bed. I had been the first comer, and was, 
for the night at least, the proprietor of this room. 
Whatever might be the custom of this country in 
these wild regions, there could be no special law in 
the land justifying the landlord in such treatment of 
me as this. 

“ You won’t sleep here, sir,” said I, jumping out of 
the bed, over the table, on to the floor, and confront- 





384 


Treasury of Tales. 


ing the stranger, just as he had succeeded in divest¬ 
ing himself of his second shoe. “ You won’t sleep 
here to-night, and so you may as well go away.” 
With that I picked up his two shoes, took them to the 
door, and chucked them out. I heard them go rattling 
down the stairs, and I was glad that they made so 
much noise. He would see that I was quite in earnest. 
“You must follow your shoes,” said I, “and the 
sooner the better.” 

I had not even yet seen the man very plainly, and 
even now, at this time, I hardly did so, though I went 
close up to him and put my hand upon his shoulder. 
The light was very imperfect, coming from one small 
farthing candle, which was nearly burnt out in the 
socket. And I, myself, was confused, ill at ease, and 
for the moment unobservant. I knew that the man 
was older than myself, but I had not recognized him 
as being old enough to demand or enjoy personal 
protection by reason of his age. He was tall, and 
big, and burly—as he appeared to me then. Hitherto, 
till his shoes had been chucked away, he had main¬ 
tained imperturbable good humor. When he heard 
the shoes clattering down stairs, it seemed that he 
did not like it, and he began to talk fast and in an 
angry voice. I would not argue with him, and I did 
not understand him, but still keeping my hand on the 
collar of his coat, I insisted that he should not sleep 
there. Go away out of that chamber he should. 

“ But it’s my own,” he said, shouting the words a 
dozen times. “ It’s my own room. It’s my own 
room.” So this was Pat Kirwan himself,—drunk, 
probably, or mad. 

“ It may be your own,” said I; “but you’ve let 
it to me for to-night, and you shan’t sleep here.” So 
saying I backed him toward the door, and in so 
doing I trod upon his unguarded toe. 

“Bother you, thin, for a pig-headed Englishman,” 
said he. “You’ve kilt me entirely, now. So take 
your hands off my neck, will ye, before you have me 
throttled outright.” 

I was sorry to have trod on his toe, but I stuck to 
him all the same. I had him near the door now, and 
I was determined to put him out into the passage. 
His face was very round and very red, and I thought 
that he must be drunk ; and since I had found out 
that it was Pat Kirwan, the landlord, I was more 
angry with the man than ever. “You sha’n’t sleep 
here, so you might as well go,” I said, as I backed 
him away toward the door. This had not been 
closed since the shoes had been thrown out, and, with 
something of a struggle between the doorposts, I got 
him out. I remembered nothing whatever as to the 
suddenness of the stairs ; I had been fast asleep since 
I came up them, and hardly even as yet knew exactly 
where I was. So, when I got him through the aper¬ 
ture of the door, I gave him a push, as was most 
natural, I think, for me to do. Down he went back¬ 
ward,—down the stairs, all in a heap, and I could 
hear that in his fall he had tumbled against Mrs. 
Kirwan, who was coming up, doubtless to ascertain 




the cause of all the trouble above her head. A hope 
crossed my mind that the wife might be of assistance 
to her husband in this time of his trouble. The man 
had fallen very heavily, I knew, and had fallen back¬ 
ward. And I remembered then how steep the stairs 
were. Heaven and earth ! Suppose that he were 
killed—or even seriously injured in his own house. 
What, in such a case as that, would my life be worth 
in that wild country ? Then I began to regret that 
I had been so hot. It might be that I had murdered 
a man on my first entrance into Connaught! 

For a moment or two I could not make up my 
mind what I would first do. I was aware that both 
the landlady and the servant were occupied with the 
body of the ejected occupier of my chamber, and I 
was aware also that I had nothing on but my night¬ 
shirt. I returned, therefore, within the door, but 
could not bring myself to shut myself in and return 
to bed, without making some inquiry as to the man’s 
fate. I put my head out, therefore, and did make 
inquiry. “ I hope he is not much hurt by his fall,” 
I said. 

“ Ochone, ochone ! murdher, murdher ! Spake, 
Father Giles, dear, for the love of God ! ” Such and 
many such exclamations I heard from the women at 
the bottom of the stairs. 

“I hope he is not much hurt,” I said again, put¬ 
ting my head out from the doorway; “ but he 
shouldn’t have forced himself into my room.” 

“ His room, the omadhaun, the born idiot! ” said 
the landlady. 

“ Faix, ma’am, and Father Giles is a dead man,” 
said the girl, who was kneeling over the prostrate 
body in the passage below. I heard her say Father 
Giles as plain as possible, and then I became aware 
that the man whom I had thrust out was not the 
landlord,—but the priest of the parish ! My heart 
became sick within me as I thought of the troubles 
around me. And I was sick also with fear lest the 
man who had fallen should be seriously hurt. But 
why—why—why had he forced his way into my 
room? How was it to be expected that I should 
have remembered that the stairs of the accursed 
house came flush up to the door of the chamber ? 

“ He shall be hanged if there’s law in Ireland,” 
said a voice down below ; and as far as I could see, 
it might be that I should be hung. When I heard 
that last voice I began to think that I had in truth 
killed a man, and a cold sweat broke out all over me, 
and I stood for awhile shivering where I was. Then 
I remembered that it behooved me as a man to go 
down among my enemies below, and to see what had 
really happened, to learn whom I had hurt,—let the 
consequences to myself be what they might. So I 
quickly put on some of my clothes,—a pair of trousers, 
a loose coat, and a pair of slippers, and I descended 
the stairs. By this time they had taken the priest 
into the whiskey-perfumed chamber below, and 
although the hour was late there were already six or 
seven persons with him. Among them was the real 





Father Giles of Ballymoy. 


385 


Pat Kirwan himself, who had not been so particular 
about his costume as I had. 

Father Giles—for indeed it was Father Giles, the 
priest of the parish—had been placed in an old arm¬ 
chair, and his head was resting against Mrs. Kirwan’s 
body. I could tell from the moans which he emitted 
that there was still, at any rate, hope of life. Pat 
Kirwan, who did not quite understand what had 
happened, and who was still half asleep, and, as I 
afterward learned, half-tipsy, was standing over him 
wagging his head. The girl was also standing by, 
with an old woman and two men who had made their 
way in through the kitchen. 

“ Have you sent for a doctor ? ” said I. 

“ O, you born . blagghuard ! ” said the woman. 
“ You thief of the world ! That the like of you 
should ever have darkened my door ! ” 

“You can’t repent it more than I do, Mrs. Kir¬ 
wan ; but hadn’t you better send for the doctor ? ” 

“Faix, and for the police too, you may be sure of 
that, young man. To go and chuck him out of the 
room like that, his own room too, and he a priest 
and an ould man ; he that had given up the half of 
it, though I axed him not to do so for a sthranger 
as nobody knowed nothing about.” 

The truth was coming out by degrees. Not only 
was the man I had put out Father Giles, but he was 
also the proper occupier of the room. At any rate 
somebody ought to have told me all this before they 
put me to sleep in the same bed with the priest. I 
made my way round to the injured man, and put 
my hand upon his shoulder, thinking that perhaps I 
might be able to ascertain the extent of the injury. 
But the angry woman, together with the girl, drove 
me away, heaping on me terms of reproach and 
threatening me with the gallows at Galway. 

I was very anxious that a doctor should be brought 
as sopn as possible ; and as it seemed that nothing 
was oeing done, I offered to go and search for one. 
But I was given to understand that I should not be 
allowed to leave the house until the police had come. 
I had therefore to remain there for half an hour or 
nearly so, till a sergeant, with two other policemen, 
really did come. During this time I was in a most 
wretched frame of mind. I knew no one at Bally¬ 
moy or in the neighborhood. From the manner in 
which I was addressed and also threatened by Mrs. 
Kinvan, and by those who came in and out of the 
room, I was aware that I should encounter the most 
intense hostility. I had heard of Irish murders, and 
heard also of the love of the people for their priests, 
and I really began to doubt whether my life might 
not be in danger. 

During this time, while I was thus waiting, Father 
Giles himself recovered his consciousness. He had 
been stunned by the fall, but his mind came back 
to him, though by no means all at once ; and while 
I was left in the room with him, he hardly seemed 
to remember all the events of the past hour. I 
was able to discover, from what was said, that he 


had been for some days past, or, as it afterward 
turned out, for the last month, the tenant of the 
room, and that when I arrived he had been drink¬ 
ing tea with Mrs. Kirwan. The only other public 
bedroom in the hotel was occupied, and he had, 
with great kindness, given the landlady permission 
to put the Saxon stranger into his chamber. All 
this came out by degrees, and I could see how the 
idea of my base and cruel ingratitude rankled in 
the heart of Mrs. Kirwan. It was in vain that I ex¬ 
postulated and explained, and submitted myself 
humbly to everything that was said around me. 

“ But, ma’am,” I said, “ if I had only been told 
that it was the reverend gentleman’s bed ! ” 

“ Bed, indeed ! To hear the blagghuard talk, 
you’d think it was axing Father Giles to sleep along 
with the likes of him we were. And there’s two 
beds in the room as dacent as any Christian iver 
stretched in.” 

It was a new light to me. And yet I had known 
over night, before I undressed, that there were two 
bedsteads in the room ! I had seen them, and had 
quite forgotten the fact in my confusion when I was 
awakened. I had been very stupid, certainly. I felt 
that now. But I had truly believed that that big 
man was going to get into my little bed. It was ter¬ 
rible as I thought of it now. The good-natured 
priest, for the sake of accommodating a stranger, 
had consented to give up half of his room, and had 
been repaid for his kindness by being—perhaps mur¬ 
dered ! And yet, though just then I hated myself 
cordially, I could not quite bring myself to look at 
the matter as they looked at it. There were ex¬ 
cuses to be made, if only I could get any one to lis¬ 
ten to them. 

“ He was using my brush, my clothes-brush, in¬ 
deed he was,” I said. “ Not but what he’d be wel¬ 
come ; but it made me think he was an intruder.” 

“And wasn’t it too much honor for the likes of 
ye ? ” said one of the women with infinite scorn in 
the tone of her voice. 

“ I did use the gentleman’s clothes-brush, cer¬ 
tainly,” said the priest. They were the first collected 
words he had spoken, and I felt very grateful to him 
for them. It seemed to me that a man who could 
condescend to remember that he had used a clothes- 
brush could not really be hurt to death, even though 
he had been pushed down such very steep stairs as 
those belonging to Pat Kirwan’s hotel. 

“And I’m sure you were very welcome, sir,” said 
I. “ It wasn’t that I minded the clothes-brush. It 
wasn’t indeed ; only I thought,—indeed, I did think 
that there was only one bed. And they put me into 
the room, and had not said anything about anybody 
else. And what was I to think when I woke up in 
the middle of the night ? ” 

“ Faix and you’ll have enough to think of in Gal¬ 
way jail,—for that’s where you’re going to,” said one 
of the bystanders. 

I can hardly explain the bitterness that was dis- 




Treasury of Tales. 


386 

played against me. No violence was absolutely 
shown to me, but I could not move without eliciting 
a manifest determination that I was not to be al¬ 
lowed to stir out of the room. Red, angry eyes were 
glowering at me, and every word I spoke called down 
some expression of scorn and ill-will. I was begin¬ 
ning to feel glad that the police were coming, think¬ 
ing that I needed protection. I was thoroughly 
ashamed of what I had done, and yet I could not 
discover that I had been very wrong at any particu¬ 
lar moment. Let any man ask himself the question, 
what he would do, if he supposed that a stout old 
gentleman had entered his room at an inn and in¬ 
sisted on getting into his bed ? It was not my fault 
that there was no proper landing-place at the top of 
the stairs. 

Two sub-constables had been in the room for 
some time before the sergeant came, and with the 
sergeant arrived also the doctor, and another priest, 
—Father Columb he was called,—who, as I after¬ 
ward learned, was curate, or coadjutor, to Father 
Giles. By this time there was quite a crowd in 
the house, although it was past one o’clock, and it 
seemed that all Ballymoy knew that its priest had 
been foully misused. It was manifest to me that 
there was something in the Roman Catholic religion 
which made the priest very dear to the people ; for 
I doubt whether in any village in England, had such 
an accident happened to the rector, all the people 
would have roused themselves at midnight to wreak 
their vengeance on the assailant. For vengeance 
they were now beginning to clamor, and even before 
the sergeant of police had come the two sub-consta¬ 
bles were standing over me ; and I felt that they 
were protecting me from the people in order that 
they might give me up—to the gallows ! 

I did not like the Ballymoy doctor at all—then, or 
even at a later period of my visit to that town. On 
his arrival he made his way up to the priest through 
the crowd, and would not satisfy their affection or 
my anxiety by declaring at once that there was no 
danger. Instead of doing so he insisted on the ter¬ 
rible nature of the outrage and the brutality shown 
by the assailant. And at every hard word he said, 
Mrs. Kirwan would urge him on. “ That’s thrue for 
you, Doctor ! ” “ ’Deed, and you may say that, doc¬ 

tor ;—two as good beds as ever Christian stretched 
in ! ” “ ’Deed, and it was just Father Giles’s own 

room, as you may say, since the big storm fetched 
the roof off his riverence’s house below there.” Thus 
gradually I was learning the whole history. The 
roof had blown off Father Giles’s own house, and 
therefore he had gone to lodge at the inn ! He had 
been willing to share his lodging with a stranger ; 
and this had been his reward ! 

“ I hope, doctor, that the gentleman is not much 
hurt,” said I, very meekly. 

“ Do you suppose a gentleman like that, sir, can 
be thrown down a long flight of stairs without being 
hurt ? ” said the doctor, in an angry voice. “ It is no 


thanks to you, sir, that his neck has not been sacri¬ 
ficed.” 

Then there arose a hum of indignation, and the 
two policemen standing over me bustled about a little, 
coming very close to me, as though they thought 
they would have something to do to protect me from 
being torn to pieces. 

I bethought me that it was my special duty in 
such a crisis to show a spirit, if it were only for the 
honor of my Saxon blood, among the Celts. So I 
spoke up again, as loud as I could well speak. 

“No one in this room is more distressed at what 
has occurred than I am. I am most anxious to know, 
for the gentleman’s sake, whether he has been seri¬ 
ously hurt ? ” 

“Very seriously hurt, indeed,” said the doctor; 
“ very seriously hurt. The vertebrae may have been 
injured for aught I know at present.” 

“ Arrah, blazes, man,” said a voice, which I learned 
afterward had belonged to an officer of the revenue 
corps of men which was then stationed at Ballymoy— 
a gentleman with whom I became afterward famil¬ 
iarly acquainted ; Tom Macdermot was his name, 
Captain Tom Macdermot, and he came from the 
county of Leitrim—“ Arrah, blazes, man ; do ye 
think a gentleman’s to fall sthrait headlong back¬ 
wards down such a ladder as that, and not find it 
inconvanient ? Only that he’s the priest, and has had 
his own luck, sorrow a neck belonging to him there 
would be this minute.” 

“ Be aisy, Tom,” said Father Giles himself—and I 
was delighted to hear him speak. Then there was a 
pause for a moment. “Tell the gentleman I ain’t 
so bad at all,” said the priest; and from that moment 
I felt an affection for him which never afterward 
waned. 

They got him up-stairs back into the room from 
which he had been evicted, and I was carried off to 
the police station, where I positively spent the night. 
What a night it was ! I had come direct from Lon¬ 
don, sleeping on my road but once, in Dublin, and 
now I found myself accommodated with a stretcher 
in the police barracks at Ballymoy ! And the worst 
of it was that I had business to do at Ballymoy which 
required that I should hold up my head and make 
much of myself. The few words which had been 
spoken by the priest had comforted me, and had en¬ 
abled me to think again of my own position. Why 
was I locked up? No magistrate had committed 
me. It was really a question whether I had done 
anything illegal. As that man whom Father Giles 
called Tom had very properly explained, if people 
will have ladders instead of staircases in their houses, 
how is anybody to put an intruder out of the room 
without risk of breaking the intruder’s neck. And 
as to the fact—now an undoubted fact—that Father 
Giles was no intruder, the fault in that lay with the 
Kirwans, who had told me nothing of the truth. The 
boards of the stretcher in the police station were very 
hard, in spite of the blankets with which I had been 




Father Giles of Ballymoy . 


3S7 


furnished ; and, as I lay there, I began to remind 
myself that there certainly must be law in county 
Galway. So I called to the attendant policeman 
and asked him by whose authority I was locked up. 

“ Ah, thin, don’t bother,” said the policeman ; 
“ shure, and you’ve given throuble enough this 
night! ” The dawn was at that moment breaking, 
so I turned myself on the stretcher, and resolved 
that 1 would put a bold face on it all when the day 
should come. 

The first person I saw in the morning was Captain 
Tom, who came into the room where I was lying, 
followed by a little boy with my portmanteau. The 
sub-inspector of police who ruled over the men at 
Ballymoy lived, as I afterward learned, at Oran- 
more, so that I had not, at this conjuncture, the 
honor of seeing him. Captain Tom assured me that 
he was an excellent fellow, and rode to hounds like 
a bird. As in those days I rode to hounds myself— 
as nearly like a bird as I was able—I was glad to 
have such an account of my head jailer. The sub¬ 
constables seemed to do just what Captain Tom told 
them, and there was, no doubt, a very good under¬ 
standing between the police force and the revenue 
officer. 

“ Well, now, I’ll tell you what you must do, Mr. 
Green,” said the captain. 

“ In the first place,” said I, “ I must protest that 
I’m now locked up here illegally.” 

“ O, bother ; now don’t make yourself unaisy.” 

“ That’s all very well, Captain-. I beg your 

pardon, sir, but I didn’t catch any name plainly ex¬ 
cept the Christian name.” 

“My name is Macdermot—Tom Macdermot. 
They call me Captain—but that’s neither here nor 
there.” 

“ I suppose, Captain Macdermot, the police here 
cannot lock up anybody they please without a war¬ 
rant.” 

“ And where would you have been if they hadn’t 
locked you up ? I’m blessed if they wouldn’t have 
had you into the Lough before this time.” 

There might be something in that, and I therefore 
resolved to forgive the personal indignity which I 
had suffered, if I could secure something like just 
treatment for the future. Captain Tom had already 
told me that Father Giles was doing pretty well. 

“ He’s sthrong as a horse, you see, or, sorrow a 
doubt,, he’d be a dead man this minute. The back 
of his neck is as black as your hat with the bruises, 
and it’s the same way with him all down his loins. 
A man like that, you know, not just as young as he 
was once, falls mortial heavy. But he’s as jolly as 
a four-year-old,” said Captain Tom, “and you’re to 
go and ate your breakfast with him, in his bedroom, 
so that you may see with your own eyes that there 
are two beds there.” 

“ I remembered it afterward quite well,” said I. 

“ ’Deed and Father Giles got such a kick of laugh¬ 
ter this morning, when he came to understand that 


you thought he was going to get into bed alongside 
of you, that he strained himself all over again, and 
I thought he’d have frightened the house, yelling 
with the pain. But anyway you’ve to go over and 
see him. So now you’d better get yourself dressed.” 

This announcement was certainly very pleasant. 
Against Father Giles, of course, I had no feeling of 
bitterness. He had behaved well throughout, and I 
was quite alive to the fact that the light of his coun¬ 
tenance would afford me a better aegis against the 
ill-will of the people of Ballymoy than anything the 
law would do for me. So I dressed myself in the 
barrack-room, while Captain Tom waited without ; 
and then I sallied out under his guidance to make a 
second visit to Pat Kirwan’s hotel. I was amused 
to see that the police, though by no means subject 
to Captain Tom’s orders, let me go without the least 
difficulty, and that the boy was allowed to carry my 
portmanteau back again. “ O, it’s all right,” said 
Captain Tom, when I alluded to this. “You’re not 
down in the sheet. You were only there for protec¬ 
tion, you know.” Nevertheless, I had been taken 
there by force, and had been locked up by force. If, 
however, they were disposed to forget all that, so 
was I. I did not return to the barracks again ; and 
when, after that, the policemen whom I had known 
met me in the street, they always accosted me as 
though I were an old friend ; hoping my honor had 
found a better bed than when they last saw me. 
They had not looked at me with any friendship in 
their eyes when they had stood over me in Pat Kir¬ 
wan’s parlor. 

This was my first view of Ballymoy and of the 
“hotel ” by daylight. I now saw that Mrs. Pat Kir- 
wan kept a grocery establishment, and that the three- 
cornered house which had so astonished me was very 
small. Had I seen it before I entered it I should 
hardly have dared to look there for a night’s lodg¬ 
ing. As it was, I stayed there for a fortnight, and 
was by no means uncomfortable. Knots of men and 
women were now standing in groups around the 
door, and indeed, the lower end of the street was 
almost crowded. 

“They’reall here,” whispered Captain Tom, “be¬ 
cause they’ve heard how Father Giles has been mur- 
dhered during the night by a terrible Saxon ; and 
there isn’t a man or woman among them who doesn’t 
know that you are the man who did it.” 

“But they know also, I suppose,” said I, “that 
Father Giles is alive.” 

“ Bedad, yes, they know that, or I wouldn’t be in 
your skin, my boy. But come along. We mustn’t 
keep the priest waiting for his breakfast.” I could 
see that they all looked at me, and there were some 
of them, especially among the women, whose looks 
I did not even yet like. They spoke among each 
other in Gaelic, and I could perceive they were talk¬ 
ing of me. “ Can’t you understand, then,” said 
Captagi Tom, speaking to them aloud, just as he en¬ 
tered the house, “ that Father Giles, the Lord be 






388 


Treasury of Tales. 


praised, is as well as he ever was in his life ? Shure 
it was only an accident.” 

“ An accident done on purpose, Captain Tom,” 
said one person. 

“ What is it to you how it was done, Mick Healy ? 
If Father Giles is satisfied, isn’t that enough for the 
likes of you ? Get out of that and let the gentleman 
pass.” Then Captain Tom pushed Mick away 
roughly, and the others let us enter the house- 
“ Only they wouldn’t do it unless somebody gave 
them the wink, they’d pull you in pieces this mo¬ 
ment for a dandy of punch—they would indeed.” 
Perhaps Captain Tom exaggerated the prevailing 
feeling, thinking thereby to raise the value of his own 
service in protecting me ; but I was quite alive to the 
fact that I had done a most dangerous deed, and had 
a most narrow escape. 

I found Father Giles sitting up in his bed, while 
Mrs. Kirwan was rubbing his shoulder diligently 
with an embrocation of arnica. The girl was stand¬ 
ing by with a basin half full of the same, and I could 
see that the priest’s neck and shoulders were as red 
as a raw beefsteak. He winced grievously under 
the rubbing, but he bore it like a man. 

“And here comes the hero,” said Father Giles. 
“Now stop a minute or two, Mrs. Kirwan, while we 
have a mouthful of breakfast, for I’ll go bail that 
Mr. Green is hungry after his night’s rest. I hope 
you got a better bed, Mr. Green, than the one I found 
you in when I was unfortunate enough to waken 
you last night. There it is, all ready for you still,” 
said he, “ and if you accept of it to-night, take my 
advice and don’t let a trifle stand in the way of your 
dhraims.” 

“ I hope, thin, the gintleman will conthrive to suit 
hisself elsewhere,” said Mrs. Kirwan. 

“ He’ll be very welcome to take up his quarters 
here if he likes,” said the priest. “ And why not ? 
But, bedad, sir, you’d better be a little more careful 
the next time you see a sthranger using your clothes- 
brush. They are not so strict here in their ideas of 
meum and tuum as they are perhaps in England ; 
and if you’d broken my neck for so small an offence, 
I don’t know but what they’d have stretched your 
own.” 

We then had breakfast together, Father Giles, 
Captain Tom, and I, and a very good breakfast we 
had. By degrees even Mrs. Kirwan was induced to 
look favorably at me, and before the day was over 
I found myself to be regarded as a friend in the es¬ 
tablishment. And as a friend I certainly was re¬ 
garded by Father Giles,—then, and for many a long 
day afterward. And many times he has, in years since 
that, but years nevertheless which are now long back, 
come over and visited me in my English home, he 
has told the story of the manner in which we first 
became acquainted. 

“ When you find a gentleman asleep,” he would 
say, “ always ask his leave before you take ajiberty 
with his clothes-brush.” 


THE FOUR-FIFTEEN EXPRESS. 

BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS. 

I. 

HE events which I am about to relate took 
place between nine and ten years ago. Se¬ 
bastopol had fallen in the early spring ; the 
Peace of Paris had been concluded since March ; our 
commercial relations with the Russian Empire were 
but recently renewed ; and I, returning home after 
my first northward journey since the war, w T as well 
pleased with the prospect of spending the month of 
December under the hospitable and thoroughly Eng¬ 
lish roof of my excellent friend Jonathan Jelf, Es¬ 
quire, of Dumbleton Manor, Clayborough, East An¬ 
glia. 

It was a foggy afternoon, singularly warm for the 
fourth of December, and I had arranged to leave 
London by the 4.15 express. The early darkness 
of winter had already closed in ; the lamps w r ere 
lighted in the carriages ; a clinging damp dimmed 
the windows, adhered to the door-handles, and per¬ 
vaded all the atmosphere ; while the gas-jets at the 
neighboring book-stand diffused a luminous haze 
that only served to make the gloom of the termi¬ 
nus more visible. Having arrived some seven min¬ 
utes before the starting of the train, and, by the 
connivance of the guard, taken sole possession of 
an empty compartment, I lighted my travelling 
lamp, made myself particularly snug, and settled 
down to the undisturbed enjoyment of a book and a 
cigar. Great, therefore, was my disappointment 
when, at the last moment, a gentleman came hurry¬ 
ing along the platform, glanced into my carriage, 
opened the locked door with a private key, and 
stepped in. 

It struck me at the first glance that I had seen 
him before,—a tall, spare man, thin-lipped, light-eyed, 
with an ungraceful stoop in the shoulders, and scant 
gray hair worn somewhat long upon the collar. He 
carried a light waterproof coat, an umbrella, and a 
large brown japanned deed-box, which last he placed 
under the seat. This done, he felt carefully in his 
breast-pocket, as if to make certain of the safety of 
his purse or pocket-book ; laid his umbrella in the 
netting overhead ; spread the waterproof across his 
knees, and exchanged his hat for a travelling cap 
of some Scotch material. By this time the train was 
moving out of the station, and into the faint gray of 
the wintry twilight beyond. 

I now recognized my companion. I recognized 
him from the moment when he removed his hat and 
uncovered the lofty, furrowed, and somewhat narrow 
brow beneath. I had met him, as I distinctly re¬ 
membered, some three years before, at the very 
house for which, in all probability, he was now 
bound, like myself. His name was Dwerrihouse ; 
he was a lawyer by profession ; and, if I was not 
greatly mistaken, was first cousin to the wife of my 







The Four-Fifteen Express. 


3 g 9 


host. I knew also that he was a man eminently 
“ well to do,” both as regarded his professional and 
private means. The Jelfs entertained him with that 
sort of observant courtesy which falls to the lot of 
the rich relation ; the children made much of him ; 
and the old butler, albeit somewhat surly “ to the 
general,” treated him with deference. I thought, 
observing him by the vague mixture of lamplight 
and twilight, that Mrs. Jelfs cousin looked all the 
worse for the three years’ wear and tear which had 
gone over his head since our last meeting. He was 
very pale, and had a restless light in his eye that I 
did not remember to have observed before. The 
anxious lines, too, about his mouth were deepened, 
and there was a cavernous, hollow look about the 
cheeks and temples which seemed to speak of sick¬ 
ness or sorrow. He had glanced at me as he came 
in, but without any gleam of recognition in his face. 
Now he glanced again, as I fancied, somewhat doubt¬ 
fully. When he did so for the third or fourth time, 
I ventured to address him. 

“Mr. John Dwerrihouse, I think?” 

“ That is my name,” he replied. 

“I had the pleasure of meeting you at Dumbleton 
about three years ago.” 

Mr. Dwerrihouse bowed. 

“ I thought I knew your face,” he said. “ But 
your name, I regret to say-” 

“ Langford—William Langford. I have known 
Jonathan Jelf since we were boys together at Mer¬ 
chant Taylors, and I generally spend a few weeks 
at Dumbleton in the shooting season. I suppose we 
are bound for the same destination ? ” 

“ Not if you are on your way to the Manor,” he 
replied. “ I am travelling upon business,—rather 
troublesome business, too,—while you, doubtless, 
have only pleasure in view.” 

“Just so. I am in the habit of looking forward 
to this visit as to the brightest three weeks in all the 
year.” 

“ It is a pleasant house,” said Mr. Dwerrihouse. 

“The pleasantest I know.” 

“ And Jelf is thoroughly hospitable.” 

“ The best and kindest fellow in the world ! ” 

“ They have invited me to spend Christmas week 
with them,” pursued Mr. Dwerrihouse, after a mo¬ 
ment’s pause. 

“ And are you coming ? ” 

«I cannot tell. It must depend upon the issue 
of this business which I have in hand. You have 
heard, perhaps, that we are about to construct a 
branch line from Blackwater to Stockbridge.” 

I explained that I had been for some months 
away from England, and had therefore heard noth¬ 
ing of the contemplated improvement. 

Mr. Dwerrihouse smiled complacently. 

“It will be an improvement,” he said; “a great 
improvement. Stockbridge is a flourishing town, 
and needs but a more direct railway communication 
with the metropolis to become an important centre 


of commerce. This branch was my own idea. I 
brought the project before the board, and have my¬ 
self superintended the execution of it up to the pres¬ 
ent time.” 

“You are an East Anglian director, I presume?” 

“ My interest in the company,” replied Mr. Dwer¬ 
rihouse, “ is threefold. I am a director ; I am a con¬ 
siderable shareholder ; and, as head of the firm of 
Dwerrihouse, Dwerrihouse & Craik, I am the com¬ 
pany’s principal solicitor.” 

Loquacious, self-important, full of his pet project, 
and apparently unable to talk on any other subject, 
Mr. Dwerrihouse then went on to tell me of the op¬ 
position he had encountered and the obstacles he 
had overcome in the cause of the Stockbridge branch. 
I was entertained with a multitude of local details 
and local grievances. The rapacity of one squire; 
the impracticability of another ; the indignation oi 
the rector whose glebe was threatened ; the culpable 
indifference of the Stockbridge townspeople, who 
could not be brought to see that their most vital in¬ 
terests hinged upon a junction with the Great East 
Anglian line ; the spite of the local newspaper; and 
the unheard-of difficulties attending the Common 
question, were each and all laid before me with a 
circumstantiality that possessed the deepest interest 
for my excellent fellow traveller, but none whatever 
for myself. From these, to my despair, he went on 
to more intricate matters : to the approximate ex¬ 
penses of construction per mile; to the estimates 
sent in by different contractors ; to the probable 
traffic returns of the new line ; to the provisional 
clauses of the new Act as enumerated in Schedule D 
of the company’s last half-yearly report; and so on, 
and on, and on, till my head ached, and my atten¬ 
tion flagged, and my eyes kept closing in spite of 
every effort that I made to keep them open. At 
length I was roused by these words : 

“ Seventy-five thousand pounds, cash down.” 

“ Seventy-five thousand pounds cash down,” I re¬ 
peated, in the liveliest tone I could assume. “ That 
is a heavy sum.” 

“ A heavy sum to carry here,” replied Mr. Dwerri¬ 
house, pointing significantly to his breast pocket, 
“but a mere fraction of what we shall ultimately 
have to pay.” 

“You do not mean to say that you have seventy- 
five thousand pounds at this moment upon your 
person ? ” I exclaimed. 

“ My good sir, have I not been telling you so for 
the last half hour ? ” said Mr. Dwerrihouse, testily. 
“ That money has to be paid over at half past eight 
o’clock this evening, at the office of Sir Thomas’s 
solicitors, on completion of the deed of sale.” 

“ But how will you get across by night from 
Blackwater to Stockbridge, with seventy-five thou¬ 
sand pounds in your pocket ?” 

“To Stockbridge?” echoed the lawyer. “I find 
I have made myself very imperfectly understood. I 
thought I had explained how this sum only carries 





390 


Treasury of Tales. 


us as far as Mallingford—the first stage, as it were, 
of our journey,—and how our route from Blackwater 
to Mallingford lies entirely through Sir Thomas 
Liddell’s property.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” I stammered. “ I fear my 
thoughts were wandering. So you only go as far 
as Mallingford to-night ? ” 

“ Precisely. I shall get conveyance from the 
‘ Blackwater Arms.’ And you ? ” 

“Oh! Jelf sends a trap to meet me at Clay- 
borough. Can I be the bearer of any message from 
you ? ” 

“ You may say, if you please, Mr. Langford, that 
I wished I could have been your companion all the 
way, and that I will come over if possible before 
Christmas.” 

“ Nothing more ? ” 

Mr. Dwerribouse smiled grimly. “Well,” he said, 
“ you may tell my cousin that she need not burn the 
hall down in my honor this time, and that I shall be 
obliged if she will order the blue-room chimney to 
be swept before I arrive.” 

“ That sounds tragic. Had you a conflagration 
on the occasion of your last visit to Dumbleton ? ” 

“ Something like it. There had been no fire 
lighted in my bedroom since the spring, the flue was 
foul, and the rooks had built in it; so when I went 
up to dress for dinner, I found the room full of 
smoke, and the chimney on fire. Are we already at 
Blackwater ? ” 

The train had gradually come to a pause while 
Mr. Dwerrihouse was speaking, and, on putting my 
head out of the window, I could see the station, some 
few hundred yards ahead. There was another train 
before us blocking the way, and the guard was mak¬ 
ing use of the delay to collect the Blackwater tick¬ 
ets. I had scarcely ascertained our position, when 
the ruddy-faced official appeared at our carriage 
door. 

“ Tickets, sir ! ” said he. 

“ I am for Clayborough,” I replied, holding out 
the tiny pink card. 

He took it ; glanced at it by the light of his little 
lantern ; gave it back ; looked, as I fancied, some¬ 
what sharply at my fellow-traveller, and disap¬ 
peared. 

“ He did not ask for yours,” I said, with some sur¬ 
prise. 

“ They never do,” replied Mr. Dwerrihouse. 
“They all know me ; and, of course, I travel free.” 

“ Blackwater ! Blackwater ! ” cried the porter, run¬ 
ning along the platform beside us, as we glided into 
the station. 

Mr. Dwerrihouse pulled out his deed-box, put his 
travelling-cap in his pocket, resumed his hat, took 
down his umbrella, and prepared to be gone. 

“ Many thanks, Mr. Langford, for your society,” 
he said, with old-fashioned courtesy. “ I wish you 
a good evening.” 

“ Good evening,” I replied, putting out my hand. 


But he either did not see it, or did not choose to 
see it, and, slightly lifting his hat, stepped out upon 
the platform. Having done this, he moved slowly 
away, and mingled with the departing crowd. 

Leaning forward to watch him out of sight, I trod 
upon something which proved to be a cigar-case. It 
had fallen, no doubt from the pocket of his water¬ 
proof coat, and was made of dark morocco leather, 
with a silver monogram upon the side. I sprang 
out of the carriage just as the guard came up to lock 
me in. 

“ Is there one minute to spare ? ” I asked, eagerly. 
“ The gentleman who travelled down with me from 
town has dropped his cigar-case, —he is not yet out 
of the station ! ” 

“ Just a minute and a half, sir,” replied the guard. 
“ You must be quick.” 

I dashed along the platform as fast as my feet 
could carry me. It was a large station, and Mr. 
Dwerrihouse had by this time got more than half 
way to the farther end. 

I, however, saw him distinctly, moving slowly 
with the stream. Then, as I drew nearer, I saw that 
he had met some friend,—that they were talking as 
they walked,—that they presently fell back some¬ 
what from the crowd, and stood aside in earnest con¬ 
versation. I made straight for the spot where they 
were waiting. There was a vivid gas-jet just above 
their heads, and the light fell full upon their faces. I 
saw both distinctly,—the face of Mr. Dwerrihouse 
and the face of his companion. Running, breath¬ 
less, eager as I was, getting in the way of porters 
and passengers, and fearful every instant lest I 
should see the train going on without me, I yet ob¬ 
served that the new-comer was considerably younger 
and shorter than the director, that he was sandy- 
haired, mustachioed, small-featured, and dressed in 
a close-cut suit of Scotch tweed. I was now within 
a few yards of them. I ran against a stout gentle¬ 
man,—I was nearly knocked down by a luggage- 
truck,—I stumbled over a carpet-bag,—I gained 
the spot just as the driver’s whistle warned me to 
return. 

To my utter stupefaction they were no longer 
there. I had seen them but two seconds before,— 
and they were gone ! I stood still. I looked to 
right and left. I saw no sign of them in any direc¬ 
tion. It was as if the platform had gaped and swal¬ 
lowed them. 

“ There were two gentlemen standing here a mo¬ 
ment ago,” I said to a porter at my elbow; “ which 
way can they have gone ? ” 

“ I saw no gentlemen, sir,” replied the man. 

The whistle shrilled out again. The guard, far 
up the platform, held up his arm, and shouted to me 
to “ come on ! ” 

“ If you’re going on by this train, sir,” said the 
porter, “you must run for it.” 

I did run for it, just gained the carriage as the 
train began to move, was shoved in by the guard. 





39 i 


The Four -Fifteen Express. 


and left breathless and bewildered, with Mr. Dwer- 
rihouse’s cigar-case still in my hand. 

It was the strangest disappearance in the world. 
It was like a transformation trick in a pantomime- 
They were there one moment,—palpably there, talk¬ 
ing, with the gaslight full upon their faces ; and the 
next moment they were gone. There was no door 
near,—no window,—no staircase. It was a mere 
slip of barren platform, tapestried with big adver¬ 
tisements. Could anything be more mysterious ? 

It was not worth thinking about ; and yet, for my 
life, I could not help pondering upon it,—pondering, 
wondering, turning it over and over in my mind, 
and racking my brains for a solution of the enigma. 
I thought of it all the way from Blackwater to Clay- 
borough. I thought of it all the way from Claybor- 
ough to Dumbleton, as I rattled along the smooth 
highway in a trim dog-cart drawn by a splendid 
black mare, and driven by the silentest and dapper- 
est of East Anglian grooms. 

We did the nine miles in something less than an 
hour, and pulled up before the lodge-gates just as 
the church-clock was striking half-past seven. A 
couple of minutes more, and the warm glow of the 
lighted hall was flooding out upon the gravel, a 
hearty grasp was on my hand, and a clear, jovial 
voice was bidding me “Welcome to Dumbleton.” 

“ And now, my dear fellow,” said my host, when 
the first greeting was over, “you have no time to 
spare. We dine at eight, and there are people 
coming to meet you ; so you must just get the dress¬ 
ing business over as quickly as may be. By the 
way, you will meet some acquaintances. The Bid- 
dulphs are coming, and Prendergast (Prendergast, 
of the Skirmishers) is staying in the house. Adieu ! 
Mrs. Jelf will be expecting you in the drawing¬ 
room.” 

I was ushered to my room,—not the blue room, 
of which Mr. Dwerrihouse had had disagreeable 
experience, but a pretty little bachelor’s chamber, 
hung with a delicate chintz, and made cheerful by 
a blazing fire. I unlocked my portmanteau. I tried 
to be expeditious ; but the memory of my railway 
adventure haunted me. I could not get free of it. 
I could not shake it off. It impeded me,—it worried 
me,—it tripped me up,—it caused me to mislay my 
studs,—to mistie my cravat,—to wrench the buttons 
off my gloves. Worst of all, it made me so late that 
the party had all assembled before I reached the 
drawing-room. I had scarcely paid my respects to 
Mrs. Jelf when dinner was announced, and we pair¬ 
ed off, some eight or ten couples strong, into the 
dining-room. 

I am not going to describe either the guests, or 
the dinner. All provincial parties bear the strictest 
family resemblance, and I am not aware that an 
East Anglian banquet offers any exception to the 
rule. There was the usual country baronet and his 
wife ; there were the usual country parsons and their 
wives ; there was the sempiternal turkey and haunch 


of venison. Vanitas vanitatum. There is nothing 
new under the sun. 

I was placed about midway down the table. I had 
taken one rector’s wife down to dinner, and I had 
another at my left hand. They talked across me, 
and their talk was about babies. It was dreadfully 
dull. At length there came a pause. The entries 
had just been removed, and the turkey had come 
upon the scene. The conversation had all along 
been of the languidest, but at this moment it hap¬ 
pened to have stagnated altogether. Jelf was carv¬ 
ing the turkey. Mrs. Jelf looked as if she was try¬ 
ing to think of something to say. Everybody else 
was silent. Moved by an unlucky impulse, I thought 
I would relate my adventure. 

“ By the way, Jelf,” I began, “ I came down part 
of the way to-day with a friend of yours.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said the master of the feast, slicing 
scientifically into the breast of the turkey. “ With 
whom, pray ? ” 

“ With one who bade me tell you that he should 
if possible, pay you a visit before Christmas.” 

“ I cannot think who that could be,” said my friend, 
smiling. 

“ It must be Major Thorp,” suggested Mrs. Jelf. 

I shook my head. 

“ It was not Major Thorp,” I replied. “ It was a 
near relation of your own, Mrs. Jelf.” 

“Then I am more puzzled than ever,” replied my 
hostess. “ Pray tell me who it was.” 

“ It was no less a person than your cousin, Mr. 
John Dwerrihouse.” 

Jonathan Jelf laid down his knife and fork. Mrs. 
Jelf looked at me in a strange, startled way, and 
said never a word. 

“ And he desired me to tell you, dear madam, that 
you need not take the trouble to burn the Hall down 
in his honor this time ; but only to have the chim¬ 
ney of the blue-room swept before his arrival.” 

Before I had reached the end of my sentence, I 
became aware of something ominous in the faces of 
the guests. I felt I had said something which I had 
better have left unsaid, and that for some unex¬ 
plained reason my words had evoked a general con¬ 
sternation. I sat confounded, not daring to utter 
another syllable, and for at least two whole minutes 
there was dead silence round the table. Then Cap¬ 
tain Prendergast came to the rescue. 

“You have been abroad for some months, have 
you not, Mr. Langford ? ” he said, with the desper¬ 
ation of one who flings himself into the breach. 
“ I heard you had been to Russia. Surely you have 
something to tell us of the state and temper of the 
country after the war ? ” 

I was heartily grateful to the gallant Skirmisher 
for this diversion in my favor. I answered him, I 
fear, somewhat lamely ; but he kept the conversation 
up, and presently one or two others joined in, and 
so the difficulty, whatever it might have been, was 
bridged over. Bridged over, but not repaired. A 





392 


Treasury of Tales. 


something, an awkwardness, a visible constraint re¬ 
mained. The guests hitherto had been simply dull ; 
but now they were evidently uncomfortable and em¬ 
barrassed. 

The dessert had scarcely been placed upon the 
table when the ladies left the room. I seized the 
opportunity to select a vacant chair next Captain 
Prendergast. 

“In heaven’s name,” I whispered, “what was the 
matter just now ? What had I said ? ” 

“You mentioned the name of John Dw T errihouse.” 

“ What of that ? I had seen him not two hours 
before.” 

“ It is a most astounding circumstance that you 
should have seen him,” said Captain Prendergast. 
“ Are you sure it was he ? ” 

“As sure as of my own identity. We were talk¬ 
ing all the way between London and Blackwater. 
But why does that surprise you ? ” 

“Because” replied Captain Prendergast, dropping 
his voice to the lowest whisper—“ because John 
Dwerrihouse absconded three months ago , with seventy- 
five thousand pounds of the Company's money , and has 
never been heard of since.” 

II. 

John Dwerrihouse had absconded three months 
ago—and I had seen him only a few hours back. 
John Dwerrihouse had embezzled seventy-five thou¬ 
sand pounds of the Company’s money—yet told me 
that he carried that sum upon his person. Were ever 
facts so strangely incongruous, so difficult to recon¬ 
cile ? How should he have ventured again into the 
light of day? How dared he show himself along 
the line ? Above all, what had he been doing 
throughout those mysterious three months of disap¬ 
pearance ? 

Perplexing questions, these. Questions which at 
once suggested themselves to the minds of all con¬ 
cerned, but which admitted of no easy solution. I 
could find no reply to them. Captain Prendergast 
had not even a suggestion to offer. Jonathan Jelf, 
who seized the first opportunity of drawing me aside 
and learning all that I had to tell, was more amazed 
and bewildered than either of us. He came to my 
room that night, when all the guests were gone, and 
we talked the thing over from every point of view— 
without, it must be confessed, arriving at any kind 
of conclusion. 

“I do not ask you,” he said, “whether you can 
have mistaken your man. That is impossible.” 

“As impossible as that I should mistake some 
stranger for yourself.” 

“ It is not a question of looks or voice, but of facts. 
That he should have alluded to the fire in the blue 
room is proof enough of John Dwerrihouse’s iden¬ 
tity. How did he look ? ” 

“ Older, I thought. Considerably older, paler, and 
more anxious.” 

“ He has had enough to make him look anxious, 


anyhow,” said my friend gloomily, “ be he innocent 
or guilty.” 

“ I am inclined to believe that he is innocent,” I 
replied. “ He showed no embarrassment when I 
addressed him, and no uneasiness when the guard 
came round. His conversation was open, to a fault. 
I might almost say that he talked too freely of the 
business w r hich he had in hand.” 

“ That again is strange ; for I know no one more 
reticent on such subjects. He actually told you 
that he had seventy-five thousand pounds in his 
pocket ?” 

“He did.” 

“ Humph ! My wife has an idea about it, and she 
may be right-” 

“ What idea ? ” 

“Well, she fancies,—women are so clever, you 
know, at putting themselves inside people’s motives, 
—she fancies that he was tempted ; that he did actu¬ 
ally take the money ; and that he has been conceal¬ 
ing himself these three months in some wild part of 
the country,—struggling possibly with his conscience 
all the time, and daring neither to abscond with his 
booty, nor to come back and restore it.” 

“ But now that he has come back ?” 

“That is the point. She conceives that he has 
probably thrown himself upon the Company’s mer¬ 
cy ; made restitution of the money ; and, being for¬ 
given, is permitted to carry the business through as 
if nothing whatever had happened.” 

“The last,” I replied, “is an impossible case. 
Mrs. Jelf thinks like a generous and delicate-minded 
woman ; but not in the least like a board of railway 
directors. They would never carry forgiveness so 
far.” 

“I fear not; and yet it is the only conjecture that 
bears a semblance of likelihood. However, we can 
run over to Clayborough to-morrow, and see if any¬ 
thing is to be learned. By the way, Prendergast 
tells me you picked up Lis cigar-case.” 

“ I did so, and here it is.” 

Jelf took the cigar-case, examined it by the light 
of the lamp, and said at once that it was beyond 
doubt Mr. Dwerrihouse’s property, and that he re¬ 
membered to have seen him use it. 

“Here, too, is his monogram on the side,” he 
added. “Abig J transfixing a capital D. He used 
to carry the same on his note-paper.” 

“ It offers, at all events, a proof that I was not 
dreaming.” 

“ Ay ; but it is time you were asleep and dream¬ 
ing now. I am ashamed to have kept you up so 
long. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night, and remember that I am more than 
ready to go with you to Clayborough, or Blackwater, 
or London, or anywhere, if I can be of the least 
service.” 

“Thanks! I know you mean it, old friend, and it 
may be that I shall put you to the test. Once more, 
good-night.” 









393 


The Four-Fifteen Express. 


So we parted for that night, and met again in the 
breakfast-room at half past eight next morning. It 
was a hurried, silent, uncomfortable meal. None of 
us had slept well, and all were thinking of the same 
subject. Mrs. Jelf had evidently been crying; Jelf 
was impatient to be off ; and both Captain Prender- 
gast and myself felt ourselves to be in the painful 
position of outsiders, who are involuntarily brought 
into a domestic trouble. Within twenty minutes 
after we had left the breakfast-table, the dog-cart 
was brought round, and my friend and I were on the 
road to Clayborough. 

“ Tell you what it is, Langford,” he said, as we 
sped along between the wintry hedges, “ I do not 
much fancy to bring up Dwerrihouse’s name at Clay- 
borough. All the officials know that he is my wife’s 
relation, and the subject just now is hardly a pleas¬ 
ant one. If you don’t much mind, we will take the 
ii.io to Blackwater. It’s an important station, and 
we shall stand a far better chance of picking up in¬ 
formation there than at Clayborough.” 

So we took the ii.io, which happened to be an 
express, and, arriving at Blackwater about a quarter 
before twelve, proceeded at once to prosecute our 
inquiry. 

•We began by asking for the station-master,—a 
big, blunt, business-like person, who at once averred 
that he knew Mr. John Dwerrihouse perfectly well, 
and that there was no director on the line whom he 
had seen and spoken to so frequently. 

“ He used to be down here two or three times a 
week, about three months ago,” said he, “ when the 
new line was first set afoot, but since then, you know, 
gentlemen-” 

He paused significantly. 

Jelf flushed scarlet. 

“Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly, “we know all about 
that. The point now to be ascertained is whether 
anything has been seen or heard of him lately.” 

“ Not to my knowledge,” replied the station-master. 

“ He is not known to have been down the line any 
time yesterday, for instance ?” 

The station-master shook his head. 

“The East Anglian, sir,” said he, “is about the 
last place wffiere he would dare to show himself. 
Why, there isn’t a station-master, there isn’t a guard, 
there isn’t a porter, who doesn’t know Mr. Dwerri¬ 
house by sight as well as he knows his own face in 
the looking-glass ; or who wouldn’t telegraph for the 
police as soon as he had set eyes on him at any 
point along the line. Bless you, sir ! there’s been a 
standing order out against him ever since the twenty- 
fifth of September last.” 

“ And yet,” pursued my friend, “ a gentleman who 
traveled down yesterday from London to Claybor¬ 
ough by the afternoon express testifies that he saw 
Mr. Dwerrihouse in the train, and that Mr. Dwerri¬ 
house alighted at Blackwater station.” 

“ Quite impossible, sir,” replied the station-master, 
promptly. 


“ Why impossible ? ” 

“ Because there is no station along the line where 
he is so well known, or where he would run so great 
a risk. It would be just running his head into the 
lion’s mouth. He would have been mad to come 
nigh Blackwater station ; and if he had come, he 
would have been arrested before he left the plat¬ 
form.” 

“ Can you tell me who took the Blackwater tickets 
of that train ? ” 

“I can sir. It was the guard, — Benjamin Som¬ 
ers.” 

“ And where can I find him ? ” 

“ You can find him, sir, by staying here, if you 
please, till one o’clock. He will be coming through 
with the up-express from Crampton, which stays at 
Blackwater for ten minutes.” 

By one o’clock we were back again upon the plat¬ 
form, and waiting for the train. It came punctually, 
and I at once recognized the ruddy-faced guard who 
had gone down with my train the evening before. 

“ The gentlemen want to ask you something about 
Mr. Dwerrihouse, Somers,” said the station-master, 
by way of introduction. 

The guard flashed a keen glance from my face to 
Jelf’s, and back again to mine. 

“ Mr. John Dwerrihouse, the late director ?” said 
he, interrogatively. 

“ The same,” replied my friend. “ Should you 
know him if you saw him ? ” 

“Anywhere, sir.” 

“ Do you know if he was in the 4.15 express yes¬ 
terday afternoon ?” 

“ He was not, sir.” 

“ How can you answer so positively ? ” 

“ Because I looked into every carriage, and saw 
every face in the train, and I could take my oath 
that Mr. Dwerrihouse was not in it. This gentleman 
was,” he added, turning sharply upon me. “ I don’t 
know that I ever saw him before in my life, but I 
remember his face perfectly. You nearly missed 
taking your seat in time at this station, sir, and you 
got out at Clayborough.” 

“Quite true, guard,” I replied ; “but do you not 
also remember the face of the gentleman who trav¬ 
elled down in the same carriage with me as far as 
here ? ” 

“ It was my impression, sir, that you travelled down 
alone,” said Somers, with a look of some surprise. 

“ By no means. I had a fellow-traveller as far as 
Blackwater, and it was in trying to restore him the 
cigar-case which he had dropped in the carriage, that 
I so nearly let you go on without me.” 

“ I remember your saying something about a cigar- 
case, certainly,” replied the guard, “ but-” 

“ You asked for my ticket just before we entered 
the station.” 

“ I did, sir.” 

“ Then you must have seen him. He sat in the 
corner next the very door to which you came.” 








394 


Treasztry of Tales. 


“ No, indeed. I saw no one.” 

I looked at Jelf. I began to think the guard was 
in the ex-director’s confidence. 

“ If I had seen another traveller I should have 
asked for his ticket,” added Somers. “ Did you see 
me ask for his ticket, sir ? ” 

“ I observed that you did not ask for it, but he 
explained that by saying — ” I hesitated. I feared 
I might be telling too much, and so broke off 
abruptly. The guard and the station-master ex¬ 
changed glances. The former looked impatiently at 
his watch. 

“ I am obliged to go on in four minutes more, 
sir,” he said. 

“One last question, then,” interposed Jelf, with a 
sort of desperation. “ If this gentleman’s fellow- 
traveller had been Mr. John Dwerrihouse, and he 
had been sitting in the corner next the door by which 
you took the tickets, could you have failed to see- 
and recognize him ? ” 

“ No, sir ; it would have been quite impossible.” 

“ And you are certain you did not see him ?” 

“ As I said before, sir, I could take my oath I did 
not see him. And if it wasn’t that I don’t like to 
contradict a gentleman, I would say I could also 
take my oath that this gentleman was quite alone 
in the carriage the whole way from London to Clay- 
borough. Why, sir,” he added, dropping his voice 
so as to be inaudible to the station-master, “you 
expressly asked me to give you a compartment to 
yourself, and I did so. I locked you in, and you 
were so good as to give me something for myself.” 

“Yes: but Mr. Dwerrihouse had a key of his 
own.” 

“ I never saw him, sir ; I saw no one in that com¬ 
partment but yourself. Beg pardon, sir, my time’s 
up.” 

And with this the ruddy guard touched his cap 
and was gone. In another minute the heavy pant¬ 
ing of the engine began afresh, and the train glided 
slowly out of the station. 

We looked at each other for some moments in 
silence. I was the first to speak. 

“ Mr. Benjamin Somers knows more than he 
chooses to tell,” I said. 

“ Humph ! do you think so ? ” 

“ It must be. He could not have come to the door 
without seeing him. It’s impossible.” 

“ There is one thing not impossible, my dear 
fellow.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ That you may have fallen asleep, and dreamt the 
whole thing.” 

“ Could I dream of a branch line that I had never 
heard of ? Could I dream of a hundred and one 
business details that had no kind of interest for 
me ? Could I dream of the seventy-five thousand 
pounds ?” 

“ Perhaps you might have seen or heard some 
vague account of the affair while you were abroad. 


It might have made no impression upon you at the 
time, and might have come back to you in your 
dreams,—recalled perhaps, by the mere names of 
the stations on the line.” 

“ What about the fire in the chimney of the blue 
room,—should I have heard of that during my 
journey ? ” 

“ Well, no : I admit there is a difficulty about that 
point.” 

“ And what about the cigar-case ? ” 

“Ay, by Jove ! there is the cigar-case. That is 
a stubborn fact. Well it’s a mysterious affair, and 
it will need a better detective than myself, I fancy, 
to clear it up. I suppose we may as well go 
home.” 

III. 

A week had not gone by when I received a letter 
from the Secretary of the East Anglian Railway 
Company, requesting the favor of my attendance at 
a special board meeting, then not many days dis¬ 
tant. No reasons were alleged, and no apologies of¬ 
fered, for this demand upon my time ; but they had 
heard, it was clear, of my inquiries about the miss¬ 
ing director, and had a mind to put me through 
some sort of official examination upon the sub¬ 
ject. Being still a guest at Dumbleton Hall, I had 
to go up to London for the purpose, and Jonathan 
Jelf accompanied me. I found the direction of the 
Great East Anglian line represented by a party of 
some twelve or fourteen gentlemen seated in solemn 
conclave round a huge green-baized table, in a gloomy 
board-room, adjoining the London terminus. 

Being courteously received by the chairman (who 
at once began by saying that certain statements of 
mine respecting Mr. John Dwerrihouse had come to 
the knowledge of the direction, and that they in con¬ 
sequence desired to confer with me on those points), 
we were placed at the table and the inquiry pro¬ 
ceeded in due form. 

I was first asked if I knew Mr. John Dwerrihouse, 
how long I had been acquainted with him, and 
whether I could identify him at sight. I was then 
asked when I had seen him last. To which I re¬ 
plied : “ On the fourth of this present month, Decem¬ 
ber, eighteen hundred and fifty-six.” Then came 
the inquiry of where I had seen him on that fourth 
day of December ; to which I replied that I met him 
in a first-class compartment of the 4.15 down-ex¬ 
press ; that he got in just as the train was leaving 
the London terminus, and that he alighted at Black- 
water station. The chairman then inquired whether 
I had held any communication with my fellow-trav¬ 
eller ; whereupon I related, as nearly as I could re¬ 
member it, the whole bulk and substance of Mr. John 
Dwerrihouse’s diffuse information respecting the new 
branch line. 

To all this the board listened with profound atten¬ 
tion, while the chairman presided and the secretary 
took notes. I then produced the cigar-case. It was 




395 


The Four -Fifteen Express. 


The chairman and secretary conferred together in 
an undertone. The directors whispered to each 
other. One or two looked suspiciously at the guard. 
I could see that my evidence remained unshaken, 
and that, like myself, they suspected some complicity 
between the guard and the defaulter. 

“ How far did you conduct that 4.15 express on the 
day in question, Somers ? ” asked the chairman. 

“ All through, sir,” replied the guard ; “ from Lon¬ 
don to Crampton.” 

“ How was it that you were not relieved at Clay- 
borough ? I thought there was always a change of 
guards at Clayborough.” 

“ There used to be, sir, till the new regulations 
came in force last midsummer; since when, the 
guards in charge of express trains go the whole way 
through.” 

The chairman turned to the secretary. 

“ I think it would be as well,” he said, “ if we had 
the day-book to refer to upon this point.” 

Again the secretary touched the silver hand-bell, 
and desired the porter in attendance to summon Mr. 
Raikes. From a word or two dropped by another 
of the directors, I gathered that Mr. Raikes was one 
of the under-secretaries. 

He came,—a small, slight, sandy-haired, keen-eyed 
man, with an eager, nervous manner, and a forest of 
light beard and moustache. He just showed him¬ 
self at the door of the board-room, and, being re¬ 
quested to bring a certain day-book from a certain 
shelf in a certain room, bowed and vanished. 

He was there such a moment, and the surprise of 
seeing him w r as so great and sudden, that it was not 
till the door had closed upon him that I found voice 
to speak. He was no sooner gone, however, than I 


passed from hand to hand and recognized by all. 
There was not a man present who did not remember 
that plain cigar-case with its silver monogram, or to 
whom it seemed anything less than entirely corrob¬ 
orative of my evidence. When at length I had told 
all that I had to tell, the chairman whispered some¬ 
thing to the secretary ; the secretary touched a sil¬ 
ver hand-bell ; and the guard, Benjamin Somers, 
was ushered into the room. He was then examined 
as carefully as myself. He declared that he knew 
Mr. John Dwerrihouse perfectly well ; that he could 
not be mistaken in him ; that he remembered going 
down with the 4.15 express on the afternoon in ques¬ 
tion ; that he remembered me; and that, there being 
one or two empty first-class compartments on that 
especial afternoon, he had, in compliance with my 
request, placed me in a carriage by myself. He 
was positive that I remained alone in that compart¬ 
ment all the way from London to Clayborough. He 
was ready to take his oath that Mr. Dwerrihouse 
was neither in that carriage with me nor in any com¬ 
partment of that train. He remembered distinctly 
to have examined my ticket at Blackwater ; was cer¬ 
tain that there was no one else at that time in the 
carriage ; could not have failed to observe any sec¬ 
ond person, had there been one ; had that second 
person been Mr. John Dwerrihouse, should have 
quietly double-locked the door of the carriage, and 
have at once given information to the Blackwater 
station-master. So clear, so decisive, so ready, was 
Somers with this testimony, that the board looked 
fairly puzzled. 

“ You hear this person’s statement, Mr. Lang¬ 
ford,” said the chairman. “ It contradicts yours in 
every particular. What have you to say in reply ? " 
“ I can only repeat what I said before. I am 
quite as positive of the truth of my own assertions 
as Mr. Somers can be of the truth of his.” 

“ You say that Mr. Dwerrihouse alighted at Black¬ 
water, and that he was in possession of a private key. 
Are you sure he had not alighted by means of that 
key before the guard came round for the tickets ? ” 
“ I am quite positive that he did not leave the 
carriage till the train had fairly entered the station, 
and the other Blackwater passengers alighted. I 
even saw that he was met there by a friend.” 

“ Indeed ! Did you see that person distinctly ? ” 
“ Quite distinctly.” 

“ Can you describe his appearance ? ” 

“ I think so. He was short and very slight, sandy- 
haired, with a bushy moustache and beard, and he 
wore a closely-fitting suit of gray tweed. His age I 
should take to be about thirty-eight or forty.” 

“ Did Mr. Dwerrihouse leave the station in this 
person’s company ?” 

“ I cannot tell. I saw them walking together 
down the platform, and then I saw them standing 
aside under a gas-jet, talking earnestly. After that 
I lost sight of them quite suddenly ; and just then 
my train went on, and I with it.” 


sprang to my feet. 

“ That person,” I said, “ is the same who met Mr. 
Dwerrihouse upon the platform at Blackwater! ” 

There was a general movement of surprise. The 
chairman looked grave and somewhat agitated. 

“ Take care, Mr. Langford,” he said ; “take care 
what you say ! ” 

“ I am as positive of his identity as of my own.” 

“ Do you consider the consequences of your words ? 
Do you consider that you are bringing a charge of 
the gravest character against one of the Company’s 
servants ?” 

“ I am willing to be put on my oath, if necessary. 
The man who came to that door a minute since, is 
the same whom I saw talking with Mr. Dwerrihouse 
on the Blackwater platform. Were he twenty times 
the Company’s servant, I could say neither more 
nor less.” 

The chairman turned again to the guard. 

“ Did you see Mr. Raikes in the train, or on the 
platform ? ” he asked. 

Somers shook his head. “ I am confident Mr. 
Raikes was not in the train,” he said ; “ and I cer¬ 
tainly did not see him on the platform.” 

The chairman turned next to the secretary. 







39 6 


Treasury of Tales . 


“ Mr. Raikes is in your office, Mr. Hunter,” he 
said. “ Can you remember if he was absent on the 
fourth instant ? ” 

“ I do not think he was,” replied the secretary ; 
“ but I am not prepared to speak positively. I have 
been away most afternoons myself lately, and Mr. 
Raikes might easily have absented himself if he had 
been disposed.” At this moment the under-secretary 
returned with the day-book under his arm. 

“ Be pleased to refer, Mr. Raikes,” said the chair¬ 
man, “ to the entries of the fourth instant, and see 
what Benjamin Somers’s duties were on that day.” 

Mr. Raikes threw open the cumbrous volume, and 
ran a practised eye and finger down some three or 
four successive columns of entries. Stopping sud¬ 
denly at the foot of a page, he then read aloud that 
Benjamin Somers had on that day conducted the 
4.15 express from London to Crampton. 

The chairman leaned forward in his seat, looked 
the under-secretary full in the face, and said, quite 
sharply and suddenly : 

“ Where were you , Mr. Raikes, on the same after¬ 
noon ?” 

“ /, sir ? ” 

“ You, Mr. Raikes. Where were you on the 
afternoon and evening of the fourth of the present 
month ? ” 

“ Here, sir,—in Mr. Hunter’s office. Where else 
should I be ? ” There was a dash of trepidation 
in the under-secretary’s voice as he said this ; but 
his look of surprise was natural enough. 

“We have some reason for believing, Mr. Raikes, 
that you were absent that afternoon without leave. 
Was this the case ?” 

“ Certainly not, sir. I have not had a day’s holi¬ 
day since September. Mr. Hunter will bear me out 
in this.” 

Mr. Hunter repeated what he had previously said 
on the subject, but added that the clerks in the ad¬ 
joining office would be certain to know. Whereupon 
the senior clerk, a grave, middle-aged person, in 
green glasses, was summoned and interrogated. 

His testimony cleared the under-secretary at once. 
He declared that Mr. Raikes had in no instance, 
to his knowledge, been absent during office hours 
since his return from his holiday in September. 

I was confounded. The chairman turned to me 
with a smile, in which a shade of covert annoyance 
was scarcely apparent. 

“ You hear, Mr. Langford ? ” he said. 

“ I hear, sir ; but my conviction remains un¬ 
shaken.” 

“ I fear, Mr. Langford, that your convictions are 
very insufficiently based,” replied the chairman, 
with a doubtful cough. “ I fear that you ‘ dream 
dreams,’ and mistake them for actual occurrences. 
It is a dangerous habit of mind, and might lead to 
dangerous results. Mr. Raikes here would have 
found himself in an unpleasant position, had he not 
proved so satisfactorily an alibi.” 


I was about to reply, but he gave me no time. 

“ I think, gentlemen,” he went on to say, address¬ 
ing the board, “ that we should be wasting time to 
push this inquiry further. Mr. Langford’s evidence 
would seem to be of an equal value throughout. 
The testimony of Benjamin Somers disproves his 
first statement, and the testimony of the last witness 
disproves his second. I think we may conclude that 
Mr. Langford fell asleep in the train on the occasion 
of his journey to Clayborough, and dreamt an un¬ 
usually vivid and circumstantial dream,—of which, 
however, we have now heard quite enough.” 

There are few things more annoying than to find 
one’s positive convictions met with incredulity. I 
could not help feeling impatience at the turn that 
affairs had taken. I was not proof against the civil 
sarcasm of the chairman’s manner. Most intoler¬ 
able of all, however, was the quiet smile lurking about 
the corners of Benjamin Somers’s mouth, and the 
half-triumphant, half-malicious gleam in the eyes of 
the under-secretary. The man was evidently puzzled, 
and somewhat alarmed. His looks seemed furtively 
to interrogate me. Who was I ? What did I want? 
Why had I come there to do him an ill turn with 
his employers ? What was it to me whether or no 
he was absent without leave ? 

Seeing all this, and perhaps more irritated by it 
than the thing deserved, I begged leave to detain 
the attention of the board for a moment longer. 
Jelf plucked me impatiently by the sleeve. 

“ Better let the thing drop,” he whispered. “ The 
chairman’s right enough. You dreamt it ; and the 
less said now, the better.” 

I was not to be silenced, however, in this fashion. 
I had yet something to say, and I would say it. It 
was to this effect: That dreams were not usually 
productive of tangible results, and that I requested 
to know in what way the chairman conceived I had 
evolved from my dream so substantial and well-made 
a delusion as the cigar-case which I had had the honor 
to place before him at the commencement of our 
interview. 

“ The cigar-case, I admit, Mr. Langford,” the 
chairman replied, “ is a very strong point in your 
evidence. It is your otily strong point, however, 
and there is just a possibility that we may all be 
misled by a mere accidental resemblance. Will you 
permit me to see the case again ? ” 

“ It is unlikely,” I said, as I handed it to him, 
“that any other should bear precisely this mono¬ 
gram, and yet be in all other particulars exactly 
similar.” The chairman examined it for a moment in 
silence, and then passed it to Mr. Hunter. Mr. 
Hunter turned it over and over, and shook his head. 

“This is no mere resemblance,” he said. “It is 
John Dwerrihouse’s cigar-case to a certainty. I 
remember it perfectly. I have seen it a hundred 
times.” 

“ I believe I may say the same,” added the 
chairman. “Yet how account for the way in which 




397 


The Four -Fifteen Express. 


Mr. Langford asserts that it came into his posses¬ 
sion ? ” 

“I can only repeat,” I replied, “that I found it 
on the floor of the carriage after Mr. Dwerrihouse 
had alighted. It was in leaning out to look after him 
that I trod upon it ; and it was in running after him 
for the.purpose of restoring it that I saw—or be¬ 
lieved I saw—Mr. Raikes standing aside with him 
in earnest conversation.” 

Again I felt Jonathan Jelf plucking at my sleeve. 

“ Look at Raikes,” he whispered. “ Look at 
Raikes ! ” I turned where the under-secretary had 
been standing a moment before, and saw him, white 
as death, with lips trembling and livid, stealing 
toward the door. 

To conceive a sudden, strange, and indefinite sus¬ 
picion ; to fling myself in his way ; to take him by 
the shoulders as if he were a child, and turn his cra¬ 
ven face perforce toward the board, were with me 
the work of an instant. 

“ Look at him ! ” I exclaimed. “ Look at his face ! 
I ask no better witness to the truth of my words.” 

The chairman’s brow darkened. 

“Mr. Raikes,” he said sternly, “if you know any¬ 
thing, you had better speak.” 

Vainly trying to wrench himself from my grasp, 
the under-secretary stammered out an incoherent 
denial. 

“ Let me go,” he said. “I know nothing,— you 
have no right to detain me,—let me go ! ” 

“ Did you, or did you not, meet Mr. John Dwerri¬ 
house at Blackwater station ? The charge brought 
against you is either true or false. If true, you will 
do well to throw yourself upon the mercy of the 
board, and make a full confession of all that you 
know.” The under-secretary wrung his hands in an 
agony of helpless terror. 

“ I was away,” he cried. “ I was two hundred 
miles away at the time ! I know nothing about it, 
—I have nothing to confess,—I am innocent,—I call 
God to witness I am innocent ! ” 

“ Two hundred miles away ! ” echoed the chair¬ 
man. “ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I was in Devonshire. I had three weeks’ leave 
of absence,—I appeal to Mr. Hunter,—Mr. Hunter 
knows I had three weeks’ leave of absence ! I was 
in Devonshire all the time,—I can prove I was in 
Devonshire ! ” 

Seeing him so abject, so incoherent, so wild with 
apprehension, the directors began to whisper gravely 
among themselves ; while one got quietly up, and 
called the porter to guard the door. 

“ What has your being in Devonshire to do with 
the matter ? ” said the chairman. “ When were you 
in Devonshire ? ” 

“ Mr. Raikes took his leave in September,” said 
the secretary ; “ about the time when Mr. Dwerri¬ 
house disappeared.” 

“ I never even heard that he had disappeared till 
I came back ! ” 


“ That must remain to be proved,” said the chair¬ 
man. “ I shall at once put this matter in the hands 
of the police. In the meanwhile, Mr. Raikes, being 
myself a magistrate, and used to deal with these 
cases, I advise you to confess while confession may 

yet do you service. As for your accomplice-” 

The frightened wretch fell upon his knees. 

“ I had no accomplice ! ” he cried. “ Only have 
mercy upon me,—only spare my life, and I will con¬ 
fess all! I didn’t mean to harm him ! I didn’t mean 
to hurt a hair of his head. Only have mercy upon 
me, and let me go ! ” 

The chairman rose in his place, pale and agitated. 
“ Good heavens ! ” he exclaimed, “ what horrible 
mystery is this ? What does it mean ? ” 

“ As sure as there is a God in heaven,” said Jona¬ 
than Jelf, “it means that murder has been done.” 

“No—no—no!” shrieked Raikes, still upon his 
knees, and cowering like a beaten hound. “ Not 
murder ! No jury that ever sat could bring it in 
murder. I thought I had only stunned him,—I never 
meant to do more than stun him ! Manslaughter— 
manslaughter—not murder ! ” 

Overcome by the horror of this unexpected reve¬ 
lation, the chairman covered his face with his hand, 
and for a moment or two remained silent. 

“ Miserable man,” he said at length, “you have be¬ 
trayed yourself.” 

“You bade me confess 1 You urged me to throw 
myself upon the mercy of the board ! ” 

“You have confessed to a crime which no one 
suspected you of having committed,” replied the 
chairman, “ and which this board has no power either 
to punish or forgive. All that I can do for you is to 
advise you to submit to the law, to plead guilty, and 
to conceal nothing. When did you do this deed ? ” 
The guilty man rose to his feet, and leaned heav¬ 
ily against the table. His answer came reluctantly, 
like the speech of one dreaming. 

“ On the twenty-second of September.” 

On the twenty-second of September ! I looked 
in Jonathan Jelf’s face, and he in mine. I felt my 
own paling with a strange sense of wonder and 
dread. I saw his blench suddenly, even to the lips. 

“ Merciful heaven ! ” he whispered, “ what was 
it , then , that you saw in the train?" 

* * 

* 

What w r as it that I saw in the train ? That ques¬ 
tion remains unanswered to this day. I have never 
been able to reply to it. I only know that it bore 
the living likeness of the murdered man, whose body 
had then been lying some ten weeks under a rough 
pile of branches, and brambles, and rotting leaves, 
at the bottom of a deserted chalk-pit about half-way 
between Blackwater and Mallingford. I know that 
it spoke, and moved, and looked as that man spoke, 
and moved, and looked in life ; that I heard, or 
seemed to hear, things related which I could never 
otherwise have learned ; that I was guided, as it 
were, by that vision on the platform to the identifi- 






39 $ 


Treasury of Tales. 


cation of the murderer ; and that, a passive instru¬ 
ment myself, I was destined, by means of these mys¬ 
terious teachings, to bring about the ends of justice. 
For these things I have never been able to ac¬ 
count. 

As for the matter of the cigar-case, it proved, on 
inquiry, that the carriage in which I travelled down 
that afternoon to Clayborough had not been in use 
for several weeks, and was, in point of fact, the 
same in which poor John Dwerrihouse had per¬ 
formed his last journey. The case had, doubtless, 
been dropped by him, and had lain unnoticed till I 
found it. 

Upon the details of the murder I have no need 
to dwell. Those who desire more ample particulars 
may find them, and the written confession of Augus¬ 
tus Raikes, in the files of the “ Times ” for 1856. 
Enough that the under-secretary, knowing the his¬ 
tory of the new line, and following the negotiation 
step by step through all its stages, determined to 
waylay Mr. Dwerrihouse, rob him of the seventy- 
five thousand pounds, and escape to America with 
his booty. 

In order to effect these ends he obtained leave of 
absence a few days before the time appointed for the 
payment of the money ; secured his passage across 
the Atlantic in a steamer advertised to start on the 
twenty-third ; provided himself with a heavily loaded 
“life-preserver,” and went down to Blackwater to 
await the arrival of his victim. How he met him 
on the platform with a pretended message from the 
board ; how he offered to conduct him by a short 
cut across the fields to Mallingford ; how, having 
brought him to a lonely place, he struck him down 
with the “ life preserver,” and so killed him ; and how, 
finding what he had done, he dragged the body to 
the verge of an out-of-the-way chalk-pit, and there 
flung it in, and piled it over with branches and 
brambles, are facts still fresh in the memories of those 
who, like the connoisseurs in De Quincey’s famous 
essay, regard murder as a fine art. Strangely enough, 
the murderer, having done his work, was afraid to 
leave the country. He declared that he had not in¬ 
tended to take the director’s life, but only to stun 
and rob him ; and that, finding the blow had killed, 
he dared not fly for fear of drawing down sus¬ 
picion upon his own head. As a mere robber he 
would have been safe in the States, but as a murderer 
he would inevitably have been pursued and given up 
to justice. So he forfeited his passage, returned to 
the office as usual at the end of his leave, and locked 
up his ill-gotten thousands till a more convenient 
opportunity. In the meanwhile he had the satis¬ 
faction of finding that Mr. Dwerrihouse was univer¬ 
sally believed to have absconded with the money, no 
one knew how or whither. 

Whether he meant murder or not, however, Mr. 
Augustus Raikes paid the full penalty of his crime, 
and was hanged at the Old Bailey in the second 
week in January, 1857. 


MY AUNT JOP. 

BY LUCY LEDYARD. 

I. 

’M sure I don’t know what your Aunt Jop 
would say ! ” 

“Aunt Jop—Aunt Jop—Aunt Jop ! it’s al¬ 
ways Aunt Jop ! If ever I want to do anything nice 
it’s Aunt Jop who spoils it all ; how I wish Aunt Jop 
had never been born ! ” 

“ Perhaps some folks might wishjjwc had never been 
born, miss ! You don’t know what you are talking 
about when you take it upon you to criticise your 
elders and betters ! ” 

“ I do know if I want to go fishing with Bob and 
Tom, it’s up go your eyebrows, and ‘What would 
Aunt Jop think !' or if I prefer a walk in the woods, 
to sitting mewed up in our stuffy little sitting-room 
on a hot summer’s day—or don’t want to go to that 
stupid old bear-garden of a sewing-society, when I 
can enjoy myself so much better at the top of a 
cherry-tree, an avalanche of Aunt Jopsis hurled at 
me, till I am fairly sick of the name and wish she 
were at Joppa indeed ! and now, just because I asked 
papa to let me learn to ride horseback, when I have 
such a good opportunity, horse, saddle and all, it’s, 
too bad for you to put in your word and bring up 
Aunt Jop in that hateful way.” 

“Your father’d spoil every one of you, if I didn’t 
stand by and set him right, when you try to pull the 
wool over his eyes. You’re an ungrateful minx, but 
you’ll get come up with some time, I can tell you, or 
my name’s not Hepzibah Sharp. Because Squire 
Morse chooses to let his daughter go gallivanting 
round the country on that black Bess’s back, it’s no 
reason he should expect you to do the part of a groom 
to her, even if he does try to bribe you with a horse. 
If your Aunt Jop were here-” 

“ There it is again ! I will not listen to the hate¬ 
ful sound any longer ! ” and stuffing my fingers in 
my ears, I rushed off to my favorite retreat, the mow¬ 
ing back of the barn. The perfect quiet of the 
scene was inexpressibly soothing to my ruffled feel¬ 
ings. As I lay, resting my head on my elbow, on 
the soft, short herbage of a sunny slope, watching the 
tiny brook that purled gently along, cooing softly to 
itself, on a lower level, with all the sweet influences 
of a summer afternoon around me—the hum of in¬ 
sects, the song of birds, the sun glinting across the 
grass and athwart the tops of the trees at the foot of 
the hill—no wonder the harmony of nature took 
possession of my senses and I could endure to think 
more patiently of Aunt Jop. A slight curiosity even 
began to awaken in me as to this remarkable person¬ 
age. I asked myself who was this “Aunt Jop,” who 
was to be the arbitress of my fate and that of my 
small brothers and sisters, and unseen to sit in judg¬ 
ment on all our little actions. I had begun to think 
of her as a myth ; a sort of ogress, or another Rich- 





My Aunt yop. 


399 


ard the First—to be called upon to frighten young 
children and hoydenish girls of my own age into 
obedience and propriety. No doubt I was a hoyden 
in those days—a sixteen-year-old hoyden, who re¬ 
belled against the rule of that usurper, as I was fond 
of considering her, Miss Hepzibah Sharp. Miss 
Hepzibah was sister to my father’s sister-in-law ; and 
I was only too fond of bringing up the fact that 
there was no tie of blood between us. My father 
was regarded with something like veneration by his 
children, of whom I was the eldest; but alas ! he was 
so much absorbed in his literary pursuits, that, pro¬ 
vided meals were served with proper regularity, and 
we children were passably clean and well-behaved in 
his presence, he did not take much note of what 
was going on in his household, and seemed to feel 
in conscience bound to be very grateful to the wom¬ 
an, who had, on our dear mother’s death, volun¬ 
teered to fill the gap in his home, and to take all 
family responsibilities off his hands. With Miss 
Hepzibah we had no sympathy, or rather, she had 
none with us,—our obedience was that of fear, and 
her system was justice— in justice rather—without 
mercy. She was a hard-featured, hard-hearted, 
woman, who prided herself on always doing her duty ; 
but who could turn her back with the greatest com¬ 
placency on the suffering of either man or beast. 

As I gazed lovingly on the quiet landscape, I saw 
my father returning at his accustomed hour from the 
post-office, and I hurried back to the house to meet 
him. When I re-entered our “ stuffy little sitting- 
room,” as 1 had in my anger designated it, Miss 
Sharp greeted me with the words (and I thought 
I could discern something like triumph in her 
tones) : “Your father has had a letter from your 
Aunt Jop, who wishes you to visit her ; and he and 
I have decided that you are to go to her for a month 
or more.” 

The sting of Miss Sharp’s words lay in the fact 
that Miss Hepzibah should have anything to do 
with the decision. However, I astonished the whole 
family by my ready acquiescence in the plan marked 
out for me. When the day finally came for me to 
leave home, my little brothers and sisters wept bit¬ 
terly on saying “ good-bye ” to their “ naughty ” sis¬ 
ter ; and I think my father felt a real regret at my 
departure, for after he had accompanied me to the 
station and seen me safe on board the cars, as he 
stood waiting for a few moments beside my seat the 
tears were in his eyes, and as he gravely shook my 
hand he said with unwonted tenderness in his voice: 
“ Remember, Helen, whatever good report comes to 
me of you will give me the greatest happiness I can 
experience in this life.” I felt that Miss Hepzibah’s 
parting sentiments were a silent “ Good riddance, 
Miss ; ” but that consciousness gave me no sorrow ; 
and outwardly I was calm until I was alone —alone 
truly, in a crowd of fellow-passengers ; and when the 
engine gave a final snort, and the train was really un¬ 
der way, I shed many miserable tears behind my 


veil, and realized for the first time the bitterness of 
leaving home, as it were, in disgrace, even if that 
home had not been of the happiest;—and so I was 
whirled away into a new life. 

I was quite prepared to dislike my aunt Jop, and 
ready, if not to commence hostilities on the first 
opportunity, at least to meet them half-way. It is 
seldom we form beforehand a correct opinion of a 
person we have never met. I was no exception to 
the rule. 

II. 

If I had formulated my vague preconceptions of 
my grand-aunt they would have read thus : “ A tall, 
vinegar-faced woman, whose figure was innocent of 
hoops, when hoops were in fashion, and whose hair 
was drawn tightly back from the temples into a 
frightened little knot behind.” Instead, after mj 
arrival at my aunt’s house, and I had been ushered 
into the hall by a neatly dressed and pleasant-faced 
maid (how different from our frowzy Bridget), I 
saw a somewhat plump woman, of medium height 
and comely face, who might be sixty, more or less, 
and who greeted me with a not unkindly shake of 
the hand. She did not offer to kiss me, but as I 
was not accustomed to such endearments I did not 
on *hat account experience any sense of neglect. 
All the lines of Aunt Jop’s face were strong ; her 
square shoulders suggested strength ; but strong- 
minded or otherwise, she was dressed with a reason¬ 
able conformity to the prevailing fashion, and wore 
a most becoming mob-cap. Her voice was rich and 
low, but her enunciation peculiarly distinct. When 
she asked me if I would like to go to my room at 
once and prepare for tea, I felt the request to be a 
command, and went with the docility of a lamb. 
But I was bound by all the traditions of my life to 
hate Aunt Jop—had she not been heid up to my 
imagination as a bugbear all my young days ? So 
during my toilet I mustered my forces, and when I 
descended the stairs I was ripe for rebellion; but 
something in the cultivated accents of my aunt’s 
speech, some magnetism or other about her, held me 
in check and fascinated me at the same time. Had 
I ever before stood in awe of any human being ? It 
was a new sensation, and I chafed like a mettlesome 
horse under a new rider, not knowing the extent to 
which this woman’s power would be exercised, or 
how soon it would become a tyranny I was deter¬ 
mined to resist. Bristling like a porcupine, with all 
my quills set, and needing only some outward 
irritant to put them in motion (Miss Hepzibah would 
not have been long in supplying the provocation), I 
sat in sullen silence in the presence of my aunt. 

“ Helen ” (taking out her watch), “ we have half 
an hour yet before tea ; would you like to come with 
me and see the dogs ? ” 

I could not have been more astonished if a rocket 
had suddenly gone up to the ceiling. I had in¬ 
tended to oppose the very first remark Aunt Jop 






400 


Treasury 

should make to me in the way of conversation, and 
then come to open war, if need be, to make up for 
my ready acquiescence in the decision that banished 
me from home, and to prove that I was my own mis¬ 
tress after all, as a punishment to those who chose 
to think otherwise. Instead, while I was conscious 
that my face had come out of its cloud, and was 
really beaming in a most provoking way (for I loved 
all animals), I said : 

“ Oh, aunt, I should like nothing better ; I am so 
fond of dogs ! ” 

At the kennels we found several St. Bernards, two 
or three setters, an English mastiff, and a Newfound¬ 
land dog. 

“ Let me introduce Hilda and Retter to you,” 
said my aunt. 

I was down on my knees at once before the 
beautiful creatures, and when Hilda turned her soft, 
seal-like eyes upon me, rubbing her head caressingly 
against my arm, and Retter put up his clumsy paw 
in affectionate greeting, my heart went warmly out 
to these dumb creatures, and then and there com¬ 
menced a friendship that never failed between the 
faithful brutes and myself. 

“ They do not greet every one so cordially,” quietly 
remarked my aunt ; “ they seem to discriminate be¬ 
tween friends and foes, and make most excellent 
watch-dogs for that reason. Retter is rightly named ; 
he has already saved one life since I imported him. I 
would not part with him for a fortune.” 

“ Oh, you great darlings ! ” I exclaimed. “ How 
pure the breed must be, aunt! ” 

“Pure !” said Aunt Jop, with the least shade of 
contempt in her voice ; “ I would not go to the 
expense of importing any other. I must show you 
their pedigree when we go back to the house. Do 
you notice the deep-set eyes, the haws as red as 
those of a bloodhound, the double dew-claws ?— 
those are all marks of pure blood.” 

“And, Aunt Jop, the color—that beautiful tawny 
orange contrasting with the white—and the blaze up 
to the poll is so very clear and true on Hilda, and 
what a lovely bump of benevolence she has ! ” 

My aunt looked surprised, but said nothing, and 
we walked on. 

“ That must be an Irish setter, judging from the 
rich mahogany-red color, is it not. Aunt Jop ?” 

“ Why, child, you do know something about dogs. 
It is not every girl of your age can tell a setter from 
a pointer, or an Irish from a Gordon or an English 
setter. O’Brien is a fine specimen of an Irish setter.” 

When we returned to the house I felt in some in¬ 
tuitive sort of way that my Aunt Jop was well pleased 
with me, and I was conscious of never having ap¬ 
peared to such advantage as at the tea-table that 
evening, when we discussed the merits of our canine 
favorites ; I for the first time in my life giving vent to 
my enthusiasm for dogs. Miss Sharp held dogs in 
holy horror, and one standing cause of quarrel be¬ 
tween us was my desire to own one. 


of Tales. 

During that evening it seemed to me Aunt Jop 
exerted herself as no one had ever done before to 
draw me out and entertain me. Never before in my 
short life had I met any one so rarely fascinating. 
She was a woman of varied experience, who had 
travelled everywhere, had seen everything from the 
Nile to the Yosemite, and as she showed me picture 
after picture (copies of celebrated paintings and 
sculpture), and described her adventures in foreign 
lands, my cheeks glowed and my eyes shone with 
pleasurable excitement. I can see now, looking 
back upon the past, that there must have been an 
insensible flattery in this to a woman like my aunt, 
not easily impressed by ordinary gushing, excepting 
to be disgusted by it. I was , indeed, that rare thing, 
a good listener, where I was interested. 

The evening was over all too soon. I was fairly 
subjugated. I had literally forgotten all about my 
hostile resolutions. That night I dreamed of moon¬ 
light on the Grand Canal in Venice, of gondolas, of 
riding on the back of a crocodile with great enjoy¬ 
ment up and down the River Nile, and, finally, of 
being rescued from a snowbank by the faithful 
Retter. 

“ Are you as fond of horses as of dogs, Helen ? 
and can you ride ? If you can, there is a pony in 
the stable at your service, and the saddle is a very 
nice one. How would you like a gallop this cool 
afternoon ? ” 

If looks could express gratitude, I am sure my 
face spoke volumes. “ I am as fond of horses as of 
dogs, Aunt Jop, and I am sure I could ride, if I had 
the chance. I am verysuxt I have no fear of ahorse.” 
Aunt Jop smiled. “ You shall have the chance, then. 

I suppose you have no riding-habit; but never mind, 
child (noticing my crestfallen look), you shall not on 
that account lose your rides. We’ll improvise one 
for to-day, and in the course of a week or two—let 
me see—your seventeenth birthday comes the nine¬ 
teenth of this month—I will give you a nice one 
for a birthday present.” In the course of half an. 
hour, I was mounted on a bureau, while Aunt Jop 
arranged the drapery of an old skirt of her own, let 
down from the top around my imaginary steed, and 
that very afternoon, with the good farmer for riding- 
master and escort, I took my first lesson in the eques¬ 
trian art. The worthy man reported me an apt 
pupil, and my aunt seemed much pleased. 

From that day on I made rapid progress, and 
when I could ride alone through the dewy woods 
and lanes, it seemed to me for the first time in my 
life I tasted the sweets of liberty and realized the full 
meaning of freedom. 

Ah ! my dear aunt ! how much I owe to you ! 
You put the key of happiness in my hands. You 
allowed me freedom ; never license ; and taught me 
the priceless lesson of self-control. 

My aunt was sparing in her praise, but when she 
did commend me, there was such a significance to 
her words that I began to crave her approval more 





My Aunt Jop. 


401 


than anything else in the world. I had never been 
lacking in self-conceit, and was so easily elated by flat¬ 
tery (if skilfully administered) as, under its intoxi¬ 
cating effects, to become an unbearable egoist. My 
Aunt Jophad the rare faculty of “ taking one down ” 
on such occasions, without seeming to do so. Her 
sense of the ludicrous was very keen ; and with a 
face perfectly innocent of guile—a smile so “child¬ 
like and bland ”—she would say something so ut¬ 
terly crushing to one’s vanity—she would hold up 
the mirror with such a ridiculous reflection in it of 
one’s silly affectations, as to make me at least blush 
for shame on seeing myself as others saw me. Strange 
to say, utterly discomfited as I always was after each 
mortifying lesson of this kind, I liked my aunt all 
the better, and had a sort of inner consciousness, 
that was not without its pleasant side, that I was 
having the nonsense pretty effectually knocked out 
of me. 

The weeks went by only too fast; each day had 
its occupations, and yet we had leisure for every¬ 
thing. Aunt Jop never seemed to be in a hurry. 
I learned to look forward with the greatest delight 
to the short time we devoted each day to the needle. 
Sometimes I read aloud to my aunt, while she sewed ; 
at other times I sewed while she read—history, 
poetry, essays, or romance, as the case might be ; and 
I never wearied of listening to her rich tones. We 
went to church, too, and once a week to a sewing 
society ; I actually looking forward to the meeting 
with enthusiasm when it was to take place at my 
aunt’s house. I found myself mentally parodying Miss 
Sharp’s words —“ What would Miss Hepzibah say ! ” 

“ Have you had bad news, Helen ? ” asked Aunt 
Jop, one day, watching my tell-tale face as I read a 
letter from home. 

“ Yes, aunt, my father writes me that he shall ex¬ 
pect me home day after to-morrow.” Her face 
clouded too, as she read the letter I handed her; my 
father wrote : “ The younger children need you; they 
miss their play-fellow.” For the first time, I think, 
I began to feel that I owed some duty to others. 
Manifestly it was my duty to go home. I made a 
clean breast of it to my aunt, telling her how far 
from happy my childhood had been, but ending, with 
the tone of a martyr, that I felt it my duty to com¬ 
ply at once with my father’s request. 

“ Yes, child, I fear it must be so ; but I do not 
want to part with you ; I should like to keep you 
always. You are my sunshine.” 

“ Oh, Aunt Jop ! ” I said, throwing my arms about 
her neck impulsively, and the embrace was not re¬ 
pelled, “ I was never so happy or so good before in 
my life ! What have you not done for me ! ” and I 
sobbed out on her shoulder all the pent-up tears of 
many months. 

III. 

“I told you her Aunt Jop would take some of 
the nonsense out of her,” said Miss Sharp, in my 


presence, to my father, a few days after my return 
home. I was really trying hard to practice the les¬ 
sons of self-examination and self-control taught me 
by my dear Aunt Jop, and one salutary result of my 
self-study was the conviction that in the years gone 
by I had been a most disagreeable, impertinent and 
difficult child to manage, and a doubt as to whether, 
in our frequent dissensions, Miss Hepzibah had 
been the only one to blame. So I honestly endeav¬ 
ored to be on friendly terms with my unloved 
duenna, and to curb my impetuous tongue ; but now 
the old spirit rose within me hot and rebellious, and 
it was hard to keep back the words that came so 
readily to my lips, which, if spoken, would have been 
these : “ I wish, then, she would take some of the 

worse than nonsense out of you , you trial of my 
life ! ” 

How I missed my grand-aunt’s conversation—her 
wit, her refinement, her quickness of apprehension 
—and how commonplace and vulgar seemed this 
other woman in comparison. Imagine my loyal 
Aunt Jop making such a speech as the following, 
that came in spiteful tones from Miss Hepzibah’s 
lips, in my hearing one day, though intended only 
for the ears of our maid-of-all-work : “ I guess she 

was glad enough to get the hussy off her hands 
when her father sent for her to come home.” How¬ 
ever, in spite of all these vexations, I was daily becom¬ 
ing more of a power in our home ; and a letter from 
Aunt Jop would always arrive when I most needed 
her wise counsels to strengthen my failing resolu¬ 
tions for good, and her kind words to cheer me and 
give some color to my monotonous life. Three 
years of this kind of existence went by, during which, 
as Miss Hepzibah would say, I had had “ chances” 
for settling myself advantageously in a home of my 
own. Much to her disgust, I had allowed these 
“ chances” to slip by, and in a recent instance to the 
evident disappointment of my father. 

I gathered from remarks dropped from time to 
time that his affairs were somewhat involved, and 
he was anxious to have me “off his hands,” as I 
said to myself in moments of more than usual bitter¬ 
ness. Miss Sharp was an “ old man of the sea,” of 
whom he had not the moral courage to rid himself; 
but I was marriageable. My brothers and sisters 
were quickly following in my steps, and it was 
desirable that one of us at least should speedily be 
provided for. 

The son of a rich millionaire now loomed up in 
our horizon, and I knew from signs in our family 
heavens that my father was looking forward to our 
meeting with as much interest as any match-making 
mamma. To me, the idea was exceedingly repellent 
that every new masculine acquaintance should be 
regarded in the light of a husband. Later, I learned 
that our parents, who were friends, had broached 
the subject of an alliance between the two families 
in a recent correspondence, and I heard allusions 
made to a business visit my father was expecting 





402 


Treasury of Tales . 


from the son. My suspicions of designs involving 
my future were vague, but uncomfortable. How I 
blessed my dear Aunt Jop, who at this critical junc¬ 
ture sent for me to visit her again. It seems her 
will was not to be gainsaid, and yet I could see that 
my father was annoyed. 

“Yes, I suppose you must go, Helen ; yet I wish 
the invitation had come any other time than now. 
However, you can return home on short notice.” 

I had never seen my Aunt Jop show more unmistak¬ 
able signs of pleasure than when I arrived the sec¬ 
ond time at her house ; and as for myself, I was 
never happier. 

I was a little disappointed, at first, to find a young 
man domiciled in the family, but soon became rec¬ 
onciled when I saw the hearty comradeship between 
him and my aunt, and learned that he was the 
nephew (of her husband) of whom I had heard her 
speak as being like a son to her. 

“ You did not say he was to be with you now,” I 
remarked rather deprecatingly, to my aunt. 

“ I did not myself know that he was coming till 
after I wrote you, but you will not find him dis¬ 
agreeable. ” 

Indeed he was a plain, honest, sensible fellow, 
with eyes as true as steel, and a good manly figure 
and carriage ; and if he was poor, as I somehow in¬ 
ferred, it was no detraction from his merits in my 
eyes. We made a very harmonious trio, Harry, Aunt 
Jop and I, for, insensibly, we young people soon be¬ 
came “ Harry and Helen” to each other. Together 
we visited the kennels and stables; my favorites 
were all there, and had met me with glad recogni¬ 
tion. We had horseback rides, games of croquet, 
and Aunt Jop would often depute us to take the old 
buggy and dispense goodies to her poor. 

“A benevolent drive to-day, Aunt Jop?” Harry 
would say. 

From rides we would go to books—from prose to 
poetry ; and found we had similar tastes in many 
things, though we had our differences, too ; and 
often, when we would get to disputing so warmly 
over the pronunciation of some word that, to an ob¬ 
server we would look as though about to hurl our 
respective dictionaries at each other, would come 
from the depths of Aunt Jop’s easy chair : 

“ Stop quarrelling, children ! ” 

“ Are you very poor, Harry ? ” I asked, one day, 
as we seemed to fall into more than usually confi¬ 
dential talk, riding side by side through a shady 
lane. 

“ No strong, able-bodied young man like myself, 
who can work, ought to feel poor,” said Harry, 
“and,” with a sudden softening of the voice, and a 
glance of the eye that made my own fall, and 
brought the quick color to my cheek, “ I should 
feel rich indeed if I could win the love of a true¬ 
hearted girl I know”— He paused abruptly, and a 
sudden silence fell between us. Somehow, it gave 
me pain to hear about “that true-hearted girl.” 

“ What a bold hand your correspondent writes,” 


said Harry to me rather crossly that afternoon, as 
he handed me two or three letters. 

“ Yes, Frank ” (my sister) “ does write a large 
hand, but I don’t see why you should criticise it so 
spitefully.” 

One of my letters was from my father and con¬ 
tained a peremptory request for me to go home the 
next day but one—as a visitor was expected, and 
my presence was needed. “ I know what that 
means ! they have laid their train. Aunt Jop ! the 
millionaire is to be brought before the footlights, 
but I will not be the million-//^>^. I will never 
marry him, never ! An honest poor man, with 
energy and brain, and good common-sense, I 
would marry, if—if—I cared for him, and he cared 
for me, but a ?nillionaire with*??// love, never, never! ” 

“ Why, what’s up ? ” asked Harry, entering the 
room just then and catching the last words ; and 
without waiting for a reply, going on to say that he 
must take the next train for home, as his father had 
just telegraphed him to do so. 

It seemed as though half the house had gone with 
Harry; and yet how short a time before my aunt 
had been all in all to me ! 

When I rebelled against my cruel summons home, 
and declared I would not go, Aunt Jop said she was 
sorry, but saw no help for it. Was she, too, taking 
sides against me ? 

I had been at home only a day or two when I 
knew from the ringing of the door-bell, succeeded 
by certain ominous sounds in the direction of my 
father’s library, that there had been an arrival, and 
that arrival concerned my peace of mind. Presently 
my father came into the sitting-room and said : 
“ Helen, Mr. Ruthven is in the library and has in¬ 
quired for you.” “Is he—is he the millionairel ” I 
said, curling my lip sarcastically. (Miss Hepzibah 
was fond of talking about the millionaire , rolling the 
word like a sweet morsel under her tongue.) “ He 
is,” said my father, sternly ; “ and I wish you to treat 
him courteously.” 

“ I shall never marry him,” was my passionate 
response ; “and therefore I do not wish to see him.” 

“ Helen, there is no need to refuse an offer before 
it is made. Will you see your visitor, or shall I tell 
him your callers are in the habit of making matri¬ 
monial proposals to you, and therefore you are 
afraid to see him ? ” 

This form of persuasion was too much for my 
powers of resistance, and I went to the library, with 
head erect and flashing eyes, saying mental Noes all 
the way. I opened the door and saw— Harry! 
My face must have told volumes of pleasure, for 
when I exclaimed with astonishment, “Why, Harry, 
what are you doing here ? ” he opened his arms 
wide, and clasped me to his heart before I well 
knew how it all came about. 

“ I came to ask you to marry me ! ” 

“ And that other honest, true-hearted girl ? ” 

“ I will show you her picture ; ”—and he led me to 
a mirror. 





Roger Motivin's Burial. 


403 



HOGK^ MALVIN’S BURIAL. 

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

O NE of the few incidents of Indian warfare 
naturally susceptible of the moonlight of ro¬ 
mance was that expedition undertaken for 
the defence of the frontiers in the year 1725, which 
resulted in the well-remembered “ Lovell’s Fight.” 
Imagination, by casting certain circumstances judi¬ 
ciously into the shade, may see much to admire in 
the heroism of a little band who gave battle to twice 
their number in the heart of the enemy’s country. 
The open bravery displayed by both parties was in 
accordance with civilized ideas of valor, and chivalry 
itself might not blush to record the deeds of one or 
two individuals. The battle, though so fatal to 
those who fought, was not unfortunate in its conse¬ 
quences to the country ; for it broke the strength of 
a tribe, and conduced to the peace which subsisted 
during several ensuing years. History and tradi¬ 
tion are unusually minute in their memorials of this 
affair ; and the captain of a scouting party of fron¬ 
tier-men has acquired as actual a military renown 
as many a victorious leader of thousands. Some of 
the incidents contained in the following pages will 
be recognized, notwithstanding the substitution of 
fictitious names, by such as have heard from old 
men’s lips the fate of the few combatants who were 
in a condition to retreat after “ Lovell’s Fight.” 

j)c * * 4 : 

The early sunbeams hovered cheerfully upon the 
tree-tops, beneath which two weary and wounded 
men had stretched their limbs the night before. 
Their bed of withered oak-leaves was strewn upon a 
small level space at the foot of a rock situated near 
the summit of one of the gentle swells, by which the 
face of the country is there diversified. The mass 
of granite, rearing its smooth, flat surface fifteen or 
twenty feet above their heads, was not unlike a gi¬ 
gantic grave-stone, upon which the veins seemed to 
form an inscription in forgotten characters. On a 
tract of several acres around this rock, oaks and 
other hard-wood trees had supplied the place of the 
pines which were the usual growth of the land, and 
a young and vigorous sapling stood close beside the 
travellers. 

The severe wound of the elder man had probably 


deprived him of sleep ; for, so soon as the first 
ray of sunshine rested on the top of the highest 
tree, he reared himself painfully from his recumbent 
posture, and sat erect. The deep lines of his coun¬ 
tenance, and the scattered gray of his hair, marked 
him as past the middle age ; but his muscular frame 
would, but for the effects of his wound, have been 
as capable of sustaining fatigue as in the early vigor 
of life. Languor and exhaustion now sat upon his 
haggard features, and the despairing glance which 
he sent forward through the depths of the forest, 
proved his own conviction that his pilgrimage was 
at an end. He next turned his eyes to the compan¬ 
ion who reclined by his side. The youth, for he 
had scarcely attained the years of manhood, lay, 
with his head upon his arm, in the embrace of an 
unquiet sleep, which a thrill of pain from his 
wounds seemed each moment on the point of break¬ 
ing. His right hand grasped a musket, and, to 
judge from the violent action of his features, his 
slumbers were bringing back a vision of the conflict, 
of which he was one of the few survivors. A shout— 
deep and loud to his dreaming fancy—found its way 
in an imperfect murmur to his lips, and, starting 
even at the slight sound of his own voice, he sud¬ 
denly awoke. The first act of reviving recollection 
was to make anxious inquiries respecting the con¬ 
dition of his wounded fellow-traveller. The latter 
shook his head. 

“ Reuben, my boy,” said he, “ this rock, beneath 
which we sit, will serve for an old hunter’s grave¬ 
stone. There is many and many a long mile of 
howling wilderness before us yet; nor would it avail 
me anything if the smoke of my own chimney were 
but on the other side of that swell of land. The In¬ 
dian bullet was deadlier than I thought.” 

“You are weary with our three days’ travel,” replied 
the youth, “ and a little longer rest will recruit you. 
Sit you here, while I search the woods for the herbs 
and roots that must be our sustenance ; and having 
eaten, you shall lean on me, and we will turn our 
faces homeward. I doubt not that with my help 
you can attain to some one of the frontier garrisons.” 

“There is not two days’ life in me, Reuben,” said 
the other calmly, “ and I will no longer burthen you 
with my useless body, when you can scarcely sup¬ 
port your own. Your wounds are deep, and your 






















































404 


Treasury of Tales. 


strength is failing fast: yet, if you hasten onward 
alone, you may be preserved. For me there is no 
hope ; and I will await death here.” 

“ If it must be so, I will remain and watch by 
you,” said Reuben, resolutely. 

“ No, my son, no,” rejoined his companion. “ Let 
the wish of a dying man have weight with you ; give 
me one grasp of your hand and get you hence. 
Think you that my last moments will be eased by 
the thought that I leave you to die a more lingering 
death ? I have loved you like a father, Reuben, and, 
at a time like this, I should have something of a 
father’s authority. I charge you to be gone that I 
may die in peace.” 

“And because you have been a father to me, 
should I therefore leave you to perish, and to lie 
unburied in the wilderness ? ” exclaimed the youth. 
“No; if your end be in truth approaching, I will 
watch by you, and receive your parting words. I 
will dig a grave here by the rock, in which, if my 
weakness overcome me, we will rest together ; or, 
if Heaven gives me strength, I will seek my way 
home.” 

“ In the cities, and wherever men dwell,” replied 
the other, “ they bury their dead in the earth ; they 
hide them from the sight of the living ; but here, 
where no step may pass perhaps for a hundred 
years, wherefore should I not rest beneath the open 
sky, covered only by the oak-leaves, wffien the au¬ 
tumn winds shall strew them ? And for a monument, 
here is this gray rock, on which my dying hand shall 
carve the name of Roger Malvin ; and the traveller 
in days to come will know that here sleeps a hunter 
and a warrior. Tarry not, then, for a folly like this, 
but hasten away, if not for your own sake, for hers 
who will else be desolate.” 

Malvin spoke the last few words in a faltering 
voice, and their effect upon his companion was 
strongly visible. They reminded him that there 
were other and less questionable duties than that 
of sharing the fate of a man whom his death could 
not benefit. Nor can it be affirmed that no selfish 
feeling strove to enter Reuben’s heart, though the 
consciousness made him more earnestly resist his 
companion’s entreaties. 

“ How terrible, to wait the slow approach of death 
in this solitude ! ” exclaimed he. “ A brave man does 
not shrink in the battle, and, when friends stand round 
the bed, even women may die composedly; but 
here-” 

“ I shall not shrink, even here, Reuben Bourne,” 
interrupted Malvin ; “ I am a man of no weak heart; 
and, if I were, there is a surer support than that of 
earthly friends. You are young, and life is dear to 
you. Your last moments will need comfort far 
more than mine ; and when you have laid me in the 
earth, and are alone, and night is settling on the 
forest, you will feel all the bitterness of the death 
that may now be escaped. But I will urge no self¬ 
ish motive to your generous nature. Leave me for 


my sake ; that, having said a prayer for your safety. 
I may have space to settle my account, undisturbed 
by worldly sorrows.” 

“And your daughter! How shall I dare to meet 
her eye ? ” exclaimed Reuben. “ She will ask the 
fate of her father, wffiose life I vowed to defend 
with my own. Must I tell her that he travelled 
three days’ march with me from the field of battle, 
and that then I left him to perish in the wilderness ? 
Were it not better to lie down and die by your side 
than to return safe, and say this to Dorcas ?” 

“Tell my daughter,” said Roger Malvin, “that, 
though yourself sore wounded, and weak, and weary, 
you led my tottering footsteps many a mile, and left 
me only at my earnest entreaty, because I would not 
have your blood upon my soul. Tell her, that 
through pain and danger you were faithful, and that, 
if your life-blood could have saved me, it would 
have flowed to its last drop. And tell her, that you 
will be something dearer than a father, and that my 
blessing is with you both, and that my dying eyes 
can see a long and pleasant path, in which you will 
journey together.” 

As Malvin spoke, he almost raised himself from 
the ground, and the energy of his concluding words 
seemed to fill the wild and lonely forest with a vision 
of happiness. But when he sank exhausted upon 
his bed of oak-leaves, the light which had kindled 
in Reuben’s eye was quenched. He felt as if it 
w T ere both sin and folly to think of happiness at 
such a moment. His companion watched his chang¬ 
ing countenance, and sought, with generous art, to 
wile him to his own good. 

“ Perhaps I deceive myself in regard to the time 
I have to live,” he resumed. “ It may be, that, with 
speedy assistance, I might recover of my wound. 
The foremost fugitives must, ere this, have carried 
tidings of our fatal battle to the frontiers, and par¬ 
ties will be out to succor those in like condition with 
ourselves. Should you meet one of these and guide 
them hither, who can tell but that I may sit by my 
own fireside again ? ” 

A mournful smile strayed across the features of 
the dying man as he insinuated that unfounded 
hope ; which, however, was not without its effect on 
Reuben. No merely selfish motive, nor even the 
desolate condition of Dorcas, could have induced 
him to desert his companion at such a moment. 
But his wishes seized upon the thought that Mal- 
vin’s life might be preserved, and his sanguine nature 
heightened almost to certainty the remote possibil¬ 
ity of procuring human aid. 

“ Surely there is reason, weighty reason, to hope 
that friends are not far distant; ” he said, half aloud. 
“ There fled one coward, unwounded, in the begin¬ 
ning of the fight, and most probably he made good 
speed. Every true man on the frontier would 
shoulder his musket at the news ; and though no 
party may range so far into the woods as this, I shall, 
perhaps, encounter them in one day’s march. Coun- 






405 


Roger Malvin s Burial. 


sel me faithfully,” he added, turning to Malvin, in 
distrust of his own motives. “Were your situation 
mine, would you desert me while life remained ? ” 

“ It is now twenty years,” replied Roger Malvin, 
sighing, however, as he secretly acknowledged the 
wide dissimilarity between the two cases—“ it is now 
twenty years since I escaped, with one dear friend, 
from Indian captivity, near Montreal. We jour¬ 
neyed many days through the woods, till at length, 
overcome with hunger and weariness, my friend lay 
down, and besought me to leave him ; for he knew 
that, if I remained, we both must perish. And, with 
but little hope of obtaining succor, I heaped a pil¬ 
low of dry leaves beneath his head, and hastened 
on.” 

“ And did you return in time to save him ? ” asked 
Reuben, hanging on Malvin’s words, as if they were 
to be prophetic of his own success. 

“ I did,” answered the other ; “ I came upon the 
camp of a hunting party before sunset of the same 
day. I guided them to the spot where my comrade 
was expecting death ; and he is now a hale and 
hearty man, upon his own farm, far within the fron¬ 
tiers, while I lie wounded here, in the depths of the 
wilderness.” 

This example, powerful in effecting Reuben’s de¬ 
cision, was aided, unconsciously to himself, by the 
hidden strength of many an other motive. Roger 
Malvin perceived that the victory was nearly won. 

“ Now go, my son, and Heaven prosper you ! ” he 
said. “Turn not back with your friends when you 
meet them, lest your wounds and weariness over¬ 
come you ; but send hitherward two or three, that 
may be spared, to search for me. And believe me, 
Reuben, my heart will be lighter with every step you 
take toward home.” Yet there was perhaps a 
change, both in his countenance and voice, as he 
spoke thus; for, after all, it was a ghastly fate to 
be left expiring in the wilderness. 

Reuben Bourne, but half convinced that he was 
acting rightly, at length raised himself from the 
ground, and prepared for his departure. And first, 
though contrary to Malvin’s wishes, he collected a 
stock of roots and herbs, which had been their only 
food during the last two days. This useless supply 
he placed within reach of the dying man, for whom, 
also, he swept together a fresh bed of dry oak-leaves. 
Then, climbing to the summit of the rock, which on 
one side was rough and broken, he bent the oak¬ 
sapling downwards and bound his handkerchief to 
the topmost branch. This precaution was not un¬ 
necessary, to direct any who might come in search 
of Malvin ; for every part of the rock, except its 
broad, smooth front, was concealed, at a little dis¬ 
tance, by the dense undergrowth of the forest. The 
handkerchief had been the bandage of a wound upon 
Reuben’s arm ; and, as he bound it to the tree, he 
vowed, by the blood that stained it, that he would 
return, either to save his companion’s life, or to lay 
his body in the grave. He then descended, and 


stood with downcast eyes to receive Roger Malvin’s 
parting words. 

The experience of the latter suggested much and 
minute advice, respecting the youth’s journey 
through the trackless forest. Upon this subject he 
spoke with calm earnestness, as if he were sending 
Reuben to the battle or the chase, while he himself 
remained secure at home ; and not as if the human 
countenance that was about to leave him were the 
last he would ever behold. But his firmness was 
shaken before he concluded. 

“ Carry my blessing to Dorcas, and say that my 
last prayer shall be for her and you. Bid her have 
no hard thoughts because you left me here”—Reu¬ 
ben’s heart smote him—“ for that your life would not 
have weighed with you, if its sacrifice could have 
done me good. She will marry you, after she has 
mourned a little while for her father ; and Heaven 
grant you long and happy days ! and may your chil¬ 
dren’s children stand round your death-bed ! And, 
Reuben,” added he, as the weakness of mortality 
made its way at last, “ return when your wounds 
are healed and your weariness refreshed, return to 
this wild rock, and lay my bones in the grave, and 
say a prayer over them.” 

An almost superstitious regard, arising perhaps 
from the customs of the Indians, whose war was with 
the dead as well as the living, was paid by the fron¬ 
tier inhabitants to the rites of sepulture; and there 
are many instances of the sacrifice of life in the at¬ 
tempt to bury those who had fallen by the “ sword of 
the wilderness.” Reuben, therefore, felt the full 
importance of the promise, which he most solemnly 
made, to return, and perform Roger Malvin’s obse¬ 
quies. It was remarkable that the latter, speaking 
his whole heart in his parting words, no longer en¬ 
deavored to pursuade the youth that even the 
speediest succor might avail to the preservation of 
his life. Reuben was internally convinced that he 
should see Malvin’s living face no more. His gen¬ 
erous nature would fain have delayed him, at what¬ 
ever risk, till the dying scene were past; but the de¬ 
sire of existence and the hope of happiness had 
strengthened in his heart, and he was unable to re¬ 
sist them. 

“ It is enough,” said Roger Malvin, having lis¬ 
tened to Reuben’s promise. “ Go, and God speed 
you.” 

The youth pressed his hand in silence, turned, 
and was departing. His slow and faltering steps, 
however, had borne him but a little way, before Mal¬ 
vin’s voice recalled him. 

“ Reuben, Reuben,” said he faintly ; and Reuben 
returned and knelt down by the dying man. 

“ Raise me, and let me lean against the rock,” 
was his last request. “ My face shall be turned to¬ 
ward home, and I shall see you a moment longer, as 
you pass among the trees.” 

Reuben, having made the desired alteration in his 
companion’s posture, again began his solitary pil- 




406 


Treasury of Tales. 


grimage. He walked more hastily at first than was 
consistent with his strength ; for a sort of guilty 
feeling, which sometimes torments men in their most 
justifiable acts, caused him to seek concealment from 
Malvin’s eyes. But, after he had trodden far upon 
the rustling forest leaves, he crept back, impelled by 
a wild and painful curiosity, and, sheltered by the 
earthy roots of an uptorn tree, gazed earnestly at the 
desolate man. The morning sun was unclouded, 
and the trees and shrubs imbibed the sweet air of 
the month of May ; yet there seemed a gloom on 
Nature’s face, as if she sympathized with mortal 
pain and sorrow. Roger Malvin’s hands were up¬ 
lifted in a fervent prayer, some of the words of which 
stole through the stillness of the woods, and entered 
Reuben’s heart, torturing it with an unutterable 
pang. They were the broken accents of a petition 
for his own happiness and that of Dorcas ; and, as 
the youth listened, conscience, or something in its 
similitude, pleaded strongly with him to return and 
lie down again by the rock. He felt how hard was 
the doom of the kind and generous being whom he 
had deserted in his extremity. Death would come, 
like the slow approach of a corpse, stealing gradually 
toward him through the forest, and showing its ghastly 
and motionless features froin behind a nearer, and yet 
a nearer tree. But such must have been Reuben’s 
own fate, had he tarried another sunset; and who 
shall impute blame to him, if he shrank from so use¬ 
less a sacrifice ? As he gave a parting look, a 
breeze waved the little banner upon the sapling-oak, 
and reminded Reuben of his vow. 

Many circumstances contributed to retard the 
wounded traveller in his way to the frontiers. On 
the second day, the clouds gathering densely over 
the sky precluded the possibility of regulating his 
course by the position of the sun ; and he knew not 
but that every effort of his almost exhausted 
strength was removing him farther from the home 
he sought. His scanty sustenance was supplied by 
the berries and other spontaneous products of the 
forest. Herds of deer, it is true, sometimes bounded 
past him, and partridges frequently whirred up be¬ 
fore his footsteps ; but his ammunition had been 
expended in the fight, and he had no means of slay¬ 
ing them. His wounds, irritated by the constant ex¬ 
ertion in which lay the only hope of life, wore away 
his strength, and at intervals confused his reason. 
But, even in the wanderings of intellect, Reuben’s 
young heart clung strongly to existence, and it was 
only through absolute incapacity of motion that he 
at last sank down beneath a tree, compelled there to 
await death. 

In this situation he was discovered by a party, 
who, upon the first intelligence of the fight, had been 
dispatched to the relief of the survivors. They con¬ 
veyed him to the nearest settlement, which chanced 
to be that of his own residence. 

Dorcas, in the simplicity of the olden time, 


watched by the bed-side of her wounded lover, and 
administered all those comforts that are in the sole 
gift of woman’s heart and hand. During several 
days, Reuben’s recollection strayed drowsily among 
the perils and hardships through which he had 
passed, and he was incapable of returning definite 
answers to the inquiries, with which many were 
eager to harass him. No authentic particulars of the 
battle had yet been circulated ; nor could mothers, 
wives, and children tell whether their loved ones 
were detained by captivity, or by the stronger chain 
of death. Dorcas nourished her apprehensions in 
silence, till one afternoon, -when Reuben awoke from 
an unquiet sleep, and seemed to recognize her more 
perfectly than at any previous time. She saw that 
his intellect had become composed, and she could 
no longer restrain her filial anxiety. 

“ My father, Reuben ?” she began ; but the change 
in her lover’s countenance made her pause. 

The youth shrank, as if with a bitter pain, and the 
blood gushed vividly into his wan and hollow cheeks. 
His first impulse was to cover his face ; but, appar¬ 
ently with a desperate effort, he half raised himself, 
and spoke vehemently, defending himself against an 
imaginary accusation. 

“Your father was sore wounded in the battle, Dor¬ 
cas, and he bade me not burthen myself with him, 
but only to lead him to the lake-side, that he might 
quench his thirst and die. But I would not desert 
the old man in his extremity, and, though bleeding 
myself, I supported him; I gave him half my 
strength, and led him away with me. For three 
days we journeyed on together, and your father was 
sustained beyond my hopes ; but, awaking at sun¬ 
rise on the fourth day, I found him faint and ex¬ 
hausted,—he was unable to proceed,—his life had 
ebbed away fast,—and—” 

“ He died ! ” exclaimed Dorcas, faintly. 

Reuben felt it impossible to acknowledge that his 
selfish love of life had hurried him away before her 
father’s fate was decided. He spoke not; he only 
bowed his head; and, between shame and exhaus¬ 
tion, sank back and hid his face in the pillow. Dor¬ 
cas wept, when her fears were thus confirmed ; but 
the shock, as it had been long anticipated, was on 
that account the less violent. 

“You dug a grave for my poor father in the wil¬ 
derness, Reuben?” was the question by which her 
filial piety manifested itself. 

“ My hands were weak, but I did what I could,” 
replied the youth in a smothered tone. “ There 
stands a noble tomb-stone above his head, and I 
would to Heaven I slept as soundly as he ! ” 

Dorcas, perceiving the wildness of his latter words, 
inquired no farther at that time ; but her heart found 
ease in the thought that Roger Malvin had not 
lacked such funeral rites as it was possible to be¬ 
stow. The tale of Reuben’s courage and fidelity lost 
nothing when she communicated it to her friends ; 
and the poor youth, tottering from his sick chamber 





Roger Malviris Burial. 


to breathe the sunny air, experienced from every 
tongue the miserable and humiliating torture of un¬ 
merited praise. All acknowledged that he might 
worthily demand the hand of the fair maiden, to 
whose father he had been “ faithful unto death ” ; 
and as my tale is not of love, it shall suffice to say, 
that, in the space of two years, Reuben became the 
husband of Dorcas Malvin. During the marriage 
ceremony, the bride was covered with blushes, but 
the bridegroom’s face was pale. 

There was now in the breast of Reuben Bourne an 
incommunicable thought; something which he was 
to conceal most heedfully from her whom he most 
loved and trusted. He regretted, deeply and bit¬ 
terly, the moral cowardice that had restrained his 
words, when he was about to disclose the truth to Dor¬ 
cas ; but pride, the fear of losing her affection, the 
dread of universal scorn, forbade him to rectify this 
falsehood. He felt that, for leaving Roger Mal¬ 
vin, he deserved no censure. His presence, the 
gratuitous sacrifice of his own life, would have ad¬ 
ded only another, and a needless agony to the last 
moments of the dying man. But concealment had 
imparted to a justifiable act much of the secret ef¬ 
fect of guilt; and Reuben, while reason told him that 
he had done right, experienced, in no small degree, 
the mental horrors which punish the perpetrator of 
undiscovered crime. By a certain association of 
ideas, he at times almost imagined himself a mur¬ 
derer. For years, also, a thought would occasionally 
recur, which, though he perceived all its folly and 
extravagance, he had not power to banish from his 
mind ; it was a haunting and torturing fancy that 
his father-in-law was yet sitting at the foot of the 
rock, on the withered forest-leaves, alive, and await¬ 
ing his pledged assistance. These mental decep¬ 
tions, however, came and went, nor did he ever mis¬ 
take them for realities; but in the calmest and 
clearest moods of his mind he was conscious that 
he had a deep vow unredeemed, and that an un¬ 
buried corpse was calling to him out of the wilder¬ 
ness. Yet such was the consequence of his prevar¬ 
ication that he could not obey the call. It was 
now too late to require the assistance of Roger Mal- 
vin’s friends in performing his long-deferred sepul¬ 
ture ; and superstitious fears, of which none were 
more susceptible than the people of the outward set¬ 
tlements, forbade Reuben to go alone. Neither did 
he know where, in the pathless and illimitable forest, 
to seek that smooth and lettered rock, at the base of 
which the body lay ; his remembrance of every por¬ 
tion of his travel thence was indistinct, and the lat¬ 
ter part had left no impression upon his mind. 
There was, however, a continual impulse, a voice 
audible only to himself, commanding him to go forth 
and redeem his vow ; and he had a strange impres¬ 
sion that, were he to make the trial, he would be led 
straight to Malvin’s bones. But, year after year, that 
summons, unheard but felt, was disobeyed. His 
one secret thought became like a chain, binding down 


407 

his spirit, and, like a serpent, gnawing into his heart ; 
and he was transformed into a sad and downcast, 
yet irritable man. 

In the course of a few years after their marriage 
changes began to be visible in the external prosper¬ 
ity of Reuben and Dorcas. The only riches of the 
former had been his stout heart and strong arm ; 
but the latter, her father’s sole heiress, had made 
her husband master of a farm, under older cultiva¬ 
tion, larger, and better stocked than most of the 
frontier establishments. Reuben Bourne, however, 
was a neglectful husband ; and while the lands of 
the other settlers became annually more fruitful, 
his deteriorated in the same proportion. The dis¬ 
couragements to agriculture were greatly lessened by 
the cessation of Indian war, during which men held 
the plough in one hand and the musket in the other ; 
and were fortunate if the products of their danger¬ 
ous labor were not destroyed, either in the field or 
in the barn, by the savage enemy. But Reuben did 
not profit by the altered condition of the country; 
nor can it be denied that his intervals of industrious 
attention to his affairs were but scantily rewarded 
with success. The irritability by which he had re¬ 
cently become distinguished was another cause of 
his declining prosperity, as it occasioned frequent 
quarrels, in his unavoidable intercourse with the 
neighboring settlers. The results of these were in¬ 
numerable law-suits ; for the people of New Eng¬ 
land, in the earliest stages and wildest circumstances 
of the country, adopted, whenever attainable, the 
legal mode of deciding their differences. To be 
brief, the world did not go well with Reuben Bourne, 
and, though not till many years after his marriage, 
he was finally a ruined man, with but one remaining 
expedient against the evil fate that had pursued him. 
He was to throw sunlight into some deep recess of 
the forest, and seek subsistence from the virgin 
bosom of the wilderness. 

The only child of Reuben and Dorcas was a son, 
now arrived at the age of fifteen years, beautiful in 
youth, and giving promise of a glorious manhood. 
He was peculiarly qualified for, and already began 
to excel in, the wild accomplishments of frontier life. 
His foot was fleet, his aim true, his apprehension 
quick, his heart glad and high ; and all, who antic¬ 
ipated the return of Indian war, spoke of Cyrus 
Bourne as a future leader in the land. The boy was 
loved by his father with a deep and silent strength, 
as if whatever was good and happy in his own nat¬ 
ure had been transferred to his child, carrying his 
affections with it. Even Dorcas, though loving and 
beloved, was far less dear to him ; for Reuben’s se¬ 
cret thoughts and insulated emotions had gradually 
made him a selfish man ; and he could no longer 
love deeply, except where he saw, or imagined, some 
reflection or likeness of his own mind. In Cyrus 
he recognized what he had himself been in other 
days ; and at intervals he seemed to partake of the 
boy’s spirit, and to be revived with a fresh and 




4 oS 


Treasury of Tales. 


happy life. Reuben was accompanied by his son in 
the expedition for the purpose of selecting a tract 
of land and felling and burning the timber, which 
necessarily preceded the removal of the household 
gods. Two months of autumn were thus occupied ; 
after which Reuben Bourne and his young hunter 
returned to spend their last winter in the settle¬ 
ments. 

It was early in the month of May that the little 
family snapped asunder whatever tendrils of affec¬ 
tions had clung to inanimate objects, and bade fare¬ 
well to the few who, in the blight of fortune, called 
themselves their friends. The sadness of the part¬ 
ing moment had, to each of the pilgrims, its peculiar 
alleviations. Reuben, a moody man, and misan¬ 
thropic because unhappy, strode onward, with his 
usual stern brow and downcast eye, feeling few re¬ 
grets, and disdaining to acknowledge any. Dorcas, 
while she wept abundantly over the broken ties by 
which her-simple and affectionate nature had bound 
itself to everything, felt that the inhabitants of her 
inmost heart moved on with her, and that all else 
would be supplied wherever she might go. And the 
boy dashed one tear-drop from his eye, and thought 
of the adventurous pleasures of the untrodden 
forest. Oh ! who, in the enthusiasm of a day-dream, 
has not wished that he were a wanderer in a world 
of summer wilderness, with one fair and gentle being 
hanging lightly on his arm ? In youth, his free and 
exulting step would know no barrier but the rolling 
ocean of the snow-topt mountains ; calmer manhood 
would choose a home where nature had strewn a 
double wealth, in the vale of some transparent 
stream ; and when hoary age, after long, long years 
of that pure life, stole on and found him there, it 
would find him the father of a race, the patriarch of 
a people, the founder of a mighty nation yet to be. 
When death, like the sweet sleep which we welcome 
after a day of happiness, came over him, his far de¬ 
scendants would mourn over the venerated dust. 
Enveloped by tradition in mysterious attributes, the 
men of future generations would call him godlike ; 
and remote posterity would see him standing, dimly 
glorious, far up the valley of a hundred centuries ! 

The tangled and gloomy forest, through which 
the personages of my tale were wandering, differed 
widely from the dreamer’s Land of Fantasie ; yet 
there was something in their way of life that Nature 
asserted as her own ; and the gnawing cares, which 
went with them from the world, were all that now 
obstructed their happiness. One stout and shaggy 
steed, the bearer of all their wealth, did not shrink 
from the added weight of Dorcas, although her 
hardy breeding sustained her, during the larger part 
of each day’s journey, by her husband’s side. Reu¬ 
ben and his son, their muskets on their shoulders 
and their axes slung behind them, kept an unwearied 
pace, each watching with a hunter’s eye for the 
game that supplied their food. When hunger bade, 


they halted and prepared their meal on the bank of 
some unpolluted forest-brook, which, as they knelt 
down with thirsty lips to drink, murmured a sweet 
unwillingness, like a maiden, at love’s first kiss. They 
slept beneath a hut of branches, and awoke at the 
peep of light, refreshed for the toils of another day. 
Dorcas and the boy went on joyously, and even 
Reuben’s spirit shone at intervals with an outward 
gladness ; but inwardly there was a cold, cold sor¬ 
row, which he compared to the snow-drifts, lying 
deep in the glens and hollows of the rivulets, while 
the leaves were brightly green above. 

Cyrus Bourne was sufficiently skilled in the travel 
of the woods to observe that his father did not ad¬ 
here to the course they had pursued in their ex¬ 
pedition of the preceding autumn. They w T ere now 
keeping farther to the north, striking out more di¬ 
rectly from the settlements, and into a region of 
which savage beasts and savage men were as yet the 
sole possessors. The boy sometimes hinted his 
opinions upon the subject, and Reuben listened at¬ 
tentively, and once or twice altered the direction of 
their march in accordance with his son’s counsel. 
But having so done he seemed ill at ease. His 
quick and wandering glances were sent forward, ap¬ 
parently in search of enemies lurking behind the 
tree-trunks; and seeing nothing there, he would 
cast his eyes backward, as if in fear of some pursuer. 
Cyrus, perceiving that his father gradually resumed 
the old direction, forbore to interfere ; nor, though 
something began to weigh upon his heart, did his 
adventurous nature permit him to regret the in¬ 
creased length and the mystery of their way. 

On the afternoon of the fifth day they halted and 
made their simple encampment, nearly an hour be¬ 
fore sunset. The face of the country, for the last 
few miles, had been diversified by swells of land, re¬ 
sembling huge waves of a petrified sea ; and in one 
of the corresponding hollows, a wild and romantic 
spot, had the family reared their hut, and kindled 
their fire. There is something chilling, and yet 
heart-warming, in the thought of three, united by 
strong bands of love and insulated from all that 
breathe beside. The dark and gloomy pines looked 
down upon them, and, as the wind swept through 
their tops, a pitying sound was heard in the forest; 
or did those old trees groan, in fear that men were 
come to lay the axe to their roots at last ? Reuben, 
and his son, while Dorcas made ready their meal, 
proposed to wander out in search of game, of which 
that day’s march had afforded no supply. The boy, 
promising not to quit the vicinity of the encamp¬ 
ment, bounded off with a step as light and elastic as 
that of the deer he hoped to slay ; while his father, 
feeling a transient happiness as he gazed after him, 
was about to pursue an opposite direction. Dorcas, 
in the meanwhile, had seated herself near their fire 
of fallen branches, upon the moss-grown and mould¬ 
ering trunk of a tree, uprooted years before. Her 
employment, diversified by an occasional glance at 





Roger Malvin's Burial. 


409 


the pot, now beginning to simmer over the blaze, 
was the perusal of the current year’s Massachusetts 
Almanac, which, with the exception of an old black- 
letter Bible, comprised all the literary wealth of the 
family. None pay a greater regard to arbitrary divis¬ 
ions of time than those who are excluded from so¬ 
ciety ; and Dorcas mentioned, as if the information 
were of importance, that it was now the twelfth of 
May. Her husband started. 

“The twelfth of May ! I should remember it 
well,” muttered he, while many thoughts*occasioned 
a momentary confusion in his mind. “ Where am 
I ? Whither am I wandering ? Where did I leave 
him ? ” 

Dorcas, too well accustomed to her husband’s 
wayward moods to note any peculiarity of demeanor, 
now laid aside the Almanac, and addressed him in 
that mournful tone which the tender-hearted appro¬ 
priate to griefs long cold and dead. 

“ It was near this time of the month, eighteen 
years ago, that my poor father left this world for a 
better. He had a kind arm to hold his head, and 
a kind voice to cheer him, Reuben, in his last 
moments ; and the thought of the faithful care you 
took of him has comforted me many a time since. 
Oh ! death would have been awful to a solitary man, 
in a wild place like this ! ” 

“ Pray Heaven, Dorcas,” said Reuben, in a broken 
voice, “ pray Heaven, that neither of us three die 
solitary, and lie unburied, in this howling wilder¬ 
ness ! ” And he hastened away, leaving her to 
watch the fire, beneath the gloomy pines. 

Reuben Bourne’s rapid pace gradually slackened, 
as the pang, unintentionally inflicted by the words of 
Dorcas, became less acute. Many strange reflec¬ 
tions, however, thronged upon him ; and, straying 
onward, rather like a sleep-walker than a hunter, it 
was attributable to no care of his own that his de¬ 
vious course kept him in the vicinity of the encamp¬ 
ment. His steps were imperceptibly led almost in a 
circle, nor did he observe that he was on the verge 
of a tract of land heavily timbered, but not with 
pine trees. The place of the latter was here sup¬ 
plied by oaks and other of the harder woods ; and 
around their roots clustered a dense and bushy un¬ 
dergrowth, leaving, however, barren spaces between 
the trees, thick-strewn with withered leaves. When¬ 
ever the rustling of the branches or the creaking of 
the trunks made a sound, as if the forest were wak¬ 
ing from slumber, Reuben instinctively raised the 
musket that rested on his arm, and cast a quick, sharp 
glance on every side ; but, convinced by a partial ob¬ 
servation that no animal was near, he would again give 
himself up to his thoughts. He was musing on the 
strange influence that had led him away from his 
premeditated course, and so far into the depths of 
the wilderness. Unable to penetrate to the secret 
place of his soul, where his motives lay hidden, he 
believed that a supernatural voice had called him 
onward, and that a supernatural power had ob¬ 


structed his retreat. He trusted that it was Heav¬ 
en’s intent to afford him an opportunity of expiating 
his sin ; he hoped that he might find the bones, so 
long unburied ; and that, having laid the earth over 
them, peace would throw its sunlight into the sepul¬ 
chre of his heart. From these thoughts he was 
aroused by a rustling in the forest, at some distance 
from the spot to which he had wandered. Perceiv¬ 
ing the motion of some object behind a thick veil of 
undergrowth, he fired with the instinct of a hunter, 
and the aim of a practised marksman. A low moan, 
which told his success, and by which even animals 
can express their dying agony, w r as unheeded by 
Reuben Bourne. What were the recollections now 
breaking upon him ? 

The thicket into which Reuben had fired was near 
the summit of a swell of land, and was clustered 
around the base of a rock, which, in the shape and 
smoothness of one of its surfaces was not unlike a 
gigantic grave-stone. As if reflected in a mirror, its 
likeness was in Reuben’s memory. He even recog¬ 
nized the veins which seemed to form an inscription 
in forgotten characters ; everything remained the 
same, except that a thick covert of bushes 
shrouded the lower part of the rock, and would have 
hidden Roger Malvin, had he still been sitting there. 
Yet, in the next moment, Reuben’s eye was caught 
by another change that time had effected since he 
last stood where he was now standing again, behind 
the earthy roots of the uptorn tree. The sapling, to 
which he had bound the blood-stained symbol of his 
vow, had increased and strengthened into an oak, 
far indeed from its maturity, but with no mean spread 
of shadowy branches. There was one singularity ob¬ 
servable in this tree, which made Reuben tremble. 
Jlie middle and lower branches were in luxuriant 
life, and an excess of vegetation had fringed the 
trunk, almost to the ground ; but a blight had ap¬ 
parently stricken the upper part of the oak, and the 
very topmost bough was withered, sapless, and ut¬ 
terly dead. Reuben remembered how the little ban¬ 
ner had fluttered on that topmost bough, when it 
was green and lovely, eighteen years before. Whose 
guilt had blasted it ? 

Dorcas, after the departure of the two hunters, 
continued in her preparations for their evening re¬ 
past. Her sylvan table was the moss-covered trunk 
of a large fallen tree, on the broadest part of which 
she had spread a snow-white cloth, and arranged 
what were left of the bright pewter vessels that had 
been her pride in the settlements. It had a strange 
aspect—that one little spot of homely comfort in the 
desolate heart of Nature. The sunshine yet lin¬ 
gered upon the higher branches of the trees that 
grew on rising ground ; but the shades of evening 
had deepened in the hollow where the encamp¬ 
ment was made, and the fire-light began to redden 
as it gleamed up the tall trunks of the pines, or hov¬ 
ered on the dense and obscure mass of foliage that 





4io 


Treasury 


circled round the spot. The heart of Dorcas was 
not sad ; for she felt that it was better to journey in 
the wilderness, with two whom she loved, than to be 
a lonely woman in a crowd that cared not for her. 
As she busied herself in arranging seats of moulder¬ 
ing wood covered with leaves for Reuben and her 
son, her voice danced through the gloomy forest, in 
the measure of a song that she had learned in youth. 
The rude melody, the production of a bard who won 
no name, was descriptive of a winter evening in a 
frontier cottage, when, secured from savage inroad 
by the high-piled snow-drifts, the family rejoiced by 
their own fireside. The whole song possessed that 
nameless charm peculiar to unborrowed thought; but 
four continually recurring lines shone out from the 
rest, like the blaze of the hearth whose joys they cele¬ 
brated. Into them, working magic with a few sim¬ 
ple words, the poet had instilled the very essence of 
domestic love and household happiness, and they 
were poetry and picture joined in one. As Dorcas 
sang, the walls of her forsaken home seemed to en¬ 
circle her; she no longer saw the gloomy pines, nor 
heard the wind, which still, as she began each verse, 
sent a heavy breath through the branches, and died 
away in a hollow moan, from the burthen of the song. 
She was aroused by the report of a gun in the vicin¬ 
ity of the encampment; and either the sudden 
sound or her loneliness, by the glowing fire, caused 
her to tremble violently. The next moment, she 
laughed in the pride of a mother’s heart. 

“My beautiful young hunter ! my boy has slain a 
deer ! ” she exclaimed, recollecting that, in the direc¬ 
tion whence the shot proceeded, Cyrus had gone to 
the chase. 

She waited a reasonable time, to hear her son’s 
light step bounding over the rustling leaves, to tell 
of his success. But he did not immediately appear, 
and she sent her cheerful voice among the trees in 
search of him. 

“ Cyrus ! Cyrus ! ” 

His coming was still delayed, and she determined, 
as the report of the gun had apparently been very 
near, to seek for him in person. Her assistance, also, 
might be necessary in bringing home the venison, 
which she flattered herself he had obtained. She 
therefore set forward, directing her steps by the 
long-past sound, and singing as she went, in order 
that the boy might be aware of her approach and 
run to meet her. From behind the trunk of every 
tree, and from every hiding place in the thick foliage 
of the undergrowth, she hoped to discover the coun¬ 
tenance of her son, laughing with the sportive mis¬ 
chief that is born of affection. The sun was now 
beneath the horizon, and the light that came down 
among the trees was sufficiently dim to create many 
illusions in her expecting fancy. Several times she 
seemed indistinctly to see his face gazing out from 
among the leaves ; and once she imagined that he 
stood beckoning to her, at the base of a craggy 
rock. Keeping her eyes on this object, however, it 


of Tales. 

proved to be no more than the trunk of an oak, 
fringed to the very ground with little branches, one 
of which, thrust out farther than the rest, was shaken 
by the breeze. Making her way round the foot of 
the rock, she suddenly found herself close to her 
husband who had approached in another direction. 
Leaning upon the butt of his gun, the muzzle of 
which rested upon the withered leaves, he was ap¬ 
parently absorbed in the contemplation of some 
object at his feet. 

“ How is this, Reuben ? Have you slain the deer, 
and fallen asleep over him ? ” exclaimed Dorcas, 
laughing cheerfully, on her first slight observation 
of his posture and appearance. 

He stirred not, neither did he turn his eyes towards 
her ; and a cold shuddering fear, indefinite in its re¬ 
source and object, began to creep into her blood. 
She now perceived that her husband’s face was 
ghastly pale, and his features were rigid, as if incap¬ 
able of assuming any other expression than the 
strong despair which had hardened upon them. He 
gave not the slightest evidence that he was aware 
of her approach. 

“ For the love of Heaven, Reuben, speak to me ! ” 
cried Dorcas, and the strange sound of her own 
voice affrighted her even more than the dead silence. 

Her husband started, stared into her face, drew 
her to the front of the rock, and pointed with his 
finger. 

Oh ! there lay the boy asleep, but dreamless, 
upon the fallen forest-leaves! his cheek rested 
upon his arm, his curled locks were thrown back 
from his brow, his limbs were slightly relaxed. Had 
a sudden weariness overcome the youthful hunter ? 
Would his mother’s voice arouse him ? She knew 
that it was death. 

“ This broad rock is the grave-stone of your near 
kindred, Dorcas,” said her husband. “Your tears 
will fall at once over your father and your son.” 

She heard him not. With one wild shriek, that 
seemed to force its way from the sufferer’s inmost 
soul, she sank insensible by the side of her dead 
boy. At that moment the withered topmost bough 
of the oak loosened itself in the stilly air, and fell, 
in soft, light fragments upon the rock, upon the 
leaves, upon Reuben, upon his wife and child, and 
upon Roger Malvin’s bones. Then Reuben’s heart 
was stricken, and the tears gushed out like water 
from a rock. The vow that the wounded youth had 
made, the blighted man had come to redeem. His 
sin was expiated, the curse was gone from him ; and 
in the hour when he had shed blood dearer to him 
than his own, a prayer, the first for years, went up 
to Heaven from the lips of Reuben Bourne. 








Legal Metamorphoses. 


LEGAL METAMORPHOSES. 

A REMINISCENCE OF A POLICE OFFICER. 

BY CHARLES DICKENS. 

HE respectable agent of a rather eminent 
French house arrived one morning in great 
apparent distress at Scotland Yard, and in¬ 
formed the superintendent that he had just sustained 
a great, almost ruinous, loss in notes of the Bank 
of England and commercial bills of exchange, be¬ 
sides a considerable sum in gold. 

He had, it appeared, been absent in Paris about 
ten days, and on his return, but a few hours pre¬ 
viously, discovered that his iron chest had been 
completely rifled during his absence. False keys 
must have been used, as the empty chest was found 
locked, and no sign of violence could be observed. 
He handed in full written details of the property 
■carried off, the numbers of the notes, and every other 
essential particular. 

The first step taken was to ascertain if any of the 
notes had been tendered at the bank. Not one 
had been presented ; payment was of course stopped, 
and advertisements descriptive of the bills of 
exchange, as well as of the notes, were inserted 
in the evening and following morning papers. A 
day or two afterward a considerable reward was 
offered for such information as might lead to the 
apprehension of the offenders. No result followed ; 
and spite of the active exertions of the officers em¬ 
ployed, not the slightest clue could be obtained to 
the perpetrators of the robbery. The junior partner 
in the firm, M. Bellebon, in the mean time arrived 
in England, to assist in the investigation, and was 
naturally extremely urgent in his inquiries ; but the 
mystery which enveloped the affair remained im¬ 
penetrable. 

At last a letter, bearing the St. Martin le Grand 
postmark, was received by the agent, M. Alexandre 
le Breton, which contained an offer to surrender 
the whole of the plunder, with the exception of the 
gold, for the sum of one thousand pounds. The 
property which had been abstracted was more than 
ten times that sum, and had been destined by the 
French house to meet some heavy liabilities falling 
due in London very shortly. Le Breton had been 
ordered to deposit the whole amount to the account 
of the firm, and .had indeed been severely blamed 
for not having done so as he received the different 
notes and bills ; and it was on going to the chest 
immediately on his return from Paris, for the purpose 
of fulfilling the peremptory instructions he had re¬ 
ceived, that M. le Breton discovered the robbery. 

The letter went on to state that should the offer 
be acceded to, a mystically worded advertisement— 
of which a copy was inclosed—was to be inserted in 
the Times , and then a mode would be suggested 
for safely—in the interest of the thieves of course— 
carrying the agreement into effect. M. Bellebon 
was half inclined to close with this proposal, in order 


411 

to save the credit of the house, which would be de¬ 
stroyed unless its acceptances, now due in about 
fourteen days, could be met; and without the stolen 
moneys and bills of exchange, this was, he feared, 
impossible. The superintendent, to whom M. Belle¬ 
bon showed the letter, would not hear of compliance 
with such a demand, and threatened a prosecution 
for compounding felony if M. Bellebon persisted in 
doing so. 

The advertisement was, however, inserted, and an 
immediate reply directed that Le Breton, the agent, 
should present himself at the Old Manor-House, 
Green Lanes, Newington, unattended, at four o’clock 
on the following afternoon, bringing with him of 
course the stipulated sum in gold. It was added, 
that to prevent any possible treason ( trahison , the 
letter was written in French) Le Breton would find 
a note for him at the tavern, informing him of the 
spot—a solitary one, and far away from any place 
where an ambush could be concealed—where the 
business would be concluded, and to which he must 
proceed unaccompanied, and on foot. 

This proposal was certainly quite as ingenious as 
it was cool, and the chance of outwitting such cun¬ 
ning rascals seemed exceedingly doubtful. A very 
tolerable scheme was, however, hit upon, and M. le 
Breton proceeded at the appointed hour to the Old 
Manor-House. No letter or message had been left 
for him, and nobody obnoxious to the slightest sus¬ 
picion could be seen near or about the tavern. On 
the following day another missive arrived, which 
stated that the writer was quite aware of the trick 
which the police had intended playing him, and he 
assured M. Bellebon that such a line of conduct was 
as unwise as it would be fruitless, inasmuch as if 
“good faith” was not observed, the securities and 
notes would be inexorably destroyed or otherwise 
disposed of, and the house of Bellebon and Company 
be consequently exposed to the shame and ruin of 
bankruptcy. 

Just at this crisis of the affair I arrived in town 
and was welcomed by the superintendent. “ I have 
been wishing for your return,” said he, “in order to 
intrust you with a most tangled affair. You know 
French, too, which is fortunate ; for the gentleman 
who has been plundered understands little or no 
English.” 

He then related the foregoing particulars, with 
other apparently slight circumstances ; and after a 
long conversation with him, I retired to think the 
matter over, and decide upon the likeliest mode of 
action. After much cogitation, I determined to see M. 
Bellebon alonej and for this purpose I dispatched 
the waiter of a tavern adjacent to his lodgings with 
a note expressive of my wish to see him instantly 
on pressing business. He was at home, and imme¬ 
diately acceded to my request. I easily introduced 
myself ; and after about a quarter of an hour’s con¬ 
ference, said carelessly—for I saw he was too heed¬ 
less of speech, too quick and frank, to be intrusted 



I 





412 


Treasury 

with the dim suspicions which certain trifling indices 
had suggested to me—“ Is Monsieur le Breton at the 
office where the robbery was committed ? ” 

“ No : he is gone to Greenwich on business, and 
will not return till late in the evening. But if you 
wish to re-examine the place, I can of course enable 
you to do so.” 

“It will, I think, be advisable; and you will, if 
you please,” I added, as we emerged into the street, 
“ permit me to take you by the arm, in order that 
the official character of my visit may not be sus¬ 
pected by any one there.” 

He laughingly complied, and we arrived at the 
house arm in arm. We were admitted by an elderly 
woman ; and there was a young man—a moustached 
clerk—seated at a desk in an inner room writing. 
He eyed me for a moment, somewhat askance, I 
thought, but I gave him no opportunity for a distinct 
view of my features ; and *1 presently handed M. 
Bellebon a card on which I had contrived to write, 
unobserved, “Send away the clerk.” This was more 
naturally done than I anticipated ; and in answer to 
M. Bellebon’s glance of inquiry, I merely said that 
as I did not wish to be known there as a police- 
officer, it was essential that the minute search I was 
about to make should be without witnesses. He 
agreed ; and the woman was also sent away upon a 
distant errand. 

Every conceivable place did I ransack; every 
scrap of paper that had writing on it I eagerly pe¬ 
rused. At length the search was over, apparently 
without result. 

“You are quite sure, Monsieur Bellebon, as you 
informed the superintendent, that Monsieur le Bre¬ 
ton has no female relations or acquaintances in this 
country ?” 

“ Positive,” he replied. “ I have made the most 
explicit inquiries on the subject both of the clerk 
Dubarle and of the woman-servant.” 

Just then the clerk returned (out of breath with 
haste I noticed) and I took my leave without even 
now affording the young gentleman so clear a view 
of my face as he was evidently anxious to obtain. 

“No female acquaintance!” thought I,^as I re¬ 
entered the private room of the tavern I had left an 
hour before. “ From whom came, then, these scraps 
of perfumed note-paper I have found in his desk I 
wonder ? ” I sat down and endeavored to piece them 
out, but, after considerable trouble, satisfied myself 
that they were parts of different notes, and so small, 
unfortunately, as to contain nothing which sepa¬ 
rately afforded any information except that they 
were all written in one hand, and that a female one. 

About two hours after this I was sauntering along 
in the direction of Stoke-Newington, where I was 
desirous of making some inquiries as to another mat¬ 
ter, and had passed the Kingsland Gate a few hun¬ 
dred yards, when a small discolored printed hand¬ 
bill lying in a haberdasher’s shop-window arrested 
my attention. It ran thus :—“ Two Guineas Reward. 


of Tales. 

—Lost, an Italian greyhound. The tip of its tail 
has been chopped off, and it answers to the name of 
Fidele.” Underneath, the reader was told in writ¬ 
ing to “ Inquire within.” 

“Fidele ! ” I mentally exclaimed. “Any relation 
to M. le Breton’s fair correspondent’s Fidele, I won¬ 
der ? ” In a twinkling my pocket-book was out, and 
I reperused by the gas-light on one of the perfumed 
scraps of paper the following portion of a sentence, 
“ ma pauvre Fidele est per -” The bill, I ob¬ 

served, w r as dated nearly three weeks previously. I 
forthwith entered the shop, and pointing to the bill, 
said I knew a person who had found such a dog as 
was there advertised for. The woman at the count¬ 
er said she was glad to hear it, as the lady, formerly 
a customer of theirs, was much grieved at the ani¬ 
mal’s loss. 

“ What is the lady’s name ? ” I asked. 

“ I can’t rightly pronounce the name,” was the re¬ 
ply. “ It is French, I believe ; but here it is, with, 
the address, in the day-book, written by herself.” 

I eagerly read, “Madame Levasseur, Oak Cottage; 
about one mile on the road from Edmonton to South- 
gate.” The handwriting greatly resembled that on 
the scraps I had taken from M. le Breton’s desk; 
and the writer was French too ! Here were indica¬ 
tions of a trail which might lead to unhoped-for suc¬ 
cess, and I determined to follow' it up vigorously. 
After one or two other questions, I left the shop, 
promising to send the dog to the lady the next day. 

My business at Stoke-Newington was soon accom¬ 
plished. I then hastened westward to the establish¬ 
ment of a well-known dog fancier, and procured the 
loan, at a reasonable price, of an ugly Italian hound; 
the requisite loss of the tip of its tail was very speed¬ 
ily accomplished. 

I arrived at the lady’s residence about twelve 
o’clock on the following day, so thoroughly dis¬ 
guised as a vagabond Cockney dog-stealer, that my 
own wife, when I entered the breakfast parlor just 
previous to starting, screamed with alarm and sur¬ 
prise. The mistress of Oak Cottage was at home, 
but indisposed, and the servant said she would take 
the dog to her, though, if I w'ould take it out of the 
basket, she herself could tell me if it v T as Fidele or 
not. I replied that I w r ould only show the dog to 
the lady, and wrould not trust it out of my hands. 

This message v 7 as carried up stairs, and after wait¬ 
ing some time outside—for the woman, with natural 
precaution, considering my appearance, for the 
safety of the portable articles lying about, had closed 
the street-door in my face—I v^as re-admitted, de¬ 
sired to wipe my shoes carefully, and walk up. 

Madame Levasseur, a show r y-looking woman, 
though not over-refined in speech or manners, w r as 
seated on a sofa, in vehement expectation of embrac¬ 
ing her dear Fidele ; but my vagabond appearance 
so startled her that she screamed loudly for her 
husband, M. Levasseur. This gentleman, a fine, 
tall, whiskered, moustached person, hastened into 






Legal Metamorphoses. 


the apartment half-shaved, and with his razor in his 
hand. 

“ Qu’est ce qu'ily a done ? ” he demanded. 

“ Mats voyez cette horreur Id” replied the lady, 
meaning me, not the dog, which I was slowly eman¬ 
cipating from the basket-kennel. The gentleman 
laughed ; and reassured by the presence of her 
husband, Madame Levasseur’s anxieties concentrated 
themselves upon the expected Fidele. 

“ M ais, mon Dieu ! ” she exclaimed again as I dis¬ 
played the aged beauty I had brought for her inspec¬ 
tion, “ why, that is not Fidele ! ” 

“ Not, marm ! ” I answered, with quite innocent 
surprise. “ Vy, ere is her wery tail ; ” and I held up 
the mutilated extremity for her closer inspection. 
The lady was not, however, to be convinced even by 
that evidence ; and as the gentleman soon became 
impatient of my persistence, and hinted very intel¬ 
ligibly that he had a mind to hasten my passage 
down stairs with the toe of his boot, I, having made 
the best possible use of my eyes during the short 
interview, scrambled up the dog and basket, and 
departed. 

“ No female relative or acquaintance hasn’t he ?” 
was my exulting thought as I gained the road. 
“ And yet if that is not M. le Breton’s picture be¬ 
tween those of the husband and wife, I am a booby, 
and a blind one.” I no longer in the least doubted 
that I had struck a brilliant trail ; and I could have 
shouted with exultation, so eager w r as I to extricate 
the plundered firm from their terrible difficulties ; 
the more especially as young M. Bellebon, with the 
frankness of his age and nation, had hinted to me— 
and the suddenly tremulous light of his fine ex¬ 
pressive eyes testified to the acuteness of his appre¬ 
hensions—that his marriage with a long-loved and 
amiable girl depended upon his success in saving 
the credit of his house. 

That same evening, about nine o’clock, M. Levas- 
seur, expensively, but withal snobbishly attired, left 
Oak Cottage, walked to Edmonton, hailed. a cab, 
and drove off rapidly toward town, followed by an 
English swell as stylishly and snobbishly dressed, 
wigged, whiskered, and moustached as himself ; this 
English swell being no other than myself, as prettily 
metamorphosed and made up for the part I intended 
playing as heart could wish. 

M. Levasseur descended at the end of the Quad¬ 
rant, Regent Street, and took his way to Vine 
Street, leading out of that celebrated thoroughfare. 
I followed ; and observing him enter a public-house, 
unhesitatingly did the same. It was a house of call 
and general rendezvous for foreign servants out of 
place. Valets, couriers, cooks, of many varieties of 
shade, nation, and respectability, were assembled 
there, smoking, drinking, and playing at an insuffer¬ 
ably noisy game, unknown, I believe, to Englishmen, 
and which must, I think, have been invented in 
sheer despair of cards, dice, or other implements of 
gambling. The sole instruments of play were the 


413 

gamesters’ fingers, of which the two persons playing 
suddenly and simultaneously uplifted as many, or 
as few, as they pleased, each player alternately call¬ 
ing a number ; and if he named precisely how many 
fingers were held up by himself and opponent, he 
marked a point. The hubbub of cries—“ cinq,” 
“ neuf,” “ dix,” etc.—was deafening. The players— 
almost everybody in the large room—were too much 
occupied to notice our entrance ; and M. Levasseur 
and myself seated ourselves, and called for some¬ 
thing to drink, without, I was glad to see, exciting 
the slightest observation. 

M. Levasseur, I soon perceived, was an intimate 
acquaintance of many there ; and somewhat to my 
surprise, for he spoke French very well, I found that 
he was a Swiss. His name was, I therefore concluded, 
assumed. Nothing positive rewarded my watchful¬ 
ness that evening ; but I felt quite sure Levasseur 
had come there with the expectation of meeting some 
one, as he did not play, and went away about half¬ 
past eleven o’clock with an obviously discontented 
air. The following night it was the same ; but the 
next, who should peer into the room about half-past 
ten, and look cautiously round, but M. Alexandre le 
Breton. 

The instant the eyes of the friends met, Levasseur 
rose and went out. I hesitated to follow, lest 
such a movement might excite suspicion ; and it 
was well I did not, as they both presently returned, 
and seated themselves close by my side. The anx¬ 
ious, haggard countenance of Le Breton—who had, I 
should have before stated, been privately pointed out 
to me by one of the force early on the morning I 
visited Oak Cottage—struck me forcibly, especially 
in contrast with that of Levasseur, which wore only 
an expression of malignant and ferocious triumph, 
slightly dashed by temporary disappointment. Le 
Breton stayed but a short time ; and the only whis¬ 
pered words I caught were—“ He has I fear some 
suspicion.” 

The anxiety and impatience of M. Bellebon whilst 
this was going on became extreme, and he sent me 
note after note—the only mode of communication I 
would permit—expressive of his consternation at the 
near approach of the time when the engagements of 
his house would arrive at maturity, without anything 
having in the mean time been accomplished. I pitied 
him greatly, and after some thought and hesitation, 
resolved upon a new and bolder game. 

By affecting to drink a great deal, occasionally 
playing, and in other ways exhibiting a reckless, 
devil-may-care demeanor, I had striven to insinuate 
myself into the confidence and companionship of 
Levasseur, but hitherto without much effect; and 
although once I could see startled by a casual hint 
I dropped to another person—one of “ ours ”—just 
sufficiently loud for him to hear—that I knew a sure 
and safe market for stopped Bank-of-England notes, 
the cautious scoundrel quickly subsided into his usual 
guarded reserve. He evidently doubted me, and it 





414 


Treasury of Tales. 


was imperatively necessary to remove those doubts. 
This was at last effectually, and, I am vain enough to 
think, cleverly done. 

One evening a rakish-looking man, who ostenta¬ 
tiously and repeatedly declared himself to be Mr. 
Trelawney of Conduit Street, and who was evidently 
three parts intoxicated, seated himself directly in front 
of us, and with much braggart impudence boasted of 
his money, at the same time displaying a pocket-book, 
which seemed pretty full of Bank-of-England notes. 
There were only a few persons present in the room 
besides us, and they were at the other end of the room. 
Levasseur, I saw, noticed with considerable interest 
the look of greed and covetousness which I fixed on 
that same pocket-book. At length the stranger rose to 
depart. I also hurried up and slipped after him, and 
was quietly and slyly followed by Levasseur. After 
proceeding about a dozen paces I looked furtively 
about, but not behind ; robbed Mr. Trelawney of his 
pocket-book, which he had placed in one of the tails 
of his coat; crossed over the street, and walked 
hurriedly away, followed as I could hear by 
Levasseur. I entered another public-house, strode 
into an empty back-room, and was just in the act of 
examining my prize, when in stepped Levasseur. 
He looked triumphant as Lucifer, as he clapped me 
on the shoulder, and said in a low exulting voice, “ I 
saw that pretty trick, Williams, and can, if I like, 
transport you ! ” 

My consternation was naturally extreme, and Le¬ 
vasseur laughed immensely at the terror he excited. 
“ Soyez tranquille', he said at last, at the same time 
ringing the bell: “ I shall not hurt you.” He ordered 
some wine, and after the waiter had filled the order 
and left the room, said, “Those notes of Mr. Tre- 
lawney’s will of course be stopped in the morning, 
but I think I once heard you say you knew of a 
market for such articles.” 

I hesitated, coyly, unwilling to further commit 
myself. “Come, come,” resumed Levasseur in a 
still low but menacing tone, “ no nonsense. I have 
you now ; you are, in fact, entirely in my power: 
but be candid, and you are safe. Who is your 
friend ? ” 

“ He is not in town now,” I stammered. 

“ Stuff — humbug ! I have myself some notes to 
change. There, now we understand each other. 
What does he give, and how does he dispose of 
them ? ” 

“ He gives about a third generally, and gets rid of 
them abroad. They reach the Bank through bona- 
fide and innocent holders, and in that case the Bank 
is of course bound to pay.” 

“ Is that the law also with respect to bills of ex¬ 
change ?” 

“Yes, to be sure it is.” 

“And is amount of any consequence to your 
friend ? ” 

“ None, I believe, whatever.” 

“ Well, then, you must introduce me to him.” 


“ No, that I can’t,” I hurriedly answered. “ He: 
won’t deal with strangers.” 

“ You must, I tell you, or I will call an officer.” 
Terrified by this threat, I muttered that his name 
was Levi Samuel. 

“ And where does Levi Samuel live ? ” 

“ That,” I replied, “ I cannot tell; but I know how 
to communicate with him.” 

Finally, it was settled by Levasseur that I should 
dine at Oak Cottage the next day but one, and that 
I should arrange with Samuel to meet us there imme¬ 
diately afterward. The notes and bills he had to 
dispose of, I was to inform Samuel, amounted to 
nearly twelve thousand pounds, and I was promised 
five hundred pounds for effecting the bargain. 

“ Five hundred pounds, remember, Williams,” said 
Levasseur as we parted ; “or, if you deceive me, 
transportation ! You can prove nothing regarding 
me, whereas I could settle you off-hand.” 

The superintendent and I had a long and rather 
anxious conference the next day. We agreed that, 
situated as Oak Cottage was, in an open space away 
from any other building, it would not be advisable 
that any officer except myself and the pretended 
Samuel should approach the place. We also agreed 
as to the probability of such clever rogues having so 
placed the notes and bills that they could be con¬ 
sumed or otherwise destroyed on the slightest alarm, 
and that the open arrest of Levasseur, and a search of 
Oak Cottage, would in all likelihood prove fruitless. 

“ There will be only two of them,” I said in reply 
to a remark of the superintendent as to the some¬ 
what dangerous game I was risking with powerful 
and desperate men, “ even should Le Breton be there ; 
and surely Jackson and I, aided by the surprise and 
our pistols, will be too many for them.” 

Little more was said, the superintendent wished us 
luck, and I sought out and instructed Jackson. 

I will confess that, on setting out the next day to 
keep my appointment, I felt considerable anxiety. 
Levasseur might have discovered my vocation, and 
set this trap for my destruction. Yet that was hardly 
possible. At all events, whatever the danger, it was 
necessary to face it ; and having cleaned and loaded 
my pistols with unusual care, and bade my wife a 
more than usually earnest farewell, which, by the 
way, rather startled her, I set off, determined, as we 
used to say in Yorkshire, “ to win the horse or lose 
the saddle.” 

I arrived in good time at Oak Cottage, and found 
my host in the highest possible spirits. Dinner was 
ready, he said, but it would be necessary to wait a 
few minutes for the two friends he expected. 

“ Two friends! ” I exclaimed, really startled. 
“You told me last evening there was to be only one, 
a Monsieur Le Breton.” 

“ True,” rejoined Levasseur carelessly; “but I 
had forgotten that another party as much interested 
as ourselves would like to be present, and would invite 
himself, if I did not. But there will be enough for 




Legal Metamorphoses . 


4 i 5 


us all, never fear,” he added with a coarse laugh, “ es¬ 
pecially as Madame Levasseur does not dine with 
us.” 

At this moment a loud knock was heard. “ Here 
they are ! ” exclaimed Levasseur, and hastened out 
to meet them. 

I peeped through the blind, and to my great alarm 
saw that Le Breton was accompanied by the clerk 
Dubarle ! My first impulse was to seize my pistols 
and rush out of the house ; but calmer thoughts soon 
succeeded, and the improbability that a plan had 
been laid to entrap me recurred forcibly. Still, should 
the clerk recognize me ? The situation was un¬ 
doubtedly a critical one ; but I was in for it, and 
must therefore brave the matter out in the best way 
I could. 

Presently a conversation, carried on in a loud, 
menacing tone in the next room between Levasseur 
and the new-comers, arrested my attention, and I 
softly approached the door to listen. Le Breton, I 
soon found, was but half a villain, and was extremely 
anxious that the property should not be disposed of 
till at least another effort had been made at nego¬ 
tiation. The others, now that a market for the notes 
and securities had been obtained, were determined to 
avail themselves of it, and immediately leave the 
country. The almost agonized entreaties of Le 
Breton that they would not utterly ruin the house he 
had betrayed, were treated with scornful contempt, 
and he was at length silenced by their brutal menaces. 
Le Breton, I further learned, was a cousin of Madame 
Levasseur, whose husband had first pillaged him at 
play, and then suggested the crime which had been 
committed as the sole means of concealing the de¬ 
falcations of which he, Levasseur, had been the 
occasion and promoter. 

After a brief delay, all three entered the dining¬ 
room, and a slight but significant start which the 
clerk Dubarle gave, as Levasseur, with mock cere¬ 
mony, introduced me, made my heart leap into my 
mouth. His half-formed suspicions seemed, however, 
to be dissipated for the moment by the humorous 
account Levasseur gave him of the robbery of Mr. 
Trelawney, and we sat down to a very handsome 
dinner. 

A more uncomfortable one, albeit, I never assisted 
at. The furtive looks of Dubarle, who had been 
only partially reassured, grew more and more inquisi¬ 
tive and earnest. Fortunately Levasseur was in 
rollicking spirits and humor, and did not heed the 
unquiet glances of the young man ; and as for Le 
Breton, he took little notice of anybody. At last 
this terrible dinner was over, and the wine was 
pushed briskly round. I drank much more freely 
than usual, partly with a view to calm my nerves, 
and partly to avoid remark. It was nearly the time 
for the Jew’s appearance, when Dubarle, after a 
scrutinizing and somewhat imperious look at my face, 
said abruptly, “ I think. Monsieur Williams, I have 
seen you somewhere before ? ” 


“ Very likely,” I replied with as much indifference 
as I could assume. “ Many persons have seen me 
before—some of them once or twice too often.” 

“True ! ” exclaimed Levasseur with a shout. “ Tre¬ 
lawney, for instance ! ” 

“ I should like to see monsieur with his wig off! ” 
said the clerk with increasing insolence. 

“Nonsense, Dubarle ; you are a fool,” exclaimed 
Levasseur ; “ and I will not have my good friend 
Williams insulted.” 

Dubarle did not persist, but it was plain enough 
that some dim remembrance of my features continued 
to haunt and perplex him. 

At length, and the relief was unspeakable, a knock 
at the outer door announced Jackson—Levi Samuel 
I mean. We all jumped up, and ran to the window. 
It was the Jew sure enough, and admirably he had 
dressed and now looked the part. 

Levasseur went out, and in a minute or two re¬ 
turned introducing him. Jackson could not suppress 
a start as he caught sight of the tall, moustached 
addition to the expected company ; and although he 
turned it off very well, it drove the Jewish dialect in 
which he had been practising completely out of his 
thoughts and speech, as he said, “You have more 
company than my friend Williams led me to expect! ” 

“A friend—one friend extra, Mr. Samuel,” said 
Levasseur ; “that is all. Come, sit down, and let me 
help you to a glass of wine. You are an English 
Jew, I perceive ? ” 

“Yes.” 

A silence of a minute or two succeeded, and then 
Levasseur said, “You are of course prepared for 
business ? ” 

“Yes—that is, if you are reasonable.” 

“ Reasonable ! the most reasonable man in the 
world,” rejoined Levasseur with a loud laugh. “ But 
pray where is the gold you mean to pay us with ? ” 

“ If we agree, I will fetch it in half an hour. I 
do not carry bags of sovereigns about with me into 
all companies,” replied Jackson with much readiness. 

“ Well, that’s right enough ; and now how much 
discount do you charge ? ” 

“I will tell you when I see the securities.” 

Levasseur rose without another word and left the 
apartment. He was gone about ten minutes, and on 
his return deliberately counted out the stolen Bank- 
of-England notes and bills of exchange. Jackson 
got up from his chair, peered close to them, and be¬ 
gan noting down the amounts in his pocket-book. 
I also rose and pretended to be looking at a picture 
by the fire-place. The moment was a nervous one, 
as the signal had been agreed upon, and could not 
now be changed or deferred. The clerk Dubarle 
also hastily rose, and eyed Jackson with flaming but 
indecisive looks. 

The examination of the securities was at length 
terminated, and Jackson began counting the Bank- 
of-England notes aloud—“One—two—three—four 
five ! ” As the signal word passed his lips, he threw 





416 


Treasury oj Tales. 


himself upon Le Breton, who sat next to him ; and 
at the same moment I passed one of my feet between 
Dubarle’s, and with a dexterous twist hurled him 
violently to the floor ; another instant and my grasp 
was on the throat of Levasseur, and my pistol at his 
ear. 

“ Hurrah ! ” we both shouted with eager excitement; 
and before either of the villains could recover from 
his surprise, or indeed perfectly comprehend what 
had happened, Levasseur and Le Breton were hand¬ 
cuffed, and resistance was out of the question. 
Young Dubarle was next easily secured. 

Levasseur, the instant he recovered the use of his 
faculties, which the completeness and suddenness of 
the surprise and attack had paralyzed, yelled like a 
madman with rage and anger, and but for us, would, 
I verily believe, have dashed his brains out against 
the walls of the room. The other two were calmer, 
and having at last thoroughly pinioned and secured 
them, and carefully gathered up the recovered plun¬ 
der, we left Oak Cottage in triumph, letting ourselves 
out, for the woman-servant had gone off, doubtless 
to acquaint her mistress with the disastrous turn 
affairs had taken. No inquiry was made after either 
of them. 

An hour afterward the prisoners were securely 
locked up, and I hurried to acquaint M. Bellebon 
with the fortunate issue of our enterprise. His ex¬ 
ultation, it will be readily believed, was unbounded ; 
and I left him busy with letters to the firm, and 
doubtless one to “cette chere et aimable Louise ,” 
announcing the joyful news. 

The prisoners, after a brief trial, were convicted 
of felonious conspiracy, and were all sentenced to 
ten years’ transportation. Le Breton’s sentence, the 
judge told him, would have been for life, but for the 
contrition he had exhibited shortly before his 
apprehension. 

As Levasseur passed me on leaving the dock, he 
exclaimed in French, and in a desperately savage 
tone, “ I will repay you for this when I return, and 
that infernal Trelawney, too.” 

I am too much accustomed to threats of this kind 
to be in any way moved by them, and I therefore 
contented myself by smiling, and a civil Au revoir — 
allons ! 


MISFORTUNE’S FAVORITE. 

BY CARLOTTA PERRY. 

I. 

E VERYBODY said that Dick Andrews was born 
to ill luck ; and what everybody says comes 
in time to be believed. He almost believed it 
himself ; he knew that, as he put it, “ the wind al¬ 
ways blew in his face.” In his boyhood, if any one 
of the children of the family was late at school, it 
was sure to be Dick ; if any skates got broken or any 
sled lost a runner, there was no need to ask to which 
of the boys the property belonged. If either of the 
boys went without mittens or an overcoat, it was 


Dick of course. If any one stayed at home from 
church or merry-making to tend to the fires or keep 
the mother company, Dick was the one. 

No one could tell exactly why. To be sure, his 
brothers and sisters appropriated his property with¬ 
out scruple, which was one reason of its often being 
out of repair ; besides, if any one wanted to borrow 
sled or skates, it was supposed that it was less of a 
denial for him than for Tom, his brother, to go with¬ 
out them ; and it grew to be an accepted belief that 
he didn’t care very much for merry-making any way, 
and then, too, one couldn’t go without suitable 
clothes, and after getting Tom all he needed, and 
providing suitable garments for Sue and Mary, there 
wasn’t so very much left. Not that he was an abused 
or neglected child. His mother loved him tenderly, 
and to his sisters and his one brother there was no¬ 
body like dear old Dick ; but it was discovered that 
he had one talent—the talent for self-denial, and it 
was allowed full opportunity for development, as it 
generally is. 

Tom wanted to go out into the world, and he went. 
Dick wanted to go, but there were the widowed 
mother and the two sisters and the farm, and Dick 
stayed. So he worked faithfully and prospered in 
worldly things. The girls went to school ; they came 
home and filled the old house with their wonderful 
paintings,their fancy-work, their marvellous music and 
still more marvellous French. And Dick, plain, sim¬ 
ple, unlearned Dick, stood in much awe of the girls, 
who in turn patronized him. To be sure, there were 
books in Dick’s room of whose very names they were 
ignorant, and curious mechanical devices that would 
have bewildered them, but that was only Dick’s odd¬ 
ity. He was never like other people any way, and it 
was just like him to be spending the time when he 
ought to be sleeping in poring over some dull scien¬ 
tific nonsense or constructing some foolish unavail¬ 
able machine, that ought to work but wouldn’t. So 
they talked, and life moved on for all. The early 
morning found him at his duty, the evening found 
his duty done. He had grown used to his life, he 
had ceased to think much about it, further than to 
do everything he could for everybody around him. 

He thought his sisters the most beautiful and ac¬ 
complished women in the world, and all women were 
in his eyes to be admired and reverenced. About the 
fittest use he deemed that his life could be put to was 
to make their lives fair and full of ease. 

When Agatha Dale came to visit his sisters his 
world widened. He had seen no woman like her ; he 
had seen very few women any way, and that the 
world held any such as she he had not imagined. 
She talked to him more than any one else had ever 
done, and one day, when a rain had driven him in 
from the field, she followed him out on the porch 
where he stood watching the storm, and said : 

“ Mr. Andrews, Sue tells me that you have a den 
filled not with wild beasts, but with wonderful ma¬ 
chines and inventions of your own ; and though she 






Misfortune s Favorite. 


speaks of them rather lightly, I am inclined to sus¬ 
pect that you are a genius—and I have a perfect 
craze for making discoveries, and if I could only dis¬ 
cover a genius hidden away on this great farm of 
yours I should die content.” 

“ O don’t talk of dying, Miss Dale,” he replied, 
while a great flush of color swept into his face; 
•“don’t talk of dying.” 

“ No, I don’t intend to ; that I hope is to be de¬ 
ferred till I have made the discovery I spoke of.” 

“There’s nothing to discover that I know of, noth¬ 
ing at least that you would care to know.” 

“ I want to see that room where you burn the mid¬ 
night oil. I want you to show me what you are try¬ 
ing to do, though I cannot help you, only as interest 
and sympathy help one,” and she looked up into his 
honest eyes with a look that set his honest heart 
beating wildly. And she gained what she asked. 
He told her of dreams and hopes that had stirred 
the brain that every one else thought dull and slug¬ 
gish. He explained how nearly he had achieved the 
perfect working of an invention that should be of 
priceless value in a certain department of labor. 
Only it was not quite perfect. If this wheel were a 
little larger or smaller, and that band or pulley could 
be made to work a little different, or if this spring 
were a little stronger or more flexible, it would be all 
right. And it would be after a little ; he was sure he 
had the right idea. And then here was something else 
that if he had time he could develop, but he had not 
been able to get the time, and so there it was ! 

“ But I guess I’ll make it out yet, Miss Dale.” 

“Yes, I think you will, Mr. Andrews. I think 
you will.” 

“ Everybody these parts calls me Dick,” he said ; 
“maybe you would.” 

“ No,” she replied, “ I shall not call you Dick ; that 
is no name to call such a man as you by. I will call 
you Richard, if you are willing. You are my host, 
besides. I see what these around you do not see, 
and what I think you are too modest to believe, that 
something akin to the wonderful thing we call ge¬ 
nius is yours.” 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know as all 
this means anything, but I’ve kind o’ thought some¬ 
times that if I’d had a chance—but you see, Miss 
Dale, Tom he had to go, and the girls they had to 
go and be educated, and there was the farm and 
mother, and so I had to stay ; there was no other 
way, you see.” 

“Yes ; I see, Richard, I see.” 

It was food and drink to him, this apparent sym¬ 
pathy of hers. To have her choose to call him Rich¬ 
ard was a sweet thing to him. It gave him a kind 
of dignity in his own eyes that he had never thought 
of claiming. 

He regretted more than he had ever done in his 
life that he had lived so ignorant of the ways of the 
world in which she lived, that he was not master of 
.any of the arts and graces which women love. 


417 

She saw all this. She was a clear, quick-brained 
woman, with intellect enough to see the sweetness, the 
unselfishness of such a character as his, but without 
heart enough to reverence it. She saw, too, how 
nearly he came to having the divine gift of genius ; 
but she saw also that while these machines worked 
without flaw, and the thought-engine rolled with 
perfect motion through his brain, that not for him 
would their grand possibilities be realized. Some 
more practical hand would execute what his brain 
conceived, the flower would blossom but not for him, 
from the seed of his sowing great harvest should 
come, but not for his hands to gather. 

How he grew to worship her ! with all the ear¬ 
nest unselfishness of his nature he worshipped her. 
She permitted it ; she liked it. It interested her to 
see what love would do for such a man. He was no 
common lover ; had he been she would have grown 
weary of him, as she had of many others. But it was 
delightful to waken this soul to a new life. It was 
charming to read to him, to sing to him, and see him 
draw in her voice as though it were the breath of 
life. It was interesting to see the fire in the eyes, 
and know that it burned outward from the soul. 

It was pleasant to see how happy he could be made 
by a little warmer smile than usual, by a little kind¬ 
lier glance. She reasoned with herself that it would 
do no harm ; that his life had been so empty, that this 
experience, while it could end in but one way, would 
still be good for him. She was one of those who 
having known little of sorrow, had a high opinion of 
its disciplinary advantages. 

^ 

Then one day there came a letter from Tom ; he 
was coming home. The old mother was trembling 
for happiness. The girls were delighted that Tom 
was coming while Agatha was there. She would 
like Tom, everybody did. Agatha thought to her¬ 
self that it might be a good thing. She was about 
satisfied with the result of her experiment. Dick 
said little ; he would be glad, too, it could not make 
much difference, he thought. Tom Andrews was 
one of those men who seem to fill a house. Gay, 
handsome, selfish, acquainted with the world and 
fond of it, with a gift for getting money, but a greater 
gift for spending it, he was one of those men whom 
men like without having any great respect for, and 
whom women love half-knowing his unworthiness. 

Then such pain came to Dick as he had not sup¬ 
posed the world could hold. He could understand 
why a woman might prefer Tom to himself, but his 
simple, honest soul could not see why an interest and 
sympathy so true as Agatha’s had been could wane 
so suddenly. . With an abject admiration for Tom 
and his attractions, he had still such absolute con¬ 
stancy himself that he could not understand how any 
one could be swayed in love or friendship, and of 
insincerity he had no knowledge. But he saw with¬ 
out understanding that his little lease of happiness 
was gone. It was the old way, the way he thought 




418 


Treasury of Tales. 


he was used to. The best of everything for Tom, 
always Tom. 

He said over and over to himself that it was all 
right. That she had done nothing wrong. Then he 
remembered how she looked in his eyes the day she 
gave him the rose out of her hair, and how she had 
once put her soft hand on his forehead, and how 
pleased she looked when he brought her the lilies 
from the pond, and called him a dear, good fellow; 
but it must be that it was the way women did, and 
must be right. She meant to be kind to him. In 
his simple heart he never once thought that she was 
to blame for his heart-ache, that she had amused 
herself with him never once crossed his mind. She 
was so good, so high, so beautiful, besides she was 
a woman, and he had not learned that women could 
be anything but true and noble. 

And he ought not to begrudge Tom any happiness. 
But one night he saw Tom and Agatha standing to¬ 
gether under the tree in front of his window. The 
moonlight shone on her fair hair, and he thought he 
could see the very smile on her red lips. He saw the 
red geranium on the bosom of her white gown, he 
noticed how white her arms were, and how lithe and 
graceful her form as she stood looking up into Tom’s 
eyes as she had looked into his. And then, yes, he 
saw Tom put his arms around her and draw her close, 
close to his breast; he saw .the red lips lifted to his ; 
he saw the fair head droop to the strong shoulder. 

He did not groan nor rave, he did not curse nor 
swear, he did not rail against man’s treachery nor 
woman’s perfidy, but he went slowly down the back 
stairs and out to the stable. He pretended to him¬ 
self that he wanted to see if everything was all right. 
He heard his sisters’ voices in the sitting-room. 
They had each a lover, and there was singing and 
merry sounds coming from happy hearts. His pet 
horse whinnied as he came into the barn. A great 
creature, magnificent in strength and limb, which no 
one but Dick could ever manage. He put his arms 
round the horse’s neck and bowed his head on the 
glossy mane. 

“ It’s all right, Charley ; but it’s hard, isn’t it, 
old fellow?” 

That was all; then he went back. Passing his 
mother’s bedroom door, she called out, “ Good-night, 
Tom.” 

“It’s Dick, mother,” he replied. 

“O, I thought it was Tom.” 

“ No, it’s me.” 

Then he remembered that Agatha had told him 
that he should not say, “ It’s me,” and he softly cor¬ 
rected himself. Then he saw the girls bidding a gay 
good-night to their lovers, and heard Agatha at the 
piano. 

He sat at his window long, looking at the stars that 
shone brighter as the moon paled ; he remembered 
what she had called their names. Then he called him¬ 
self a foolish fellow. It was all right, only the great 
ache in his bosom he could not help ; he did not un¬ 


derstand why he should be so hurt in his heart by 
anything that was all right, as that surely was. 

II. 

The next morning Mrs. Andrews was found dead in 
her bed. Heart-disease, the doctor called it. There 
was sincere grief, for she was beloved of her children 
and respected of all. But the suddenness of the 
blow unnerved them all, all but Dick. He told with 
a mighty struggle against his tears how she had called 
out “good-night, Tom,” the night before ; he would 
have given half his life if that last good-night had 
been for him. Tom made him say it over and over, 
and told it over to others how her last word heard 
by mortal ears was for him. And they all wept and 
sobbed, and wondered that Dick could do the things 
he did, for it was he who attended to all the details 
of the funeral, he who sat in the still night in the 
same room with the still body, and he who insisted 
upon helping to lay it in the coffin. It was a com¬ 
fort to do these things ; it was an escape for the 
terrible pain in his heart. The others had words 
and tears and moans ; his sorrow was dumb, only by 
these sad ministries could it find relief. Hungry and 
thirsting for pity, he heard them say, “ It was 
strange how little Dick felt it, they did not see 
how he could do the things he did ; they knew they 
could not, but Dick was always queer.” He sup¬ 
posed it was because he was queer that he could not 
cry, but he thought that maybe Agatha understood 
that he cared, for he had heard her say once that the 
deepest sorrow was silent. It would be some com¬ 
fort to know that she understood. She was so busy 
that he had not seen her much, for she was attending 
to the funeral garments for his sisters. She was ar¬ 
ranging the house, and conferring with the singers. 
But a little box came from the city for her that last 
morning, and as she took it in the room where the 
dead lay, he followed her. 

He untied the box, and helped take out the 
mass of white carnations and lay them on the foot 
of the casket. “Just sixty-five,” she said; “just 
as many as she had lived years.” 

As they laid the flowers down their hands met an 
instant; he felt the ring on her finger, and he saw 
that it was one Tom had worn for years, and she was 
wearing it now. The touch of the ring brought it 
all back, all the agony of that night when all his 
hope died, and a vague thought came that he too 
was dead, dead with the breath yet in him, and the 
world fair around him, only not dead to pain, as they 
thought he was. 

* * * * * * 

It was said a few days after the funeral that 
Agatha was going home. The girls pleaded for a 
longer stay, but she had been with them more than 
two months, and she must go. Tom said nothing; 
but Dick said to her as they met on the stairs an 
hour later, 

“ I want to say a word to you, Agatha.” 





Misfortunes Favorite. 


“ Yes, Richard ; ” and she said, “ let’s take a little 
walk.” 

She would have gone out in the shade of the big 
tree in front of the window, but he said no, not 
there. She sat down in a chair on the porch, and 
he stood beside her. 

“ Going away, Agatha ? ” 

“ Yes, I have been here a long time. It has been 
such a pleasant time ; except for this dreadful sor¬ 
row for you all, which I, too, feel keenly, I should 
say it was the happiest summer I had known for a 
long, long time. It has been almost perfect, has it 
not, Richard ? ” 

He had not dreamed of saying the words that 
came to his lips, he had only meant to speak of 
Tom, and of the engagement which he supposed ex¬ 
isted, and to ask her to stay right along ; but the 
calm way in which she spoke of her happy summer 
was too much : he surprised her and himself not less 
by saying : 

“ It has been heaven and hell both, and you’ve 
made both for me.” 

“ What do you mean, Richard ? ” 

“ If you don’t know what I mean, nothing that I 
can say would make you, and maybe you don’t 
know, maybe you don’t. Of course you don’t, if 
you say so. Perhaps I never should have told you 
how much I loved you, for I knew all the time it 
was no use ; but, though I’d got used to giving up 
before Tom, it was mighty hard to see you go with 
the rest. But it’s all right, and I won’t blame you 
for loving Tom. You do love him, I suppose ? ” There 
was a look in his eyes that was touchingly pathetic. 
A look in which he seemed to be trying to hide the 
little hope that seemed determined to live. 

“ Yes, I love Tom ; but I like you, Richard, and I 
hope we shall be friends. I’m sorry that you feel so 
bad ; but you are strong, and you will conquer it.” 

“ I reckon trouble is something like sickness ; it 
goes hardest with the strongest sometimes,” he said. 

“ I’ve helped you some this summer, Richard. 
I’ve given you some pleasure,” she said. She was 
sorry for him as he stood there. So strong in frame 
and muscle. So strong in his faith and patience, 
with such a capacity for endurance in suffering. 

Though she had been cruel to him, she under¬ 
stood him better than the others did, perhaps be¬ 
cause her wrongs toward him were greater than 
theirs. Something like this she thought as she said, 
“ I’ve helped you some, Richard.” 

“ I don’t know ; you’ve meant to, perhaps, and if 
you meant to and hurt me instead, why, you’re not 
to blame, I suppose.” 

The old platitudes rose to her lips. “ Sometimes 
troubles are good for us. Sometimes they make us 
stronger and nobler, and in the end happier. The 
greatest deeds have been done by men who had 
hard lives, and the greatest poems have been written 
by men who had sad hearts.” 

“ But I’m not that kind, and I know it,” he said, 


4*9 

simply. “ I guess they didn’t do all those great 
things because of the trouble, but in spite of it ; 
besides, if they did, seems to me ’twouldn’t hardly 
pay ’em. I’ve read somewhere that when men want 
the turtle-shell that is made into pretty combs and 
such, for women to wear, they catch the turtle 
and tie a string to him so he can’t get away, then 
put hot coals on his back, more and more of ’em, 
and hotter and hotter, till the shell cracks ; the poor 
turtle is just crazy with the pain, but it can’t get 
away; and they get the shell, and the pretty women 
wear the combs; but seems to me the turtle has a 
hard time of it.” 

“ That’s horrible, Richard, and I don’t think it’s 
true, either.” 

“ No, I don’t know as it’s true, but I’ve read it 
somewhere.” 

“Then you don’t think that sorrow ever helps 
anybody ? ” 

“ Seems to me, it depends a good deal on what 
sort of sorrow it is, and how it comes to a body. I’ve 
read again somewhere that there is in some far-off 
country a little fly or insect, or something of that 
sort, that the people take a great deal of pains to 
have live because the sting of it ripens a little 
quicker a certain sort of fruit that the people 
are fond of. It sort o’ stings it into ripeness. It isn’t 
quite perfect fruit, but it has ripened quicker for the 
sting. But that isn’t what I was going to talk 
about. Sue will be married this winter, and Mary 
too, perhaps ; and as I’m going away, seems to me it 
would be the right thing for you and Tom to be 
married, and—and keep the old place up ; that is, if 
you and he could be contented on the farm. I’d 
like to think that you were here.” 

“ I don’t know—when are you going ? ” She tried 
to ask the question sympathetically. She was 
ashamed not to care when in his heart-break he was 
making such plans for her, but he only answered, 
“ I’ll talk to Tom, and see what he says, and if he’ll 
consent to stay it’ll be all right.” 

III. 

Tom would stay, nothing could suit him better; 
he had indulged his fancy for roving, he had spent 
all the money he had, and he had very small fond¬ 
ness, and still smaller talent, for making money. 
The farm was in good order, there was no incum¬ 
brance upon it, he would be able to keep all the 
necessary help for himself and his wife, thanks to 
Dick’s economy and management; and altogether he 
imagined that though his experience was limited, it 
would not be a difficult thing to make life a pleasant 
thing on the farm, and it was his firm belief that life 
should be a pleasant thing—his life, anyway. And 
so it was arranged. 

Agatha went home, and in a few weeks Tom went 
for her and they were married. The house was in 
order for their return. The day they were to come, 
Dick was in the little room all day. He packed up 




420 


Treasury of Tales. 


he models of the inventions over which he had had 
such dreams, and his trunks and boxes were taken 
from the house. Then, when night came, he went 
out to his mother’s grave, for she was buried in her 
own ground in sight of her own door. He heard 
the whistle of the engine at the station two miles 
away ; he stayed there at the grave till the old- 
fashioned rockaway drove up to the door of the 
house ; he strained his eyes to see the bride as she 
crossed the threshold of the home, her home hence¬ 
forth. Then he walked away toward the village and 
the train which he knew would be due there in an 
hour. It was the only cowardice and deception of 
his life, but he said over and over to himself as he 
walked along, “ I couldn’t bear any more—I couldn’t 
bear any more.” In a little note in his room they 
found his simple good-by. 

They were sorry, so they said, that he had gone ; 
and so they were—sorry as people are whose own lives 
are full of their own hopes and plans and pleasures. 

In midwinter the sisters both married, and their 
portion was given to them. There was a verbal un¬ 
derstanding that a certain part of the profits from 
the farm were to be placed in the bank subject to 
Dick’s order. 

He went West. The wonderful stories of the 
Pacific coast lured him on, and it made little differ¬ 
ence. He had no great plans or aims ; he had no 
great dream or hopes. His heart-ache, heavy, dull, 
and constant, left him no room for sweet imagin¬ 
ings, had he ever been given to such. 

His wants were simple, but, simple as they were, 
they were not always met. Always the wind blew in 
his face. 

A little mining, a little stock-raising, a little work¬ 
ing as a common farm-hand, and the months went 
by. Then, after a little, he went into the sunny 
Southern California. Nature was warm of heart 
toward him. Fruits and flowers seemed to know 
his hand. And here three serene years went by. 
The curious people, made up of many peoples, learned 
to know and love him. Cunning Spaniards, wily 
French, and the sharp, shrewd men from his own land. 
The pretty Senoritas and the practical, ambitious 
women from Yankee-land all learned to know the 
simple stranger, whose inability to learn the 
world’s wisdom made them place him now in the 
category of saints, and now in that of fools. At long 
intervals he wrote home, and at longer intervals they 
wrote to him. Three children had been born to 
Tom and Agatha. Once they wrote of alterations 
and improvements they had been making in the old 
house ; then of failures in this or that crop ; then of 
ill health. Then again of good times and new ex¬ 
penditures. 

And he wrote very simply of himself, making no 
murmurs, telling not a word of the loneliness and 
emptiness of life, saying nothing of the pain of his 
constant nature. 

But after a time he turned again to his models. 


The old love came upon him, and again his nights 
saw him repeating the old attempts to realize his 
dreams. Then he thought success stood at his side. 
Ah ! he had what he sought! Then he remembered 
that a certain share of the profits of the old farn> was 
lying in the bank at home, and he had learned the 
lesson that all men, wise or foolish, learn, that though 
his invention was one that would move the world 
it would take money to prove the fact. 

He wrote to Tom to send the money. Tom wrote, 
or Agatha wrote, that they were sorry, but Tom had 
used it. It wasn’t a great sum any way, and theij 
expenses had been large the last two years, and they 
had improved the old place, and of course that had 
cost a large sum, and altogether there wasn’t much 
due him, but by and by, when he came home, they 
would make it all right. 

He read the letter twice slowly. lie had seen dis¬ 
honesty ; he had seen men shot down in broad day 
without a moment’s warning ; he had seen vileness 
flaunting the streets, and vice in high places, and vir¬ 
tue cold and hungry; still his honest heart made no 
accusation against his brother. It was all right; at 
any rate the woman, he had loved had been made 
happier by it, and what more could he ask that his 
money should do : it was right. Then once more he 
locked the door upon his hopes, and turned away to 
fight this last disappointment. If he made any 
moans, none heard them. If he whispered his griefs 
sometimes to his beloved grape-vines to whose service 
he gave his heart, that was all. They gave gener¬ 
ous return for his service, but they never betrayed 
his secrets. 

The poetic people about him, the smooth-voiced 
Senors and Senoritas spoke of him as the gentle 
Senor who had no gray hairs nor wrinkles in his 
heart. 

Then one day there came a letter from Agatha. Tom 
was dead ! He had died three months before the letter 
reached Dick. There were many expressions of 
sorrow ; there were laments over the sad condition 
in which affairs were left. Tom had been careless, 
and there were four children, and she did not know 
what she should do under her burdens. She asked 
for nothing, but there was no need. The next 
mail took all the money which Dick could control, 
and it took also many kind words, awkwardly ex¬ 
pressed, but beating with the sincerity of his soul, and 
also the promise of more help speedily. 

He would have gone home, but something, a feel¬ 
ing he could not give a name to, held him back. He 
wanted to know more of them all than the infrequent 
letters told ; he wanted, God only knew how fer¬ 
vently, to see the old home, his mother’s grave, and 
that new one beside it ; he wanted to see his sisters’ 
faces, and Agatha, and Agatha’s children. More 
deeply than he could tell, almost more wildly than 
he acknowledged to himself, did his starved heart 
cry out against its hunger that had fed upon famine 
only. 




Misfortunes Favorite. 


421 


By and by he would go home, but not yet. He 
grew wildly ambitious to make money—money so 
that he could take care of Tom’s children, and make 
the way smooth for Agatha—only for that. 

He told his wants one day to a friend ; told simply 
that he wanted more money than he had or saw any 
way of getting. And then in a burst of confidence, 
he said, “ I’ve got something that I’m going to show 
you. I’ve had a notion that it was worth something, 
but I don’t know sure, leastways it can do no harm 
to show it.” So half the night they sat examining 
and talking about the invention which Dick had 
thought he had forever given up. 

Josiah Green was a quick, clear-headed man, and, 
after the fashion of the worldly business man, he was 
honest. At a glance, almost, he saw the value of 
Dick’s invention, and after examining it closely he 
thought he saw the remedy for certain flaws which 
seemed to exist in it. But he met the imploring, 
doubting look in Dick’s eyes with a cool and an 
almost discouraging look. “What did he think of 
it ? ” Well, he couldn’t just tell ; it might be good 
for something, and then again it mightn’t. He’d 
think about it and tell him next day. 

The next day he said : “ I think, Dick, that if that 
machine of yours was just right, it would be a mighty 
big thing, but ’taint just right, or that’s the way it 
looks to me, and if it comes within an inch of per¬ 
fection, it might as well be a mile, you know.” 

“Perhaps I can make it right.” 

“ Perhaps you can ; but you’ve been ten years 
about it, haven’t you ? ” 

“Yes ; ten years.” 

“ And then, you’ve to get it patented, and I’ve had 
some experience in patents. A man said to me once : 
‘ Whatever else you do in the world,Green,don’t invent 
anything.’ You hear me ! And I’ve kept clear of it. 
And then when you apply for a patent you’ve got to 
be mighty sure that there’s no fellow ahead of 
you, or you’re in trouble, and after the thing is 
patented, and is all right, why you’ve got to have 
money and lots of experience and good hard sense 
of a practical sort to get it on the market, and you 
won’t mind my telling you, Dick, that you’re not that 
sort. You’d be the round peg in the square hole, 
eh ? ” 

“What would you do ?” 

“I’ll tell you what I'll do. I’ll buy that thing of 
you, outright. I’ll take my chances on perfecting it. 
I’ll get it patented, and if it is a success I’ll make 
money out of it, and if it isn’t, why, it’ll take its place 
with the rest of the trash the world is full of. I’ll 
give you five thousand dollars for it just as it is. 
What do you say ? ” 

Dick showed the simplicity of his nature by ask¬ 
ing, “What would you do if you were me ?” 

The man from Maine, as Josiah Green was always 
called, looked with half-pity on Dick as he answered 
in entire honesty, “ If I were you I’d take it quicker 
than lightning ! ” 


“ Do you think that’s as much as it’s worth ? ” 

“ You are the strangest man I ever set eyes on. 
You act as though a man making a bargain was 
bound to work for the other party’s interest as well 
as his own. Now, your confounded faith in me leads 
me to say, that I think I’ve offered you all that the 
thing is worth to you; all and more than you’ll be 
likely to get for it from anybody else, or through 
any effort of your own ; but if it were mine, I 
wouldn’t sell it for what I advise you to take,—all 
because I’m a different sort of man from what you 
are. I couldn’t have done what you have so far— 
head isn’t shaped right; but now, I can take it, and 
make something out of it, I think. You can’t. Your 
head isn’t shaped right for that. See ? Now you 
can think about it, and let me know, and if you say 
yes, we’ll go up to ’Frisco, and have it all arranged 
whenever you say so.” 

And Dick accepted the offer. They went to ’Frisco, 
and it was legally arranged. When he saw the 
model, the child of his heart, carried out of his room, 
he bent his head and wept. But there was the money, 
and what would that not do toward the comfort of 
those he loved ! And added to this were the pro¬ 
ceeds of the well-beloved vines and fig-trees. All 
that he cared most for that was really his own, was 
represented by the yellow gold and crisp bank-notes. 

It was more than a year since Tom died, and he 
would go home. It was his home, save such por¬ 
tion of it as would come to Agatha, as Tom’s widow, 
and surely he had a right to seek his own. He found 
all so changed ; the “ slight improvements ” meant 
bay-windows, and porches, and wonderful painting, 
and tiling, and all the aesthetic decorations of the day. 
There were fine furnishings inside, and a fountain 
on the lawn. There were shabby out-buildings, and 
empty granaries, and ill-cared for stock, and worse- 
cared-f©r fields. There were debts, debts, debts. 
And there was Agatha, older, but scarcely less beau¬ 
tiful, wearing her widow’s weeds, and the children 
who at once loved the “ uncle Dick ” who had lots of 
money and would spend it with them. 

It was easy to understand why all had gone so ill. 
■Extravagance rather than misfortune had wrought 
all the trouble, and Dick’s work was plain to his 
eyes. 

Steadily he looked into matters, and patiently he 
set about in his slow fashion to mend them. The 
neighbors said that the coming home of Dick 
Andrews, queer as he was, was a blessing to :he 
widow and the children. In a year’s time there 
was less display at the front of the house and more 
comfort inside. He assumed the burdens and no 
one objected, no one had ever objected to his bear¬ 
ing burdens. He enjoyed it. Agatha was very 
kind ; with returning prosperity her spirits returned. 
There was no comfort or pleasure that could be laid 
at her feet that was not provided. A little remon¬ 
strance she would offer, but the reply always came : 
“ I’ve no other use for money, and I shan’t buy any- 





422 


Treasury of Tales. 


thing I can’t afford.” Dick was almost happy ; it 
seemed to him that if he were as strong as he used 
to be, he would be quite happy ; but the years, and 
the roving life, and the exposures, had told upon 
him : he was not quite strong. 

But home was so pleasant! Agatha was so sweet 
and kind ! They had in the summer evenings pleas¬ 
ant rides over the old familiar roads. Always at 
night he rode to the village for the mail, and two 
or three times each week she would go with him, for 
she had a correspondence—business letters, she said, 
and it did not occur to Dick to wonder what the 
business could be that he did not know. 

He was almost happy, and the old dream of being 
entirely happy came back. Who knew ? Perhaps it 
might be, after all ; perhaps, after all these years, it 
would come to him—the hope of his soul, the desire 
of his life. Perhaps the winds of fate would blow 
fairly for him yet. 

That night they sat together by the fire after the 
children had gone to bed, and talked of the past. 
With her Dick was at his best. Almost he had spoken 
his thought, when she said : “ Dick, there’s some¬ 
thing I want to tell you. I was not quite heart-whole 
when I married Tom. I loved ”—Great God ! what 
was she going to say—“ I loved another, or I had 
loved another man, before I saw him or you.” Ah, 
what a ridiculous thought that was that flashed upon 
Dick for an instant! “ And six months ago, one day 

when you happened to be away, he came, this old 
lover, and, Dick, you understand—he wants me to 
marry him—and—and ” 

“You want to marry him ? ” 

“ I have said that I would—in the spring, perhaps. 
We shall go away from here, and then, Dick dear, you 
must marry and stay in the old home. The old 
place is yours, any way, Dick, or ought to be.” 

“The place will be yours and your children’s after 
you.” 

“ You are glad that I am going to find love and 
care and the protection of a strong heart again. O, 
you’ve been good and kind, Dick, but you know—or 
no, you don’t know—how lonesome a heart can be, 
after all.” 

How could he make her understand his life-long 
hunger ; what was the use of saying anything ? So 
he said only, “ I suppose not.” 

“ And are you glad ? ” 

What was the use of saying anything, except what 
she seemed to want him to say ? what did it matter 
if he lied ? So he looked her straight in the eyes 
and said he was glad, glad for anything that made 
her happy. 

Then death, which, it is said, to every mortal thing 
comes too early or too late, remembered him. Death, 
pityingly, took him out of the warm, cruel hands of 
life. It was a general decline, the doctor said, 
brought about by exposure, together with an inherit¬ 
ed “ tendency to pulmonary troubles.” His father and 


Tom had gone in something the same way. They 
did not know that he w r as dying of a broken heart,— 
men do not die of broken hearts, the doctors say. 
He made his will, and the lawyer, a little keener of 
sight, said to himself, “ He is not the first man who has 
wasted heart and soul and substance on a woman too 
blind to see and too selfish to care for it.” 

The day before he died came a lot of papers, giv¬ 
ing an account of the trial and perfect success of a 
certain invention which was to work wonders in the 
world of mechanical labor. It was spoken of as the 
product of great inventive genius wedded to patience 
and skill. 

There came also a line from Josiah Green. “It’s 
all right, old honest heart, a great success ! I found 
the ‘ missing link,’ just enough to make it honest for 
me to call it mine. Already I see a big fortune in 
it; and the world, quick to see a good thing, sees it 
also, and there are plenty with money ready to take 
hold of it if I want, which I don’t. If there’s any¬ 
thing I can do for you let me know.” 

“ There’s nothing that can be done for me,” said 
Dick. “I wish that this child of mine could have borne 
my name. I wish I could have left something, that 
the world would have known I had given it some¬ 
thing. But it’s like all the rest of my life, and it’s 
all right. I hope that somewhere there is a world 
where all the failures and the blunders of this will 
be understood. I have wished and longed so much, 
and could not tell. I could never make you know- 
Agatha, but some time and some where you will 
see, I hope, not what I did, or failed to do, but 
what I would have done ; not what I was, but what 
I would have been if I could. If I only could ! But 
it was all wrong from the beginning ; the wind always 
blew in my face, and—it—was—too—strong—for 
me. But I think the wind is changing, dear. It is 
blowing soft and cool and sweet, and I am going 
with it now at last, at last.” So Death remem¬ 
bered him. 

Then the kisses his living lips never knew were 
given to him dead, the flowers that had never blos¬ 
somed for him living were piled upon his coffin. 
And they wept and lamented and wished that they 
had loved him more. They saw the sweetness 
and the sadness of his unselfish, denied life when 
it was too late to love the one or help the other. 
’Tis the world’s way. 


THE CLOWN’S VENGEANCE. 

BY PAUL BONNETAIN. 

HAT evening there was a great concourse of 
people on the Place de la LibertA The 
Rosati circus was giving its last performance 
and the public of Toulon was flocking in crowds to 
this farewell representation. At the doors, beneath 
the flickering gleam of the rows of gas-lights, there 
was a ceaseless crush and movement; an endless line 







The Clown's Vengeance. 


423 


was slowly winding its way in, halting at every step 
and hammering the sounding planks with a confused 
clatter. All around, on the notice-boards stuck in 
the ground, the colors of the flaming posters were 
displayed and, bathed in the garish light, dazzled the 
eye. In the crowd of spectators and idlers every 
one was reading aloud the placard which stood con¬ 
spicuous in front. 


POSITIVELY THE LAST TIME 
This Evening 

Last Performances 

—OF— 

Prince Icarus 

(the flying man), 
cf 

Mlle. Rita 
and of 
Trilby 

(The grasshopper clown). 


Within the circus the seats were already overflow¬ 
ing, and the same names repeated from mouth to 
mouth blended into a general murmur deadened by 
the canvas roof over the ring. Some of the circus- 
men were raking the saw-dust on the track, and, 
above the door to the stables, the musicians were 
languidly tuning their instruments, or, at times, ad¬ 
dressing friends who passed beneath the gallery. 
“ That you ? Marius, how goes it ? ” etc. In the 
upper rows the audience was alive with impatience for 
the expected spectacle, and irritated by the passing 
of the young fashionable “ first-nighters ”—envied 
frequenters behind the scenes—who pressed in a 
crowd to the narrow entrance leading to the green¬ 
room. 

Officers in civilian dress, and students, ship- 
brokers and idle dandies, all wished for the last time 
to get near the fair Mile. Rita, the celebrated eques¬ 
trienne, who, for a month, had been the subject of 
conversation in every mess-room and every club. 
They stepped along, the elbowed and the elbowers, 
between the walls that were covered with sets of 
varnished harness, and begged pardon every time 
they jostled a groom. They stopped at the stalls of 
“ Blue Devil,” and “ Djinn,” the two trick Arabians, 
and under pretext of giving some sugar to the horses 
fluttered about the extemporized dressing-room 
where Rita, tranquil and smiling, was donning her 
attire. Then came in succession the commonplace 
compliments, to which the star of the circus, un¬ 


heeding, scarcely deigned to give an answer, without 
seeming to note the ardent gaze of her admirers. 

She was a handsome girl, a careless gypsy, with 
the sun in her eyes and her blood, accustomed to 
the atmosphere of admiration, and she finished her 
toilet without hurrying. At times, however, impa¬ 
tiently, and with a pretty rebellious movement, she 
gave her shoulders a shake and made the pearls of 
her necklace rattle. It was when the little clown Tril¬ 
by, her husband, who, all befloured and painted, was 
walking before the room, his huge top-knot swaying 
at every step, drew near, and with his sharp falsetto 
voice launched some taunt at the artiste’s courtiers. 
They laughed, they even applauded, but, more often, 
they lowered their eyes before the cutting cold gaze 
of the dwarf, whose wan and grotesque face—in 
spite of the smile of his blood-red and too large 
lips—seemed at some moments to be fraught with 
evil. 

This evening the manikin was in a worse humor 
than usual ; his jeers were more biting and more 
bitter, and beneath the coat of flour covering his 
seamed features, he appeared not pale but livid. His 
eyes had a sharp and menacing flash in them, and 
never left Rita, who, gayly posed before her mirror, 
was having her bodice laced by the handsome 
gymnast Icarus. 

In the circus the orchestra was finishing a waltz by 
Metra. The curious were gradually quitting the 
stable and returning to their places. The sharp 
cuts of the ring-master’s whip were cracking in the 
arena ; the show had begun. Icarus placed a last 
rose in the hair of the equestrienne and ran to chalk 
her shoes. He stumbled against his dwarfish com¬ 
rade. 

The clown seemed very busy in examining the gas- 
meter, and pushed him away with an oath. Then 
without more ado the acrobat sent him reeling, and 
leaping on a ladder cried with a laugh, “ Out of the 
way, thou pitiful pygmy ! ” 

Trilby uttered a roar of rage and anger, then sud¬ 
denly calming himself, returned to the meter, and 
after having followed with an eye of hatred the ascent 
of Icarus, began again fumbling with the mechanism 
of the stop-cocks. 

* 

* * 

A great clapping of hands. A frantic ovation. 
Two hundred pretty women dropped their fans, 
and leveled their opera-glasses, and, a trifle pale, 
smiled with a delicious dread. Icarus was up there, 
high up at the top of the circus, hanging to the last 
trapeze, and turning over and over in it, slowly and 
without an effort. 

At times he paused and his face was seen radiant 
in the foolish pride of triumph. Below in the ring, 
the clowns were stretching a circular net, and in all 
the circus reigned deep silence broken only by a 
feminine whisper, “ How graceful ! what a hand¬ 
some fellow ! ” 

The gymnast then, finding his public sufficiently 





424 Treasury 

warmed up, raised himself at one pull, stiffening 
himself on his wrists. 

The trapeze, violently thrown back, described a 
great arc, and, letting go the bar, the man shot for¬ 
ward like an arrow into space. 

There was a feeling of apprehension in the crowd, 
and an “ oh ! ” of affright uttered by a thousand 
breasts. The acrobat reached the second trapeze, 
and calmly let himself swing in its decreasing oscilla¬ 
tions. 

Slowly he thus darted eleven times, calm and 
smiling as he made the tour of the circus, and rejoic¬ 
ing at feeling beneath him the immense panting of 
the throng. 

At the eleventh trapeze he paused to prolong this 
emotion,—his glory—and his eyes sought out Rita. 
The equestrienne saw him, and with the handle of 
her whip threw him a kiss. 

The elated Icarus hanging by one hand, saluted 
her ; then he brought his trapeze to rest. He was 
about to complete his task. 

“ Enough,” said some voices. 

“ No ! Bravo ! Encore ! ” cried the ladies, eager 
to feel once more the perverse joy of an enticing pain. 

For the twelfth time the handsome gymnast, stif¬ 
fening his muscular arms, essayed his terrible flight. 

But an appalling cry of terror, a frantic shout 
arose. 

In an instant, suddenly,—like a candle put out by 
the flap of a bat’s wing,—the thousand glistening 
lights of the circus were extinguished all together, at 
the precise and fatal moment when the man was 
darting into space. 

At the same instant there rose from the ring a 
laugh, terrible, vibrating with hate. 

Then in the black and hideous obscurity, in the 
pitchy darkness that filled the circus lately so blazing, 
poignant shrieks rolled from row to row. Women 
fainted, and the spectators, with their hearts crushed 
in hopeless terror, shudderingly sat as if petrified in 
their places, and peered into the night that filled the 
dome. The net was empty, the acrobat must be 
looked for in the gloom. In the search, lanterns 
were brought and carried toward the top of the cir¬ 
cus. Five minutes—five centuries, elapsed. Some 
one cried “ Bengal lights.” 

Then, while, here and there, people were trying to 
re-light the burners, a blaze of violet and red, of 
green and azure, flashed out and with a powerful 
illumination lit up at one flash every corner of the 
circus with its fantastic and trembling gleams. 

And suddenly, as in the flames of a transformation 
scene, was seen rigid, clamped to the trapeze, Prince 
Icarus, hanging motionless. 

An unheard-of horror paralyzed him in a super¬ 
natural frenzy. His hair stood erect. His dis¬ 
torted mouth grinned an idiot grin terrible to see, 
and in his f-ace, whiter than that of a corpse, his 
haggard eyes protruding from their sockets, rolled 
convulsively. 


of Tales. 

Soon his comrades were near him. With the 
handle of his knife, Trilby struck the gymnast’s 
hands and with great difficulty detached from the 
bar the clenched hands of the miserable man. 

The gas was re-lighted, and the crowd, silently and 
without a breath, watched, as it was slowly lowered 
down, the descent of the living corpse. 

There is to-day near Marseilles in the Asylum of 
Saint Pierre, a poor madman who stalks straight for¬ 
ward, his arms held in front and contracted in an 
imaginary grip. It is a frightful sight. It is 
“ Prince Icarus.” 

I do not know what jail holds Trilby. As to the 
fairy Rita, she is now a princess somewhere—I do 
not know where—in Germany. 


A MODERN DELILAH. 

BY JAMES PAYN. 

I. 

OHN RIDDEL was a young man in whom con¬ 
fidence was justly placed by Messrs. Moonstone 
& Co., jewellers, his employers, in whose es¬ 
tablishment, at the time we became acquainted with 
him, he occupied the post of foreman. He was not 
a “self-made ” man as yet, but he was on the road 
to it. For, as we all know, Providence has still the 
advantage of priority in this particular ; it makes its 
man (such as he is) at a comparatively early date, 
whereas, when a man makes himself, he seldom ac¬ 
complishes it before he is five-and-forty at the very 
least—when, indeed, the other cannot be compared 
with him. John never drank, except a glass of beer 
with his early dinner ; he never smoked, nor of course 
took snuff ; he never handled anything in the shape 
of a billiard-cue, unless it was his neatly and tightly 
rolled-up umbrella ; he never—I was going to add, 
he had no weakness as regards the ladies ; but this 
I hardly dare to write, because of the extreme atten¬ 
tion he paid to his very fine head of hair. Why 
should any man not being a Narcissus take such 
great pains with his hair, unless to make an impres¬ 
sion on the ladies ? 

Yet even here I must hasten to do John Riddel 
justice ; it would have shocked him to have supposed 
that he had any general views in this direction. He 
was not a Don Juan, nor even a gay Lothario ; if he 
had had serious designs, they would have been upon 
one lady only, and by no means induced by any 
meretricious attractions such as youth or beauty ; he 
would, in accordance with precedent, have attached 
himself to his master’s daughter, though she had been 
twenty years older than himself, or a black woman, 
or an albino. Unfortunately, Mr. Moonstone had 
only nephews, whom our hero could not marry, and 
who would in all probability become partners in the 
concern before him. Still, he cultivated that fine 
head of hair, harrowed it with a tortoise-shell comb, 
drove a furrow straignt across it from his brow to 






A Modern Delilah. 


425 


the nape of his neck, and “ top-dressed ” it with ma¬ 
cassar oil and other unguents. It shone in the sun 
as brightly as any of Messrs. Moonstone & Co.’s 
costly wares, over which he presided. 

There were other assistants in the shop, and with 
them, I am sorry to say, Mr. John Riddel was not 
popular—young men rarely appreciate in their asso¬ 
ciates so much virtue as resided in our hero, and es¬ 
pecially if that virtue has not been its own reward, 
but has enabled its possessor to walk over their heads 
and stop there. There was hardly one among them 
but at some time during his servitude with Messrs. 
Moonstone had mislaid a ring or a trinket for a few 
hours, or had even caused some loss to the firm, not 
so much through carelessness as from not being 
quite as wide awake as a weasel. 

For the way of a jeweller’s assistant is set with 
springes. It is calculated that about one per cent, of 
the customers at such establishments are rogues and 
vagabonds, people who come to spy out, not the na¬ 
kedness of the land but its riches, and if possible to 
possess themselves of them by force or fraud. And 
these look as little like rogues as nature (and art) 
can enable them to do. Nothwithstanding all that 
has been written upon the deceitfulness of riches, it 
is difficult to believe that a gentleman who drives his 
own mail phaeton, or a lady in occupation of a char¬ 
iot upon c springs, are brigands in disguise. Yet the 
young men at Messrs. Moonstone’s had been most 
of them taken in by appearances, and at least once 
in the lives of each, their employers had paid for 
the experience. One of them had taken jewelry to 
a newly married couple at a fashionable hotel “ on 
approval,” and had been so successful in his recom¬ 
mendations that they had “collared ” the whole lot, 
and given him such a dose of chloroform in exchange 
for them, that he was unable to give any clear ac¬ 
count of his adventures for hours afterward. Another 
had been set upon by a whole gang of thieves, in 
such a promiscuous and overwhelming fashion that 
he could recall nothing of what had happened, ex¬ 
cept that he had been “ struck with an instrument 
like the ace of spades,” which the newspapers ex¬ 
pressed a hope would afford some clue to the police ; 
they thought it showed, I suppose, that the perpetra¬ 
tors of the outrage must be either gardeners or gam¬ 
blers ; but nothing came of the suggestion. Others, 
again, had been exposed to the seductions of the 
fair sex, and in losing their hearts had sacrificed the 
diamoi R of their employers. 

In this 'gard Mr. John Riddel, being ada- 

mantin aluable. His youthful as well as 

handsci ' look:- attracted these ladies of industry, 
who, c nt .rh,g the shop, gravitated toward him 
quite n. Lural’y A man of that age, as they flattered 
thems ves end one so particular about his hair, 
must rarev fa 1 in easy victim to their fascinations. 
Thiev s the;, were, they were still women, and 
perha s owed their feelings to carry them 

too f. ' had stopped half way, where Mr. 


Boltby, the cashier, sat, or at the desk over which Mr. 
Malton (the hero of the ace-of-spades story) pre¬ 
sided, they would have had a better chance ; but 
Boltby was bald and Malton was gray, and women 
will never understand that it is from forty to fifty 
that men are most impressionable with respect to 
female charms. Your conceited young fellows think 
it nothing surprising that any lady should fall in 
love with them, but when a man comes to that more 
mature period which we call (or at least I call) the 
prime of life, he appreciates the compliment. 

I do not say that Mr. John Riddel had not some 
admirers among the fair sex who loved him for his 
own sake. Indeed, it was whispered among his de¬ 
tractors that, like the first Duke of Marlborough and 
other great men who ought to have known better, 
he derived pecuniary advantage from their devotion 
to him; that the sums expended in macassar oil, 
etc., for the adornment of his appearance, came 
back to him twenty-fold in substantial tokens from 
duchesses and countesses and the like. Goodness 
knows whether there was any truth in such stories. 
Perhaps it pleased his rivals to invest the drudgery 
that was their daily lot with this halo of romance. 
For my part my tastes are sensational, and I do 
what I can to make my beliefs correspond with 
them ; but, on the other hand, my strong common- 
sense declares for moderation as regards Mr. Riddel 
and the ladies of rank ; therefore I draw the line at 
duchesses. But he was certainly as fascinating as 
he was hard-hearted. When any lady customer who 
was unknown to him got out of her brougham—for 
no one ever came in a cab to Messrs. Moonstone’s es¬ 
tablishment—and moved up the shop in his direction, 
he would look at her through his half-shut eyes 
—for they were of the “ dreamy ” order of beauty— 
and murmur to himself, “ Now, is this a swindler or 
a bona-fide party ? ” And many a bona-fide party did he 
serve with much external politenesswho little dreamed 
of the suspicion which she excited within him. 

He thought it a bad sign when they took off their 
gloves, and under such circumstances would always 
decline to show them those specimens of rough dia¬ 
monds which a wet finger can carry away with it. 
And when they offered to pay for their little purchases 
by check, it was quite pretty to hear him explain, in his 
soft voice, how the “ system ” of the firm was a ready 
money one, and that no exception could be made in 
favor of any one, however highly connected, who 
was not personally known to it. 

You might have thought, perhaps, that the enter¬ 
tainment of such suspicions, not to mention the “evil 
communications ” (when they turned out to be well 
founded), to which he was necessarily exposed, would 
have corrupted his own integrity ; but this was not 
the case : his employers intrusted him quite literally 
with untold gold, and he was the last man to have 
abused their confidence. And yet, as I have said, 
he was not popular. Indeed, the story which I am 
about to relate concerning him, and which is cer- 





426 


Treasury of Tales. 


tainly of a character to arouse sympathy and com¬ 
passion, was told me by his fellow-clerk, Mr. Malton 
(who had given me his own ace-of-spades adventure 
in a very different style), with a great deal of wag¬ 
gishness and enjoyment. 

One afternoon, a brougham stopped at Messrs. 
Moonstone’s establishment with a widow in it; 
about the brougham there could be no sort of doubt; 
it was not a private vehicle, but one of those which 
are hired by the day or hour—the appearance of the 
driver, not to mention that of the horse, precluded 
the possibility of its being the property of the person 
who employed it. If she thought to be set down 
among “ carriage people,” because she used such a 
conveyance, she must have been sanguine indeed. 
And so far that was a good sign. People that came 
to rob on a scale worth mentioning (I am not think¬ 
ing of those who slipped an unconsidered trifle, such 
as a ring or a spray into their muffs ; they were 
always detected and bowed out of the shop into the 
arms of a policeman in plain clothes who stood at 
the door)—people, I say, who wanted to swindle , 
were always very particular about the vehicle that 
brought them. 

What roused suspicion in the watchful eye of Mr. 
John Riddel was the widow herself. Like Mr. Wel¬ 
ler, Senior (though without his matrimonial experience 
to excuse it) he had a prejudice against widows—at 
least, in jewellers’ shops ; nor, I am bound to con¬ 
fess, was it altogether without grounds ; the garb 
and the mien of sorrow being the stalking-horses 
under which a good deal of knavery is accomplished. 
And then this widow was so bewitching to look at, 
that he was naturally alarmed : from every neat plait 
of her beautiful hair, and every fold of her modest 
suit of mourning, there seemed to him to flutter a 
danger-signal. He was wont to declare, indeed, 
that he knew she was after no good from the first 
moment he set eyes on her ; but that statement must, 
I think, be received with caution. If his face grew 
severe and his manner painfully polite, as she came 
up to where he stood, it was because he knew that 
Boltby and Malton had got their eyes upon him and 
were looking out for some sign of weakness. 

“ I wish to see some rings,” she said, in a soft and 
gentle voice ; “ mourning rings ; ” and then she took 
off her glove, displaying the whitest little hand 
imaginable. 

Of course he could not help seeing her hand, nor 
yet her face, from which she had put back her veil. 
It wore an expression of sadness, but also one of 
enfranchisement and content; it seemed to say, “ My 
late husband was very unworthy of me ; but he has 
left me free, and I forgive him.” Who has not seen 
such widows, who wear their weeds almost as if they 
were flowers, and who have apparently selected black 
as their only wear because it is becoming to them ? 
I have often thought, if I could have the choice of 
my own calling, that, next to being “ companion to 
a lady,” I should like to be a young jeweller trying 


on rings. It must be almost as good as bigamy, 
trigamy, polygamy, and with none of the risks. 

Mr. Riddel said, “ Allow me, madam,” in his most 
honeyed voice, and slipped (“ eased ” he called it, 
and certainly it was very easy work) ring after ring 
upon the widow’s dainty finger. “ I hope I am not 
hurting you,” he murmured. 

“ Oh, no,.” she sighed ; “ there was a time—but 
that is passed now—when it would have given me 
pleasure. I mean,” she added hastily, and with a 
modest blush, “ when the rings would have done so ; 
but jewels and gewgaws have no longer any attrac¬ 
tions for me.” Mr. John Riddel by no means felt 
certain of this, but he had an eye for number, and 
would have missed a ring from the tray in an instant, 
though he had been exhibiting a thousand. At last 
she made her choice (it was the most expensive of 
the whole lot), and produced from the prettiest little 
bag in the world—a check-book. 

“ Pardon me, madam, we do not take checks ex¬ 
cept from—ahem !—old customers.” 

“ Well, I am not a very old customer,” she said, 
smiling. (“ No ; but you’re a queer one,” he thought, 
“or I am much mistaken.”) “Still, I should have 
thought in the case of a lady like myself-” 

“ Madam,” said this crafty young man, “ if it lay 
in my power to oblige you, there would of course be 
no difficulty in the matter ; but the rule of the firm 
is, unhappily, what I have stated.” 

“ Then the firm will take my last sixpence,” she 
rejoined with tender playfulness ; and from the most 
elegant of “ porte-monnaies ” she counted him out the 
sum required, when its contents in truth were quite 
exhausted. “ I am lodging at De la Bois’, the court 
hairdresser,” she said : “ my name is Mrs. Montfort. 
However, I will not trouble you to send the ring, as 
I shall'have to go home to get some more money,” 
and she looked at him with eyes that seemed to say, 
“Cruel man, thus to reduce me to destitution.” 

Then she rose and sailed down the shop, carelessly 
glancing at this or that (chiefly in the hair and 
mourning department) as she passed out. “ If she 
is not on the square, she does it uncommonly well,” 
thought Mr. Riddel; “ perhaps I have done her an 
injustice, poor dear.” 

On the third morning after her visit the widow 
called again, sailed quite naturally up to our hero, 
and cast anchor under his eyes. “ You will think,” 
she remarked, “ after what I said the other day about 
gewgaws that I am very changeable in my tastes ; 
but I am not come this time upon my own account ; 
I want to see some diamond lockets for a friend.” 

This is quite the usual course with ladies and 
others who victimize the jewellers : they buy a ring 
for ten pounds, and after having thus established 
themselves—cast out their sprat to catch a herring 
—they patronize the establishment in earnest. 

Singular to say, however, this did not rouse Mr. 
Riddel’s suspicions. Notwithstanding his pretence 
of indifference to Mrs. Montfort’s charms, he had 







A Modern Delilah . 


privately sent to De la Bois, in the interim, and found 
that the lady did reside at that fashionable hair¬ 
dresser’s, and on the first floor; he had done it of 
course in the interest of the firm, and in case she 
should call again ; but perhaps he would not have 
been pleased had Messrs. Malton & Boltby been 
made aware of his precaution. 

The locket that pleased her most was an expen¬ 
sive one, perhaps too much so for her friend’s purse, 
she said. It was very foolish of that lady, but she 
had such a complete reliance upon her (Mrs. Mont- 
fort’s) taste and judgment that she had placed the 
matter entirely in her hands. It was a great respon¬ 
sibility. What did Mr. Riddel think ? , 

Mr. Riddel’s thoughts were always cut and dried 
on such occasions. He expressed his opinion that 
the locket selected by Mrs. Montfort was certainly 
the most elegant of all, and testified to the sagacity 
of the lady who had such confidence in her good 
taste. But as to the price, Mrs. Montfort herself 
was the only judge as to the state of her friend’s 
exchequer. 

“ Oh, she’s rich enough,” smiled Mrs. Montfort, 
“ and as open-handed as any woman can be. Our 
sex are naturally inclined to be a little close,” she 
added, with a smile, “don’t you think so?” 

Mr. Riddel did not think so ; he had always found 
ladies very generous in their dealings ; in this lady’s 
particular case he felt more certain than ever that 
the locket—and he let the light play on it so as to 
show the brilliants to the best advantage—was the 
very thing to suit her. 

“ I think so too,” murmured the widow ; “ but then 
you see there’s the responsibility. I tell you what 
you shall do. You shall send all the lockets to my 
lodgings for an hour or so, and then my niece, who 
is staying with me, shall give her opinion on the mat¬ 
ter and by her advice I will abide.” 

Mr. Riddel smiled, but shook his beautiful head 
of hair. Every curl of it—and there were thousands 
of them—expressed a polished but decided negative. 
“We couldn’t do it, madam, we really couldn’t.” 

“ What ! not leave the lockets for an hour ? ” 

“ No, madam, not for a moment. Of course it is 
but a mere formula, one of those hard-and-fast regu¬ 
lations, the existence of which one so often has to 
deplore ; but I have no authority to oblige you as 
you request. I can send the lockets, of course—or 
bring them myself—but whoever is in charge of 
them will have orders not to lose sight of them. 
This is an invariable rule with every customer whose 
name is not entered on our books.” 

Instead of getting into a rage—genuine, if she was 
genuine, or pretended, if she was a swindler—the 
widow uttered a low rippling laugh, 

Like the voice of a summer brook 
In the leafy month of June, 

Which, to the sleeping woods, all night 
Singeth a quiet tune— 

only her teeth were much whiter than the pebbles of 


427 

any brook. “You tickle me,” she said (of course 
she was only speaking metaphorically), “ so that I 
really cannot help laughing; it is so droll that you 
should think I came here to steal lockets.” 

“ My dear madam,” said Mr. Riddel, “ pray do 
not talk like that; if it rested with me ” (sly dog that 
he was), “you should carry off the whole contents of 
the shop to choose from.” 

“ You are very good, and very kind,” she said. 
“ If any other person had expressed such doubts of 
me I should have been terribly offended. But I 
quite understand how you are situated. Well, you 
shall bring the lockets yourself, and for fear you 
should think I have any wicked designs,” she added 
with a little blush, “will you come this morning ? It 
will be equally convenient to my niece, and you 
needn’t be afraid of being garrotted by daylight.” 

“ My dear madam,” exclaimed Mr. Riddel for the 
second time, with even deeper deprecation than be¬ 
fore, “ how can you ? Of course I’ll come whenever 
you please.” 

“ Very good ; as my brougham is here, I will drive 
you home in it.” In five minutes he had packed up 
all the lockets and was following her elegant though 
stately figure down the shop. 

“ There he goes with another duchess,” whispered 
Malton to Boltby; “ see how he runs his hand 
through his hair.” 

“ Let us hope she will will comb it for him,” an¬ 
swered Boltby the bald, thinking of that happy pair 
who had seemed all in all to one another, but had 
not been so pre-occupied as to prevent them giving 
him the chloroform. “ I believe she’s no more a 
duchess than you are.” 

II. 

Months rolled on, but though you had gone ever 
so many times into Messrs. Moonstone’s establish¬ 
ment you would not have seen Mr. John Riddel. 
His flowing cataract of hair no more adorned the 
foreman’s desk, over which gleamed in its place— 
like moonlight after sunlight—the bald and shining 
head of Mr. Boltby. And yet our hero was in the 
shop ; he stood at the counter in the farther corner, 
where the youngest assistant was always placed (in 
charge of the mourning jewelry), with a Welsh wig 
on. His own mother—not to mention the duchess 
—would never have known him. He had fallen 
from his high estate, and was beginning life again on 
the lowest rung of the ladder. 

This was how it happened. Mrs. Montfort and 
her niece, a young lady only less charming than 
herself, dwelt as I have said on the first floor of Mr. 
De la Bois’, the court hairdresser. They had 
lodged there for some weeks, and by punctual 
payments, and carelessness concerning the domestic 
accounts, had won the heart of their susceptible 
landlord. He saw that she had an inward grief— 
passing that of the ordinary widow—and he ven¬ 
tured to inquire what it was. 






428 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Alas ! ” she said, “ I have a dear and only- 
nephew whose condition gives me the greatest 
uneasiness. He has overworked himself, and is 
threatened with brain fever ; the doctors say that if 
we could only get him to have his head shaved, all 
might be well, but he has a splendid head of hair— 
indeed, a great deal too much of it. No argument 
of mine will induce him to part with it.” 

This touched Mr. De la Bois’ professional feel¬ 
ings. “ Dear me, madam, how I pity the young 
gentleman ! It is a terrible thing to part with one’s 
hair, but still—we could shave him better than at 
any other establishment in the kingdom and 
quicker.” 

“ Oh, I don’t care about the quickness,” answered 
Mrs. Montfort, hastily ; “ the thing is to get it done 
thoroughly. I would give fifty pounds if Alphonse 
would only submit to it. Don’t you think, if he 
came with me one morning, you could get it done 
whether he would or not ? ” 

“ Well really, madam, that would be a strong 
measure; still if it is for the young man’s good-” 

“ They tell me, Mr. De la Bois, nothing else will 
save his wits : he is half mad already ; entertains the 
strangest delusions—that everything I have—my 
jewels, for example—belongs to him. They will 
belong to him some day, poor fellow—that is,” 
she added with a sigh, “ if he lives to enjoy them. ” 

“ Poor dear young gentleman ! And you said fifty 
pounds, I think. Well, I think it can be managed 
fox you. If you will name a morning, I will have 
four of my strongest young men in readiness, and if 
you will bring him here, I will promise you he shall 
have his head shaved.” 

“ Very good ; I will take him out shopping with 
me ; he is fond of shopping ; thinks he is a shop¬ 
keeper sometimes, when his head is bad. He shall 
come here in my brougham. You will know him in 
a moment by his magnificent head of hair.” 

“Just so ; and in five minutes nobody shall know 
him, madam.” 

“Don’t be in a hurry about it. Let it be done 
thoroughly,” she answered. And so it was arranged. 

Accordingly when Mr. John Riddel arrived in the 
widow’s carriage at Mr. de la Bois’, and had just 
placed the parcel of diamond lockets upon her 
sitting-room table, there was an incursion of four 
strong young men, with combs in their heads and 
aprons round their waists. Since those 

Four and twenty brisk young fellows, 

All of them with umber-rellas, 

Fell upon poor Billy Taylor, 

And persuaded him to be a sailor, 

there has been no such outrage. They carried him 
into a back room, fastened him into a chair, and in 
spite of his babbling about how he was a jeweller’s 
foreman and was being robbed (and with violence), 
they shaved his head. 

They not only effected this with great completeness, 


but took their time about it, as his aunt had requested 
them to do, so that in the meantime she got clear 
out of the house, and nothing was ever heard of her 
afterward, nor of her niece, nor of the diamond 
lockets. It was supposed to be the completest 
shave,” in the slang sense, that had ever been 
effected. Never since Samson’s time had any one 
suffered so severely from being cropped ; for Mr. 
John Riddel not only lost his hair but his situation. 
The Messrs. Moonstone declined any longer to in¬ 
trust their business to a foreman who had fallen into 
such a shallow trap, and lost them thereby a thousand 
pounds’ worth of jewelry. They declared that it 
was all through his insufferable conceit, and that if 
he had not taken such pains with his hair, or worn 
so much of it, such a plan would never have entered 
the head of that modern Delliah, Mrs. Montfort. 


LOVE FINDS THE WAY. 

BY BESANT AND RICE. 

I. 

HE flat gray stone front of Haughmond Hall 
looked cheerless in the early dawn of a Jan¬ 
uary morning in the year 1794. One bit of 
bright color only broke the drab monotony of its 
upper story—the face of its master, that instant 
clean shaved in cold water, and now appearing, as 
rosy as Aurora, at his open dressing-room window. 

“ Keep your hands down, boys,” he called out. 

Five stable boys, riding five promising four-year- 
olds at exercise in the park on the other side of the 
ha-ha, looked up at the Squire’s window together, 
touched the peaks of their caps together, and skirt¬ 
ing the lawn, trotted gently away under a clump of 
beeches, and so out of sight. 

Mr. Haughmond went on with his toilet. By the 
time the horses came round again, he had tied his 
long green-and-white checked neckerchief twice or 
thrice round his full neck, and made a neat and 
sportsmanlike little bow under his chin. 

“ Take ’em on a bit faster,” was the Squire’s com¬ 
mand. Five hands rose in acknowledgment of the 
head at the window, and five pairs of vigorous young 
heels at the same moment pressed their horses’ 
flanks. They disappeared behind the beeches at a 
smart pace, and the Squire put on his morning 
jacket. 

“ They’ll do,” he said, as the last pair of hind 
hoofs in the string was lost to view, and, drawing in 
his head from the window, he picked up his keys 
and money from the dressing-table, counting the 
latter with the air of a methodical man ; and then 
he warily dropped his cumbrous great gold repeater 
into his fob. 

As he laid his hand on the heavy brass handle of 
his bedroom door, there came through the thick oak 
panels sounds of anxious scratching and whining on 
the other side, and directly a space of a few inches 






Love Finds the JFay. 


permitted, two white fox-terriers—prime favorites 
of their master—bounded into the room and wished 
him good-morning as plainly as if they had spoken 
in the purest Saxon. While the Squire searched in 
the pockets of the clothes he had worn the evening 
before, the dogs sniffed about the room. The result 
of his search was a great letter, six inches square, 
rather the worse for the Squire’s after-dinner cus¬ 
tody, sealed on the obverse with the arms of the 
Elliots of Whitewell, and addressed on the reverse, 
in the somewhat boyish small-text hand of the heir 
of that house, to 

“ Miss Georgiana Haughmond, 

“ per favor of 

“Gilbert Haughmond, Esq.” 

Having straightened out the creases and put 
the corners right, the Squire, preceded by his ter¬ 
riers, went downstairs into the hall, where he stuck 
the letter in a prominent place in the letter rack— 
a contrivance of sporting design which hung in the 
window to the right of the door, faced on the oppo¬ 
site shutter by a collection of seaweeds, and flanked 
by Mr. Haughmond’s select library of twenty-one 
more or less useful and entertaining volumes, which 
reposed in well-dusted array in the window-seat. It 
was toward the window to the left of the hall-door 
that the Squire now directed his attention. Here, 
among his fishing-rods and guns, hung his weather¬ 
glass. This long-suffering piece of furniture came 
in for its usual morning allowance of thumps ; after 
which, having thoroughly satisfied himself of the 
state of the weather, Squire Haughmond turned his 
steps toward his stable-yard. As he takes a short 
cut through his shrubbery and kitchen-garden, let 
me say a word about him. First, he is a fox hunter 
—an M. F. H. of five-and-twenty years’ standing ; 
secondly, he is a widower of fifty-five, blessed with 
an only child—Georgiana—whom he has brought up 
from infancy with such slight assistance as was ab¬ 
solutely necessary from governesses ; thirdly, he is a 
very red-faced elderly gentleman, to whom it is a 
great trouble that he seldom scales under sixteen 
stone. In politics he is a Tory. In religion he 
takes his nap in the family pew twice on every Sun¬ 
day, from Advent to the last of the “ after Trinitys.” 
His views in relation to foreign affairs may be gath¬ 
ered from the remark he made when a nobleman of 
the county, who had hunted hounds badly for three 
or four seasons, was appointed to an important em¬ 
bassy, that “ he was good for nothing else.” In 
home affairs Mr. Haughmond was supremely satis¬ 
fied with his own doings. Popular as a sportsman ; 
passionate, but kind, as a master and landlord ; as a 
magistrate, dealing out rough-and-ready justice; 
obstinate as a pig. 

Squire Haughmond found his bosom friend, the 
Reverend Mr. Downes, vicar of the parish, and per¬ 
petual curate of Potcote as well, dismounting from a 
smart crop-tailed cob in the stable-yard. 


429 

The friends shook hands across the cob’s broad 
back. 

“Well, Squire.” 

“Well, Parson.” 

“ The wind shifted sou’-west as I was riding home 
last night. There’ll be a heavenly scent to-day.” 

“ It’s the best scenting day we’ve had for a month, 
in my opinion. We shall have a run—mark me. 
I’m going to draw Windmill Gorse first, and I haven’t 
drawn that blank six times in thirty years.” 

“ My eye ! how soon that bay’s legs got right!” 
exclaimed the parson, critically ~'''' r, ning a great 
bright bay of the Squire’s own breeding. 

“My doctoring, Downes,” expl n. fire, 

with a triumphant smile. 

Having given his directions about the horses f 
the day’s sport, Mr. Haughmond led the way to the 
kennels. At the end of a walk bordered on either 
side by high laurels was an ivied archway guarded 
by two stone foxes ; behind it were the quarters of 
the pack. Here the Squire was in quite a congenial 
element. His hounds were deserving of their wide¬ 
spread fame. Most of them he had bred from Laz¬ 
arus, a draft from the Duke’s, whose broad head the 
Squire now patted fondly, saying: 

“ One of the best dogs I ever cheered.” 

“ He is a made one ! ” cried the parson, caressing 
the old hound admiringly, while his friend went into 
the details of feeding with his head man, and per¬ 
sonally superintended the mixing of a pudding for 
the pack. 

“Come, then. How’s your appetite?” said the 
Squire when his labors were ended. “ It’s time to 
think about breakfast.” 

“ I’m your man,” was the ready response. 

“ Tell you what it is, Jack Downes, you fellows at 
Elliot’s last night won more of me than I thought. 
I could not make my money right by half a guinea 
this morning.” 

“ I did not have it; I’ll swear to that,” protested 
the parson. 

“You won, though, I know. Never knew you 
lose. You’ve the best luck of any man I ever knew, 
and I’ve the worst.” 

“At cards, Squire. Only at cards.” 

“ At everything. Look here, now. Last week I 
lose a mare worth four hundred guineas, if she was 
worth a brass farthing, and her foal and all. And 
now, here’s Georgy refuses when I put her at young 
Elliot. But she shall have him. I’ve made up my 
mind to that. I told the old boy so after you left 
last night. ‘ Your son and my son-in-law,’ I said, 
clapping the young one on the back. I always have 
liked the Elliots. They’re the right strain. The 
lad runs like a good straightforward fox that knows 
his country—bred in it—none of you Leadenhall bag 
gentlemen. Goes out of the room and writes it all 
out in black and white there and then. That’s what 
I like ; and I put the letter in my pocket. She shall 
have him.” 







430 


Treasury of Tales . 


Talking in this strain, the two sportsmen found 
their way into the dining-room. 

The Squire planted himself with his broad back 
to the fire-place, in which the logs were just brighten¬ 
ing to a blaze. Two greyhounds, who had long 
since said good-by to slips and stakes, lay dozing on 
the hearth so comfortably that they hardly cared to 
lift an eyelid or wag a tail for their master. A pure¬ 
bred bulldog occupied the place of honor, and 
growled lazily at the terriers following closely on 
their master’s heel. Everything about the place 
was pure, from a breeder’s point of view. All the 
cats were black, the cocks were black-breasted reds, 
the bulls were the fathers of Coates’s catalogue, the 
cart-horses were punches, and the hunters the prog¬ 
eny of well-tried winners over many a mile of em¬ 
erald turf. Above the carved oak chimney-piece, 
behind the Squire, hung his portrait, presented by 
the members of his hunt. On the south, east, and 
west walls hung pictures of a celebrated greyhound 
the interior of a cockpit, and a famous racehorse. 
There was one print in the room ; it hung between 
the windows, and was the portrait of Sir Fregonwell 
Frampton, the father of the Turf, and erst keeper 
of the King’s running horses. A trophy of foxes’ 
heads and brushes, spurs, riding-whips, and hunt¬ 
ing-horns, was fixed over the door, and a silver cup 
or two adorned the sideboard. 

The table was laid for breakfast, and was spread 
with substantial fare. The parson seated himself 
one yard from the cloth, cut the tip off a tongue, 
pared it into slices of wafer-like thinness, and ate 
them meditatively. 

The Squire reverted to the topic of young Elliot’s 
proposal. 

“ She’s as obstinate as a mule ; but I’ll let her see 
before I’ve done with her.” 

“ Women are the doose,” said the Reverend John 
Downes, who was a bachelor. 

“ They are ; and so was her mother,” said the 
Squire, ungrammatically, and by way of response. 

The parson poised a thin slice of the tongue on 
the point of his knife, and gave an assenting grunt. 

“ Look how that girl can ride ! ” continued the 
father ; “ what hands she’s got ; what an eye she’s 
got; and what judgment! Haven’t I brought her 
up to hounds ever since she could say ‘ Forrard ’ ? 
And what for, I should like to know ? My ‘ First 
Whip.’ I should like to see a man that’s up to the 
work like she is.” 

“ She’s a clinker at her fences—any mortal thing. 
I love to see her take timber ! ” said the parson, 
soothingly. 

“ She’s my daughter, Downes,” said the Squire. 
“ And there’s young Elliot,” he added, “ and every¬ 
thing that I’ve always made up my mind to. And 
the old man a little—a little-” 

“ Dickey on his forelegs,” said his reverence, feel¬ 
ingly. 

“Ay! that’s the word. We are all mortal: and 


his land marches field for field and fence for fence 
with mine, a good two mile and a half here, to say 
nothing of all the Killick property. But Georgiana 
runs quiet in double harness before this year’s out, 
take my word for it, or my name’s not Gilbert 
Haughmond.” 

“ Girls are a ’nation deal of trouble. If I had had 
children I should have liked boys.” 

“ So should I,” said the Squire. “ But I’m not 
tied. What’s mine’s my own, and I can leave my 
land to Dick Cutpurse if I like. No Wiltons shall 
ever have an inch of it. I don’t know which I hate 
most, your skunk of a brother that I was fool enough 
to give my other living to, and then be beat by him 
at the assizes, or old Jack Wilton.” 

“ They’re a pretty pair of scoundrels,” said the 
parson, in whom love of cards, foxhunting, and good 
eating outweighed fraternal affection—by tons. 

“ And it’s that man’s Mohock of a son that my 
daughter must gallop after full cry ! Very pretty ! ” 

Mr. Haughmond expressed what remained of his 
feeling upon this matter by pulling the bulldog’s tail 
till he showed all his teeth. 

The bell in the stable-yard had just done ringing 
for half-past eight. The dining-room door opened, 
and the butler made his appearance, carrying two 
large and foaming flagons of October, holding a 
good three pints each, one of which he set down be¬ 
fore his master, and the other before Mr. Downes. 
He was followed by six or eight other servants, male 
and female, with that drooping carriage and down¬ 
cast expression which meant prayers a century ago, 
and means prayers now. 

“ Prayers ? ” said the parson. 

“ Yes, be hanged to ’em,” said the Squire, refer¬ 
ring, I am happy to say, not to the prayers—an in¬ 
stitution of Church and State—but to the Wilton 
family. He took a comforting pull at the ale, and 
then composed himself in hiseasy-chair for devotion. 
On all hunting-days—which at Haughmond Hall 
were three days a week from the 26th of July to the 
3d or 4th of May—the parson breakfasted with his 
friend the Squire. Advantage was accordingly 
taken on these mornings of the presence of a clergy¬ 
man, and five minutes were devoted to a service 
which Mr. Haughmond persevered with as a duty—. 
irksome, perhaps, but still a duty incumbent on his 
station, as a Squire, a Tory, and a Churchman. 

Immediately after prayers, Miss Haughmond, who 
seldom graced these week-day religious services with 
a personal attendance, made her appearance—a tall, 
fine, country girl of twenty, with eyes as large as 
sloes and as dark, and plenteous tresses of hair black 
and glossy as the raven’s wing. Beneath the sub¬ 
dued melancholy that properly distinguishes the 
young lady crossed in love, Miss Haughmond’s feat¬ 
ures wore an expression of resolute courage and 
masculine determination — qualities she inherited 
from her father. She seated herself at the table, op¬ 
posite him. After the usual interchange of saluta- 






Love Finds the IVay. 


431 


tions, breakfast proceeded in silence, broken only by 
the din of the weapons with which the Squire and 
the parson attacked the cold sirloin. In the way of 
liquids, there was October for the men and tea for 
the lady : the solids comprised beef, corned and 
roast, brawn, ham, tongue, and game pie. “ Hungry 
as a hunter ” is a proverb which applies as well to 
breakfast as to dinner. For generations your true 
foxhunter has enjoyed the rare privilege of waking 
with a keen appetite. Squire Haughmond and Par¬ 
son Downes were no exceptions to this rule, and, as 
they had a long voyage before them, provisioned ac¬ 
cordingly. When they had finished their meal, Mr. 
Haughmond turned his attention to his daughter. 

“We shall have a pretty run to-day, Georgy ; so 
cheer up, girl. Come with me into my room. I’ve 
some good news for you.” 

As they crossed the hall her father gave her the 
letter. It did not want woman’s instinct to guess 
what it was. 

Georgiana followed her father into his justice- 
room, where many a poacher had trembled in his 
shoes. 

Now, Mr. Haughmond kept a diary, and his 
daughter, as well as being his first whip, was his 
amanuensis. The entries in the volume were short 
and pithy :— 

“Took a bad guinea at Hexham Fair.” “The 
skewbald fell with me.” “William threw the skew¬ 
bald down.” “ Windmill Gorse : lots of foxes ; 
Clasher noisy at fences ; found soon ; young hounds 
joined in the cry.” “ Attended quarter sessions.” 
These are examples of the most noteworthy events 
in the Squire’s life which were held worthy of record 
in his diary. 

“ Have you found the place ? ” he asked, standing 
behind his daughter. 

“ Yes, father.” 

“What’s the last.” 

“ ‘ Lictor shows symptoms of tongue.’ ” 

“ Ah ! Go on, then. ‘ 7th—Dined at Elliot’s. 
Lost three guineas, and damn the luck at cards.’ 
Got that ? ” 

“Yes, sir. Without swearing at the luck.” 

« Very well. ‘ Edward Elliot asked for Georgiana. 
Gave my consent with much pleasure.’ ” 

The color mantled to the girl’s cheeks. The pen 
hung hesitatingly in her white fingers. Then she 
wrote her father’s words on the page without a shake, 
adding to the entry on her own account: “ But I 

will never give mine—G. H.,” and held the declara¬ 
tion of independence under her father’s nose. 

The Squire flew into a great rage. 

“ Madame ! ” he thundered. 

“ Sir,” quietly replied his daughter. 

“ I’ve set my heart on this, I have. After all I’ve 
done for you ! An empress could not have had such 
horses to ride as you have had, nor could a queen 
have been taught to ride straighten Are you going 
to defy me ? ” 


“ I hope, sir,” Georgiana answered, with the usual 
feminine evasion of the direct question, “ I hope that 
you will not be so unreasonable as to persist in urg¬ 
ing me to marry the writer of this letter.” 

“ Unreasonable, she calls it—unreasonable ! Now 
that’s too good.” 

“ There’s nothing to be said against Mr. Wilton,” 
continued the young lady, shifting her ground. “ He 
may not have much money, but-” 

“You’ll bring no Wiltons here, I can tell you ; and 
to cut matters short,” said the Squire, pulling out his 
watch, “ as we’ve got nine miles to ride to cover, once 
for all, when young Elliot asks you for an answer 
you’ll say, ‘ Yes.’ ” 

“ Oh, father! ”- 

“ And if you won’t do it out of love for me—and 
nobody can say I haven’t been one father out of ten 
thousand to you—I’ll have you to understand my 
authority is to be respected.” 

“ Father, ” she cried, “ you know I love you 
dearly.” 

She put out her arms, but the Squire stood back a 
step or two. 

“ But I have given my promise to Mr. Wilton. I 
love him better than all the world. You have op¬ 
posed me all along ; but women are not to be forced 
into marrying to please even their fathers. I can be 
happy with nobody else, and I mean to have him.” 

With this spirited speech the young Diana closed 
the door behind her, and left her father to his fury 
and the perusal of Elliot’s letter, which lay crumpled 
on the floor. 

“ Very well, my lady ! very well indeed.” he said 
as the door closed behind her ; “ we shall see who is 
master, you or I.” 

II. 

The meet that day was at Windmill Gorse, a place 
in high favor with the foxhunters of the district—a 
sure find and a good run. There were nearly a 
hundred horsemen in the field, to say nothing of rus¬ 
tics on foot. The dismantled mill crowned a gentle 
rise, on which were several acres of old gorse. 
From the summit you could count eight church 
steeples, and see into four adjoining counties. Well- 
timbered pasture land of sound old turf stretched in 
all directions as far as the eye could see. It was a 
paradise for sportsmen, and its effect told upon none 
more than upon Squire Haughmond, who arrived in 
huntsman’s time at a quarter past ten sharp. Mount¬ 
ed on a slashing gray, arrayed in a green cloth coat, 
with a leathern belt around his ample waist, black 
velvet cap, and mahogany tops, buckling behind, the 
master rode with pride among his brother sportsmen. 
Georgiana follov ed, mounted on her favorite mare, 
a dark-brown, fifteen three, on short legs, and with 
most powerful quarters, her blue habit setting off 
her fine figure to the greatest advantage. 

As she rode into the field, a little way behind her 
father and the parson, she was quickly singled out 
by the admiring eye of the pretender to her hand, 






432 


Treasury of Tales. 


young Elliot. He cantered across the field, and 
raising his hat to her, tried to read his fate in her 
eyes. But he could read nothing there. 

The lady took the initiative. 

“Mr. Elliot,” she said, looking coyly down, “I 
am very much flattered by your proposal. ” 

“ I am sure-” Elliot began, placing a large 

ungloved hand on his heart. 

“ Do not for a moment misunderstand me, sir ” 
Georgiana proceeded. 

His heart thumped against his side. 

“ I can never give my hand to you. My heart is 
already given away.” 

“ Miss Haughmond, if I might hope to win your 
affections, I would wait—any time—if you would 
only let me. I would do anything for you. Give 
me one chance, pray.” 

“ Mr. Elliot, delay would be worse than useless. 
I can trust to your honor. Promise me you will 
keep what I am about to tell a secret from every¬ 
body for one hour.” 

Elliot gave her his word. 

“ I am going to be married this morning at 
Kingscote Church.” 

At this the young man opened his eyes very wide. 

“ Then—then I wish I was in somebody else’s 
shoes. Is it Harry Wilton ? ” 

“Yes,” said Georgiana. “Now keep your 
promise ; ” and giving her bridle a shake, she started 
off at a canter for a coppice that skirted the field. 

The first thought that came into the mind of the 
rejected lover was to go anywhere out of sight; his 
next impulse was to gallop as hard as he could, and 
soothe his disappointed feelings by taking everything 
that 'came in his way. 

The Squire had put his hounds into the gorse, and 
was trying the cover in his most scientific fashion. 

“ Yooi in ! in yooi ! yoicks ! yoicks ! ” 

The bristly green spikes are alive with white tails. 
Now a hound speaks. The Squire knows the voice. 

“ Hark ! hark ! That’s Vengeance speaking. ” 

Silence again among the hounds. 

“ Get together ; push him up ; push him up. Yooi 
in ; yoicks ! ” 

Two voices from the corner of the gorse now. 

“Hark! Vengeance again. Push him up! Yooi, 
yooi, yooi-i-icks ! ” 

A view-halloo from the corner of the field. Out 
come the hounds, well together, and the music is 
general. 

“ Gone away. Hark forrard ! Yi haro, forrard ! 
yi haro ! ” 

Away rides the Squire behind his pack, with a 
mounted irregular cavalry nearer his hounds than 
he likes. 

“ Hold hard there, gentlemen, if you please. 
Plague take you ! ” to a farmer’s son, mounted on a 
puller and plunger, taking his first lesson in sport. 
“ Can’t you come back there ? ” 

And led by Vengeance, the pack plunge into the 


spinney to which Georgiana had betaken herself. 
But the bird had flown on the wings of love a couple 
of miles on the bridle-road to Kingscote Church. 

By her side rode the man she had chosen to take in 
such a very unconventional way for better—her 
love told her there could be no worse with Harry 
Wilton. 

“ Isn’t it delightful ? ” she exclaimed. 

“ I am the happiest fellow in the world. For 
your sake, though, I would rather have had your 
father’s consent.” 

“Don’tbe a bit afraid, Harry; He’ll storm and 
rage ; but he’ll forgive us, I know he will; and he 
never would have let me have you if we’d waited — 
well—forever.” 

“ We have waited a precious long time, darling, 
as it is.” 

“ And I’ll take all the blame. It was my idea, 
was it not, Harry ? ” 

“ All yours, my own ! and a very clever idea too, 
and worthy of my Georgy’s bright wits.” 

“ I love anything romantic, ” cried the beautiful 
girl. 

“ Except a hero of romance, Georgy. You can’t 
make that out of me. ” . 

“ I love you—with—all—my—heart. ” 

If they had been walking, her lover would have 
kissed her lips ; as it was he kissed the gold knob of 
her riding whip. 

“I wonder if my father has missed me yet?” 

Then she wondered if they had found a fox— 
wondered what her father would say when he knew 
the truth—wondered if young Elliot would hint at 
her escape ; and her lover did his best to reassure 
her, for even the boldest young ladies require the 
support of the most comforting assurances under 
such trying circumstances. 

“ Oh, Harry dear ! let us ride faster. I feel that 
unless I gallop like mad I shall never keep up my 
courage to do it. ” 

“ Come, then. But never say that. It is not like 
my brave Georgy. Hark ! I thought I heard a cry,” 
exclaimed Wilton, looking around. 

“ Oh ! where ? ” cried Georgiana, turning pale as 
paper. 

“ Did you see that fellow there, through the gap ? 
Dash the Dutch ! they’re not hunting. ” 

“ They’re hunting us, ” replied the girl. 

“ Come on. Now for it. ” 

“ Straight across country, Harry. ” 

“ As the crow flies. ” 

“ Here they come down the hill. There’s only 
one way out of it; we must pound them.” 

“Who are they?” 

“ Parson Downes and Mr. Elliot, and my father is 
not far behind. ” 

A cry followed them; but they rode like the wind. 
A double post and rails was the first obstacle to 
their runaway progress. Georgiana cleared it at 
once ; Harry made two jumps of it. On they raced. 






Love Finds the hFay. 


433 


neck and neck, over a broad meadow. The fence 
was what has since been called a bullfinch. They 
cleared it together, and ventured to look back. 
Their pursuers had not gained on them a yard. 
A gallop of three hundred yards over ridge and fur¬ 
row brought them face to face with a stiff fence, 
hedge, bank, and post and rail. Georgiana’s splen¬ 
did animal took it in a stride; but Harry Wilton 
made a mess of it and tasted dirt. 

“ Oh, Harry ! ” sobbed the breathless girl. 

“ All right ! no harm done. ” 

He squeezed himself through first and his horse 
after him. 

“ Oh ! if you had been hurt ! ” Georgiana had got 
a cold fit. Her courage was going again. 

“We’ve lost ground now. Never mind ; we must 
make it up. ” 

He leaped into the saddle, and on they went. 

The wind bore the halloos of their pursuers after 
them ; but the church was in sight now, four miles 
off. They were in the valley ; the church was on a 
hill. There was that bright beacon of hope to steer 
to. So they went on at a racing pace, now gaining 
a little on their pursuers, now losing ground. Luck¬ 
ily the fences were not so stiff in this lower pasture 
land. Here they got along splendidly, and their 
pursuers were now out of sight, hidden by interven¬ 
ing hedgerows. This revived the lady’s courage. 
They galloped over a forty-acre meadow in high 
spirits. 

“ We are beating them,” said the gentleman. 

“ We have beaten them,” said the lady. 

They sailed over a fence together ; a few yards off 
was a brook. They came to it. Georgiana’s mare 
took it in like a swallow. 

Harry was left on the other side. His horse 
would not look at the water. 

“ Now I’m settled,” he said. 

“ Oh, Harry ! rush him over it.” 

But he would not be rushed. She cleared it back 
again, and gave him a lead ; but he would not be led. 

Wilton thrashed his horse, spurred him, coaxed him, 
and swore at him ; but on the bank he set his fore¬ 
legs out like two pokers, and broke away bits of the 
turf, but nothing more. 

“ Oh, Harry ! what shall we do ? They will catch 
us. They must be in the next field by this time.” 

“ Come and try to whip him over it,” and she did 
whip the horse’s quarters with a will, but to no good 
purpose. 

“ Let us go some other way ; we might come to a 
bridge.” 

“ My father—my father’s with them now, perhaps. 
That horse’ll never jump it, Harry.” 

“ No, but I will ; ” and throwing himself out of the 
saddle, he gave his horse a couple of stinging cuts 
on the shoulder and turned him loose. Then taking 
a run, Harry Wilton cleared the brook easily enough, 
and ran by Georgiana’s side the rest of the way to 
the church. 


“They’ve given us up,” he said, as the pair 
mounted the hill. 

“Thank heaven for that.” 

In the churchyard was a little old stable, built for 
the parson to put his horse in. Here Georgiana’s 
mare was tied to the rack. On the bridegroom’s arm, 
panting, she entered the church ; but there was no¬ 
body there to receive her but the clerk. 

“ Mr. Downes has not come yet.” 

After a terrible ten minutes, hot and out of breath, 
he arrived. 

“ Why did you not stop ? ” he asked. 

“ Oh—h—h, we took you for your brother, my 
father’s Mr. Downes. Was not Mr. Elliot with 
you ? ” 

“ I was,” said Elliot, who at this juncture entered 
the vestry. 

“ To what may we owe the honor of this visit ? ” 
asked Georgiana, icily. 

Now, young Elliot had come to do a very hand¬ 
some thing. 

“ I’ve come to give you away instead of leaving it 
to the clerk to do—if you’ll let me.” 

And when the parson, wearing a surplice over his 
boots and spurs, came to that part of the service 
which is thus set down : 

“ Tf Then shall the Minister say, 

“ Who giveth this Woman to be married to this Man ? '* 

Edward Elliot bravely answered, “ I do.” 

So the elopement had proved a success. The 
rival suitors were sworn friends. Georgiana was su¬ 
premely happy, and Harry was as proud as a pea¬ 
cock of his handsome bride. 

But as they walked down the aisle, they heard the 
“ dead halloo ” almost in the church. The fox, after 
a brilliant run, had been killed in some straw in the 
stable in which Georgiana’s horse stood, and now the 
Squire held her mare and his own horse at the gate 
of the churchyard. 

The state of affairs needed no explanation. He 
took it in at one glance. His daughter trembled. 
She had never seen such a look on his face before. 
She advanced a step toward him. 

“ Never come near me again,” was all he said, as 
he threw the reins of Georgiana’s mare to his Whip, 
and called his hounds away to find another fox. But 
the field lingered to seethe “happy pair”—the bride 
in tears—depart ingloriously in a farmer’s chaise. 

III. 

Eighteen months passed. Mr. Haughmond was, 
in his opinion, the laughing-stock of the country. 
Women were vermin. He had publicly horsewhipped 
the reverend “skunk of a brother” who had pre¬ 
sumed to marry his daughter in a church he had 
given him—horsewhipping a clergyman being not 
altogether an unique feat at the end of the eighteenth 
century. But Parson Downes and young Elliot let 
Georgiana know how things were going at Haugh- 





434 


Treasury of Tales. 


mond Hall. What they told her was this. First, 
the Squire left off cards ; then he talked of giv¬ 
ing up the hounds to a younger man ; then his ap¬ 
petite began to fail him ; but last and worst of all, 
he never got beyond his first bottle of port after din¬ 
ner. These were good signs, Georgiana knew. But 
her father resolutely refused to see her, open her 
letters, or recognize her existence. She was dead 
to him, he said, and he moped with his dogs, all 
alone. 

Mrs. Wilton was a young lady of resource. She 
had devised the romantic elopement; now she hit 
upon another scheme. 

She drove in a chaise thirteen miles on a hot July 
afternoon with her old nurse and Master Gilbert 
Wilton behind her. 

In the shrubbery the young gentleman, just six 
months old, was popped into a great wicker basket 
built on purpose. Nurse carried the basket to the 
butler. The butler carried it to the master .of 
Haughmond Hall. Both were in the plot. 

“ Heaven help the man if he can find it in his 
heart to say owt but yea to such a beauty,” said the 


old woman who had nursed Georgiana, as she handed 
her treasure to her old fellow-servant. 

Squire Haughmond woke from his nap. 

A little cry made him aware of the visitor’s presence. 

He opened the hamper. There, on a great pillow, 
lay a lovely boy. On his little white frock was pinned 
a card with this upon it: 

“ Grandfather, if you please, I’m come to see you.” 

For the nurse and the mother there was an awful 
three minutes of suspense. 

Then the Squire’s bell rang. 

“ Bring my daughter here.” 

Then to himself : “ The dam ’ll not be far from 

the foal.” 

Inelegant, but not unkind. The Squire was a 
foxhunter, and knew the habits of horses and women. 

“ God bless your dear heart, mistress,” cried the 
old nurse, breathless among the laurels, where her 
mistress was in hiding, “ he’s got him on his knee.” 

That afternoon Georgiana rode her own mare back 
to fetch her husband. They never left Haughmond 
Hall again, and a Wilton holds it now, as good a fox- 
hunter as his great-grandfather was langsyne. 









She Loves and Lies. 


435 



SHE LOVES AND LIES. 

BY WILKIE COLLINS 

I. 

L ATE in the autumn, not many years since, a 
public meeting was held at the Mansion 
House, London, under the direction of the 
Lord Mayor. 

The list of gentlemen invited to address the audi¬ 
ence had been chosen with two objects in view. 
Speakers of celebrity, who would rouse public en¬ 
thusiasm, were supported by speakers connected with 
commerce, who would be practically useful in ex¬ 
plaining the purpose for which the meeting was con¬ 
vened. Money wisely spent in advertising had pro¬ 
duced the customary result—every seat was occupied 
before the proceedings began. 

Among the late arrivals, who had no choice but to 
stand or to leave the hall, were two ladies. One of 
them at once decided on leaving the hall. “ I shall 
go back to the carriage,” she said, “ and wait for you 
at the door.” Her friend answered, “ I shan’t keep 
you long. He is advertised to support the second 
Resolution; I want to see him—and that is all.” 

An elderly gentleman, seated at the end of a 
bench, rose and offered his place to the lady who re¬ 
mained. She hesitated to take advantage of his 
kindness, until he reminded her that he had heard 
what she said to her friend. Before the third Res¬ 
olution was proposed his seat would be at his own 
disposal again. She thanked him, and without further 
ceremony took his place. He was provided with an 
opera-glass, which he more than once offered to her 
when famous orators appeared on the platform ; she 
made no use of it, until a speaker—known in the City 
as a ship-owner—stepped forward to support the 
second Resolution. 

His name (announced in the advertisements) was 
Ernest Lismore. 

The moment he rose the lady asked for the opera- 
glass. She kept it to her eyes for such a length of 
time, and with such evident interest in Mr. Lismore, 
that the curiosity of her neighbors was aroused. 
Had he anything to say in which a lady (evidently a 
stranger to him) was personally interested ? 1 here 

was nothing in the address that he delivered which 
appealed to the enthusiasm of women. He was un¬ 


doubtedly a handsome man, whose appearance pro¬ 
claimed him to be in the prime of life—midway per¬ 
haps between thirty and forty years of age. But 
why a lady should persist in keeping an opera-glass 
fixed on him all through his speech was a question 
which found the general ingenuity at a loss for a 
reply. 

Having returned the glass with an apology, the 
lady ventured on putting a question next. “ Did it 
strike you, sir, that Mr. Lismore seemed to be out of 
spirits ? ” she asked. 

“I can’t say it did, ma’am.” 

“ Perhaps you noticed that he left the platform 
the moment he had done ? ” 

This betrayal of interest in the speaker did not 
escape the notice of a lady seated on the bench in 
front. Before the old gentleman could answer, she 
volunteered an explanation. 

“ I am afraid Mr. Lismore is troubled by anxieties 
connected with his business,” she said. “ My hus¬ 
band heard it reported in the City yesterday that he 

was seriously embarrassed by the failure-” 

A loud burst of applause made the end of the sen¬ 
tence inaudible. A famous member of Parliament 
had risen to propose the third Resolution. The polite 
old man took his seat, and the lady left the hall to 
join her friend. 

****** 

“ Well, Mrs. Callender, has Mr. Lismore disap¬ 
pointed you ? ” 

“ Far from it! But I have heard a report about 
him which has alarmed me: he is said to be seriously 
troubled about money matters. How can I find out 
his address in the City ? ” 

“ We can stop at the first stationer’s shop we pass, 
and ask to look at the Directory. Are you going to 
pay Mr. Lismore a visit ? ” 

“ I am going to think about it.” 

II. 

The next day, a clerk entered Mr. Lismore’s pri¬ 
vate room at the office, and presented a visiting card. 
Mrs. Callender had reflected, and had arrived at a 
decision. Underneath her name she had written 
these explanatory words: “ On important business.” 

“Does she look as if she wanted money?” Mr. 
Lismore inquired. 

• 



















































436 Treasury 

“Oh dear, no! She comes in her carriage.” 

“ Is she young or old ? ” 

“ Old, sir.” 

To Mr. Lismore—conscious of the disastrous in¬ 
fluence occasionally exercised over busy men by 
youth and beauty—this was a recommendation in 
itself. He said, “ Show her in.” 

Observing the lady, as she approached him, with 
the momentary curiosity of a stranger, he noticed 
that she still preserved the remains of beauty. She 
had also escaped the misfortune, common to persons 
at her time of life, of becoming too fat. Even to a 
man’s eye, her dressmaker appeared to have made 
the most of that favorable circumstance. Her figure 
had its defects concealed, and its remaining merits 
set off to advantage. At the same time she evidently 
held herself above the common deceptions by which 
some women seek to conceal their age. She wore 
her own gray hair; and her complexion bore the test 
of daylight. On entering the room, she made her 
apologies with some embarrassment. Being the em¬ 
barrassment of a stranger (and not of a youthful 
stranger) it failed to impress Mr. Lismore favor¬ 
ably. 

“ I am afraid I have chosen an inconvenient time 
for my visit,” she began. 

“ I am-at your service,” he answered a little stiffly; 
“ especially if you will be so kind as to mention your 
business with me in few words.” 

She was a woman of some spirit, and that reply 
roused her. “ I will mention it in one word,” she 
said smartly. “ My business is—gratitude.” 

He was completely at a loss to understand what 
she meant, and he said so plainly. Instead of ex¬ 
plaining herself, she put a question. 

“ Do you remember the night of the eleventh of 
March, between five and six years since ? ” 

He considered for a moment. “ No,” he said, “ I 
don’t remember it. Excuse me, Mrs. Callender, I 
have affairs of my own to attend to which cause me 
some anxiety-” 

“ Let me assist your memory, Mr. Lismore ; and I 
will leave you to your affairs. On the date that I 
have referred to you were on your way to the rail¬ 
way station at Bexmore, to catch the night express 
from the North to London.” 

As a hint that his time was valuable the ship-owner 
had hitherto remained standing. He now took his 
customary seat, and began to listen with some inter¬ 
est. Mrs. Callender had produced her effect on him 
already. 

“ It was absolutely necessary,” she proceeded, 
“ that you should be on board your ship in the Lon¬ 
don Docks at nine o’clock the next morning. If you 
had lost the express, the vessel would have sailed 
without you.” 

The expression of his face began to change to sur¬ 
prise. “ Who told you that ? ” he asked. 

“You shall hear directly. On your way into the 
town, your carriage was stopped by an obstruction 


of Tales. 

on the high road. The people of Bexmore were 
looking at a house on fire.” 

He started to his feet. “ Good heavens ! are you 
the lady ? ” 

She held up her hand in satirical protest. “ Gently, 
sir ! You suspected me just now of wasting your 
valuable time. Don’t rashly conclude that I am the 
lady, until you find that I am acquainted with the 
circumstances.” 

“ Is there no excuse for my failing to recognize 
you ? ” Mr. Lismore asked. “ We were on the dark 
side of the burning house ; you were fainting, and 
I-” 

“ And you,” she interposed, “ after saving me at 
the risk of your own life, turned a deaf ear to my 
poor husband’s entreaties, when he asked you to wait 
till I had recovered my senses.” 

“ Your poor husband ? Surely, Mrs. Callender, he 
received no serious injury from the fire ?” 

“ The firemen rescued him under circumstances of 
peril,” she answered, “ and at his great age he sank 
under the shock. I have lost the kindest and best 
of men. Do you remember how you parted from 
him—burnt and bruised in saving me ? He liked to 
talk of it in his last illness. ‘ At least ’ (he said to 
you) ‘ tell me the name of the man who has pre¬ 
served my wife from a dreadful death.’ You threw 
your card to him out of the carriage window and 
away you went at a gallop to catch your train ! In 
all the years that have passed I have kept that card, 
and have vainly inquired for my brave sea-captain. 
Yesterday I saw your name on the list of speakers 
at the Mansion House. Need I say that I attended 
the meeting ! Need I tell you now why I come here 
and interrupt you in business hours ? ” 

She held out her hand. Mr. Lismore took it in 
silence, and pressed it warmly. 

“You have not done with me yet,” she resumed 
with a smile. “ Do you remember what I said of my 
errand, when I first came in ? ” 

“You said it was an errand of gratitude.” 

“ Something more than the gratitude which only 
says ‘ Thank you,’ ” she added. “ Before I explain 
myself, however, I want to know what you have been 
doing, and how it was that my inquiries failed to 
trace you after that terrible night.” 

The appearance of depression which Mrs. Callen¬ 
der had noticed at the public meeting showed itself 
again in Mr. Lismore’s face. He sighed as he an¬ 
swered her. 

“ My story has one merit,” he said ; “it is soon 
told. I cannot wonder that you failed to discover 
me. In the first place, I was not captain of my ship 
at that time ; I was only mate. In the second place, 

I inherited some money, and ceased to lead a sailor’s 
life, in less than a year from the night of the fire. 
You will now understand what obstacles were in the 
way of your tracing me. With my little capital I 
started successfully in business as a ship-owner. At 
the time, I naturally congratulated myself on my 








She Loves and Lies. 


4 37 


own good fortune. We little know, Mrs. Callender, 
what the future has in store for us.” 

He stopped. His handsome features hardened— 
as if he was suffering (and concealing) pain. Before 
it was possible to speak to him, there was a knock 
at the door. Another visitor, without an appoint¬ 
ment, had called ; the clerk appeared again, with a 
card and a message. 

“ The gentleman begs you will see him, sir. He 
has something to tell you which is too important to 
be delayed.” 

Hearing the message, Mrs. Callender rose im¬ 
mediately. 

“ It is enough for to-day that we understand each 
other,” she said. “ Have you any engagement to¬ 
morrow, after the hours of business ?” 

“ None.” 

She pointed to her card on the writing-table. 
“ Will you come to me to-morrow evening at that 
address? I am like the gentleman who has just 
called ; I too have my reason for wishing to see 
you.” 

He gladly accepted the invitation. Mrs. Callen¬ 
der stopped him as he opened the door for her. 

“ Shall I offend you,” she said, “ if I ask a strange 
question before I go ? I have a better motive, mind, 
than mere curiosity. Are you married ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Forgive me again,” she resumed. “ At my 
age, you cannot possibly misunderstand me : and 
yet-” 

She hesitated. Mr. Lismore tried to give her 
confidence. “ Pray don’t stand on ceremony, Mrs. 
Callender. Nothing that you can ask me need be 
prefaced by an apology.” 

Thus encouraged, she ventured to proceed. 

“ You may be engaged to be married ?” she sug¬ 
gested. “ Or you may be in love ?” 

He found it impossible to conceal his surprise 
But he answered without hesitation : 

“ There is no such bright prospect in my life,” he 
said. “ I am not even in love.” 

She left him with a little sigh. It sounded like a 
sigh of relief. 

Ernest Lismore was thoroughly puzzled. What 
could be the old lady’s object in ascertaining that 
he was still free from a matrimonial engagement ? If 
the idea had occurred to him in time, he might have 
alluded to her domestic life, and might have asked 
if she had children. With a little tact he might have 
discovered more than this. She had described her 
feeling toward him as passing the ordinary limits of 
gratitude ; and she was evidently rich enough to be 
above the imputation of a mercenary motive. Did 
she propose to brighten those dreary prospects to 
which he had alluded in speaking of his own life ? 
When he presented himself at her house the next 
evening, would she introduce him to a charming 
daughter ? 

He smiled as the idea occurred to him. “An ap¬ 


propriate time to be thinking of my chances of mar¬ 
riage ! ” he said to himself. “ In another month I 
may be a ruined man.” 

III. 

The gentleman who had so urgently requested an 
interview was a devoted friend—who had obtained 
a means of helping Ernest at a serious crisis in his 
affairs. 

It had been truly reported that he was in a posi¬ 
tion of pecuniary embarrassment, owing to the fail¬ 
ure of a mercantile house with which he had been 
intimately connected. Whispers affecting his own 
solvency had followed on the bankruptcy of the 
firm. He had already endeavored to obtain advances 
of money on the usual conditions, and had been met 
by excuses for delay. His friend had now arrived 
with a letter of introduction to a capitalist, well 
known in commercial circles for his daring specula¬ 
tions and for his great wealth. 

Looking at the letter, Ernest observed that the 
envelope was sealed. In spite of that ominous in¬ 
novation on established usage, in cases of personal 
introduction, he presented the letter. On this occa¬ 
sion he was not put off with excuses. The capitalist 
flatly declined to discount Mr. Lismore’s bills, unless 
they were backed by responsible names. 

Ernest made a last effort. 

He applied for help to two mercantile men whom 
he had assisted in their difficulties, and whose names 
would have satisfied the money-lender. They were 
most sincerely sorry—but they too refused. 

The one security that he could offer was open, it 
must be owned, to serious objections on the score of 
risk. He wanted an advance of twenty thousand 
pounds, secured on a homeward-bound ship and 
cargo. But the vessel was not insured ; and, at that 
stormy season, she was already more than a month 
overdue. Could grateful colleagues be blamed if 
they forgot their obligations when they were asked 
to offer pecuniary help to a merchant in this situ¬ 
ation ? Ernest returned to his office, without money 
and without credit. 

A man threatened by ruin is in no state of mind 
to keep an engagement at a lady’s tea-table. Ernest 
sent a letter of apology to Mrs. Callender, alleging 
extreme pressure of business as the excuse for break¬ 
ing his engagement. 

“ Am I to wait for an answer, sir ?” the messenger 
asked. 

“ No ; you are merely to leave the letter.” 

IV. 

In an hour’s time—to Ernest’s astonishment—the 
messenger returned with a reply. 

“ The lady was just going out, sir, when I rang at 
the door,” he explained, “and she took the letter 
from me herself. She didn’t appear to know your 
handwriting, and she asked me who I came from. 
As soon as I told her I was ordered to wait.” 








438 


Treasury of Tales. 


Ernest opened the letter. 

“ Dear Mr. Lismore,—One of us must speak out, 
and your letter of apology forces me to be that one. 
If you are really so proud and so distrustful as you 
seem to be, I shall offend you. If not, I shall prove 
myself to be your friend. 

“ Your excuse is ‘ pressure of business.’ The 
truth (as I have good reason to believe) is ‘ want of 
money.’ I heard a stranger, at that public meeting, 
say that you were seriously embarrassed by some 
failure in the City. 

“ Let me tell you what my own pecuniary position 
is in two words. I am the childless widow of a rich 
man-” 

Ernest paused. His anticipated discovery of Mrs. 
Callender’s “ charming daught^f ” was in his mind for 
the moment. “ That little romance must return to the 
world of dreams,” he thought—and went on with the 
letter. 

“ After what I owe to you, I don’t regard it as re¬ 
paying an obligation—I consider myself as merely 
performing a duty when I offer to assist you by a 
loan of money. 

“ Wait a little before you throw my letter into the 
waste-paper basket. 

“ Circumstances (which it is impossible for me to 
mention before we meet) put it out of my power to 
help you—unless I attach to my most sincere offer 
of service a very unusual and very embarrassing 
condition. If you are on the brink of ruin, that mis¬ 
fortune will plead my excuse—and your excuse too, 
if you accept the loan on my terms. In any case, I 
rely on the sympathy and forbearance of the man to 
whom I owe my life. 

“ After what I have now written, there is only one 
thing to add. I beg to decline accepting your ex¬ 
cuses ; and I shall expect to see you to-morrow 
evening, as we arranged. 1 am an obstinate old 
woman—but I am also your faithful friend and ser¬ 
vant, Mary Callender.” 

Ernest looked up from the letter. “ What can 
this possibly mean ?” he wondered. 

But he was too sensible a man to be content with 
wondering—he decided on keeping his engagement. 

V. 

What Doctor Johnson called “the insolence of 
wealth ” appears far more frequently in the houses of 
the rich than in the manners of the rich. The reason 
is plain enough. Personal ostentation is, in the very 
nature of it, ridiculous. But the ostentation which 
exhibits magnificent pictures, priceless china, and 
splendid furniture, can purchase good taste to guide 
it, and can assert itself without affording the small¬ 
est opening for a word of depreciation or a look of 
contempt. If I am worth a million of money, and 
if I am dying to show it, I don’t ask you to look at 
me—I ask you to look at my house. 

Keeping his engagement with Mrs. Callender, 


Ernest discovered that riches might be lavishly and 
yet modestly used. 

In crossing the hall and ascending the stairs, look 
where he might, his notice was insensibly won by 
proofs of the taste which is not to be purchased, and 
the wealth which uses but never exhibits its purse. 
Conducted by a man-servant to the landing on the 
first floor, he found a maid at the door of the bou¬ 
doir, waiting to announce him. Mrs. Callender 
advanced to welcome her guest, in a simple evening 
dress perfectly suited to her age. All that had looked 
worn and faded in her fine face, by daylight, was 
now softly obscured by shaded lamps. Objects of 
beauty surrounded her, which glowed with subdued 
radiance from their background of sober color. The 
influence of appearances is the strongest of all out¬ 
ward influences, while it lasts. For the moment, the 
scene produced its impression on Ernest, in spite of 
the terrible anxieties which consumed him. Mrs. 
Callender, in his office, was a woman who had 
stepped out of her appropriate sphere. Mrs. 
Callender, in her own house, was a woman who had 
risen to a new place in his estimation. 

“ I am afraid you don’t thank me for forcing you 
to keep your engagement,” she said, with her 
friendly tones and her pleasant smile. 

“Indeed I do thank you,” he replied. “Your 
beautiful house and your gracious welcome have 
persuaded me into forgetting my troubles—for 
awhile.” 

The smile passed away from her face. “ Then it 
is true ? ” she said gravely. 

“ Only too true.” 

She led him to a seat beside her, and waited to 
speak again until her maid had brought in the tea. 

“ Have you read my letter in the same friendly 
spirit in which I wrote it ? ” she asked wffien they 
were alone again. 

“ I have read your letter gratefully, but-” 

“ But you don’t know yet what I have to say. Let 
us understand each other before we make any objec¬ 
tions on either side. Will you tell me what your 
present position is—at its worst ? I can, and will, 
speak plainly when my turn comes, if you will honor 
me with your confidence. Not if it distresses you,” 
she added, observing him attentively. 

He was ashamed of his hesitation—and he made 
amends for it. “ Do you thoroughly understand me ? ” 
he asked, when the whole truth had been laid before 
her without reserve. 

She summed up the result in her own words. 

“If your overdue ship returns safely, within a 
month from this time, you can borrow the money 
you want, without difficulty. If the ship is lost, you 
have no alternative (when the end of the month 
comes) but to accept a loan from me or to suspend 
payment. Is that the hard truth ? ” 

«It is.” 

“ And the sum you require is—twenty thousand 
pounds ?” 







She Loves and Lies. 


439 


“ Yes.” 

“ I have twenty times as much money as that, Mr. 
Lismore, at my sole disposal—on one condition.” 

“ The condition alluded to in your letter ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Does the fulfilment of the condition depend in 
some way on any decision of mine ? ” 

“ It depends entirely on you.” 

That answer closed his lips. 

With a composed manner and a steady hand she 
poured herself out a cup of tea. 

“ I conceal it from you,” she said ; “ but I want 
confidence. Here” (she pointed to the cup) “ is the 
friend of women, rich or poor, when they are in 
trouble. What I have now to say obliges me to 
speak in praise of myself. I don’t like it—let me 
get it over as soon as I can. My husband was very 
fond of me ; he had the most absolute confidence in 
my discretion, and in my sense of duty to him and to 
myself. His last words, before he died, were words 
that thanked me for making the happiness of his 
life. As soon as I had in some degree recovered, 
after the affliction that had fallen on me, his lawyer 
and executor produced a copy of his will, and said 
there were two clauses in it which my husband had 
expressed a wish that I should read. It is needless 
to say that I obeyed.” 

She still controlled her agitation—but she was 
now unable to conceal it. Ernest made an attempt 
to spare her. 

“Am I concerned in this?” he asked. 

“ Yes. Before I tell you why, I want to know 
what you would do—in a certain case which I am 
unwilling even to suppose. I have heard of men, 
unable to pay the demands made on them, who 
began business again, and succeeded, and in course 
of time paid their creditors.” 

“ And you want to know if there is any likelihood 
of my following their example ? ” he said. “ Have 
you also heard of men who have made that second 
effort—who have failed again—and who have doub¬ 
led the debts they owed to their brethren in business 
who trusted them ? I knew one of those men my¬ 
self. He committed suicide.” 

She laid her hand for a moment on his. “ I un¬ 
derstand you,” she said. “ If ruin comes-” 

“ If ruin comes,” he interposed, “ a man without 
money and without credit can make but one last 
atonement. Don’t speak of it now.” 

She looked at him with horror. “ I didn’t mean 
lhat! ” she said. 

“ Shall we go back to what you read in the will ? ” 
he suggested. 

“ Yes—if you will give me a minute to compose 
myself.” 

VI. 

In less than the minute she had asked for, Mrs. 
Callender was calm enough to go on. 

“ I now possess what is called a life interest in my 


husband’s fortune,” she said. “ The money is to be 
divided, at my death, among charitable institutions ; 
excepting a certain event-” 

“ Which is provided for in the will ? ” Ernest added, 
helping her to go on. 

“Yes. I am to be absolute mistress of the whole 

of the four hundred thousand pounds-” her voice 

dropped, and her eyes looked away from him as she 
spoke the next words—“ on this one condition, that 
I marry again.” 

He looked at her in amazement. 

“ Surely I have mistaken you,” he said. “ You 
mean on this one condition, that you do not marry 
again ? ” 

“No, Mr. Lismore; I mean exactly what I have 
said. You now know that the recovery of your 
credit and your peace of mind rests entirely with 
yourself.” 

After a moment of reflection he took her hand and 
raised it respectfully to his lips. “ You are a noble 
woman ! ” he said. 

She made no reply. With drooping head and 
downcast eyes she waited for his decision. He ac¬ 
cepted his responsibility. 

“ I must not, and dare not think of the hardship 
of my own position,” he said ; “ I owe it to you to 
speak without reference to the future that may be in 
store for me. No man can be worthy of the sacri¬ 
fice which your generous forgetfulness of yourself is 
willing to make. I respect you ; I admire you ; I 
thank you with my whole heart. Leave me to my 
fate, Mrs. Callender—and let me go.” 

He rose. She stopped him by a gesture. 

“A young woman,” she answered, “ would shrink 
.from saying—what I, as an old woman, mean to say 
now. I refuse to leave you to your fate. I ask you 
to prove that you respect me, admire me, and thank 
me with your whole heart. Take one day to think 
—and let me hear the result. You promise me 
this ? ” 

He promised. 

“ Now go,” she said. 

VII. 

The next morning Ernest, received a letter from 
Mrs. Callender. She wrote to him as follows :— 

“ There are some considerations which I ought to 
have mentioned yesterday evening, before you left 
my house. 

“ I ought to have reminded you—if you consent 
to reconsider your decision—that the circumstances 
do not require you to pledge yourself to me abso¬ 
lutely. 

“ At my age, I can with perfect propriety assure 
you that I regard our marriage simply and solely as 
a formality which we must fulfil, if I am to carry 
out my intention of standing between you and ruin. 

“ Therefore—if the missing ship appears in time, 
the only reason for the marriage is at an end. We 







440 


Treasury of Tales. 


shall be as good friends as ever ; without the en¬ 
cumbrance of a formal tie to bind us. 

“ In the other event, I should ask you to submit 
to certain restrictions which, remembering my posi¬ 
tion, you will understand and excuse. 

“ We are to live together, it is unnecessary to say, 
as mother and son. The marriage ceremony is to 
be strictly private ; and you are so to arrange your af¬ 
fairs that, immediately afterward, we leave England 
for any foreign place which you prefer. Some of 
my friends, and (perhaps) some of your friends, will 
certainly misinterpret our motives—if w r e stay in our 
own country—in a manner which would be unendur¬ 
able to a woman like me. 

“As to our future lives, I have the most perfect 
confidence in you, and I should leave you in the 
same position of independence which you occupy 
now. When you wish for my company, you will 
always be welcome. At other times you are your 
own master. I live on my side of the house, and 
you live on yours—and I am to be allowed my hours 
of solitude every day, in the pursuit of musical oc¬ 
cupations, which have been happily associated with 
all my past life, and which I trust confidently to your 
indulgence. 

• “ A last word, to remind you of what you may be 
too kind to think of yourself. 

“ At my age, you cannot, in the course of Nature, 
be troubled by the society of a grateful old woman 
for many years. You are young enough to look 
forward to another marriage, which shall be some¬ 
thing more than a mere form. Even if you meet 
with the happy woman in my lifetime, honestly tell 
me of it—and I promise to tell her that she has only 
to wait. 

“ In the mean time, don’t think, because I write 
composedly, that I write heartlessly. You pleased 
and interested me, when I first saw you, at the pub¬ 
lic meeting. I don’t think I could have proposed, 
what you call this sacrifice of myself, to a man who 
had personally repelled me—though I might have 
felt my debt of gratitude as sincerely as ever. 
Whether your ship is saved, or whether your ship is 
lost, old Mary Callender likes you—and owns it 
without false shame. 

“ Let me have your answer this evening, either 
personally or by letter—whichever you like best.” 

VIII. 

Mrs. Callender received a written answer long 
before the evening. It said much in few words. 

“ A man impenetrable to kindness might be able 
to resist your letter. I am not that man. Your 
great heart has conquered me.” 

IX. 

The weeks passed, and no news was received of 
the missing ship. With the marriage license in 
Ernest’s possession, they waited until the day be¬ 


fore the shipowner’s liabilities became due. Mrs. 
Callender’s lawyer and Mrs. Callender’s maid were 
the only persons trusted with their secret. Leaving 
the chief clerk in charge of the business, with every 
pecuniary demand on his employer satisfied in full, 
the strangely married pair quitted England. 

They arranged to w r ait for a few days in Paris, to 
receive any letters of importance which might have 
been addressed to Ernest in the interval. On the 
evening of their arrival a telegram from London 
was waiting at their hotel. It announced that the 
missing ship had passed up Channel—undiscovered 
in a fog, until she reached the Downs—on the day 
before Ernest’s liabilities fell due. 

“ Do you regret it ? ” Mrs. Lismore said to her 
husband. 

“ Not for a moment ! ” he answered. 

They decided on pursuing their journey as far as 
Munich. 

Mrs. Lismore’s taste for music was matched by 
Ernest’s taste for painting. In his leisure hours he 
cultivated the art, and delighted in it. The picture 
galleries of Munich were almost the only galleries in 
Europe which he had not seen. True to the en¬ 
gagements to which she had pledged herself, his 
wife w T as willing to go wherever it might please him 
to take her. The one suggestion she made was, that 
they should hire furnished apartments. If they 
lived at a hotel, friends of the husband or the wife 
(visitors like themselves to the famous city) might 
see their names in the book, or might meet them at 
the door. 

They were soon established in a house large 
enough to provide them with every accommodation 
which they required. 

Ernest’s days were passed in the galleries ; Mrs. 
Lismore remaining at home, devoted to her music 
until it was time to go out with her husband for a 
drive. Living together in perfect amity and con¬ 
cord, they were nevertheless not living happily. 
Without any visible reason for the change, Mrs. 
Lismore’s spirits were depressed. On the one occa¬ 
sion when Ernest noticed it, she made an effort to be 
cheerful, which it distressed him to see. He allowed 
her to think that she had relieved him of any fur¬ 
ther anxiety. Whatever doubts he might feel 
were doubts delicately concealed from that time 
forth. 

But when two people are living together in a state 
of artificial tranquillity, it seems to be a law of Nature 
that the elements of disturbance gather unseen, and 
that the outburst comes inevitably with the lapse of 
time. 

In ten days from the date of their arrival at Mu¬ 
nich the crisis came. Ernest returned later than usual 
from the picture gallery, and—for the first time in 
his wife’s experience—shut himself up in his own 
room. 

He appeared at the dinner-hour with a futile ex¬ 
cuse. Mrs. Lismore waited until the servant had 




She Loves and Lies. 


44 r 


withdrawn. “ Now, Ernest,” she said, “ it’s time to 
tell me the truth.” 

Her manner, when she said those few words, took 
him by surprise. She was unquestionably confused ; 
and, instead of looking at him, she trifled with the 
fruit on her plate. Embarrassed on his side, he 
could only answer, “ I have nothing to tell.” 

“Were there many visitors at the gallery?” she 
asked. 

“ About the same as usual.” 

“ Any that you particularly noticed ? ” she went 
on. “ I mean, among the ladies.” 

He laughed uneasily. 44 You forget how inter¬ 
ested I am in the pictures,” he said. 

There was a pause. She looked up at him—and 
suddenly looked away again. But he saw it plainly: 
there were tears in her eyes. 

“ Do you mind turning down the gas ? ” she said. 
“ My eyes have been weak all day.” 

He complied with her request—the more readily, 
having his own reasons for being glad to escape the 
glaring scrutiny of the light. 

“I think I will rest a little on the sofa,” she re¬ 
sumed. In the position which he occupied, his back 
would have been now turned on her. She stopped 
him when he tried to move his chair. “ I would 
rather not look at you, Ernest,” she said, “ when you 
have lost confidence in me.” 

Not the words, but the tone, touched all that was 
generous and noble in his nature. He left his place, 
and knelt beside her—and opened to her his whole 
heart. 

X. 

“ Am I not unworthy of you ? ” he asked, when it 
was over. 

She pressed his hand in silence. 

“ I should be the most ungrateful wretch living,” 
he said, 44 if I did not think of you, and you only, 
now that my confession is made. We will leave 
Munich to-morrow—and, if resolution can help me, 
I will only remember the sweetest woman my eyes 
ever looked on as the creature of a dream.” 

She hid her face on his breast, and reminded him 
of that letter of her writing, which had decided the 
course of their lives. 

“ When I thought you might meet the happy 
woman in my lifetime, I said to you, 4 Tell me of it— 
and I promise to tell her that she has only to wait.’ 
Time must pass, Ernest, before it can be needful to 
perform my promise. But you might let me see her. 
If you find her in the gallery to-morrow, you might 
bring her here.” 

Mrs. Lismore’s request met with no refusal. Er¬ 
nest was only at a loss to know how to grant it. 

“ You tell me she is a copyist of pictures,” his 
wife reminded him. “ She will be interested in 
hearing of the portfolio of drawings by the great 
French artists which I bought for you in Paris. Ask 
her to come and see them, and to tell you if she can 


make some copies. And say, if you like, that I shall 
be glad to become acquainted with her.” 

He felt her breath beating fast on his bosom. In 
the fear that she might lose all control over herself, 
he tried to relieve her by speaking lightly. “ What 
an invention yours is ! ” he said. “ If my wife ever 
tries to deceive me, I shall be a mere child in her 
hands.” 

She rose abruptly from the sofa—kissed him on 
the forehead—and said wildly, “ I shall be better in 
bed ! ” Before he could move or speak, she had 
left him. 

XI. 

The next morning he knocked at the door of his 
wife’s room, and asked how she had passed the night. 

“ I have slept badly,” she answered, 44 and I must 
beg you to excuse my absence at breakfast-time.” 
She called him back as he was about to withdraw. 
“Remember,” she said, “when you return from the 
gallery to-day, I expect that you will not return 
alone.” 

****** 

Three hours later he was at home again. The 
young lady’s services as a copyist were at his dis¬ 
posal ; she had returned with him to look at the 
drawings. 

The sitting-room was empty when they entered it. 
He rang for his wife’s maid—and was informed that 
Mrs. Lismore had gone out. Refusing to believe 
the woman, he went to his wife’s apartments. She 
was not to be found. 

When he returned to the sitting-room, the young 
lady was not unnaturally offended. He could make 
allowances for her being a little out of temper at the 
slight that had been put on her ; but he was inex¬ 
pressibly disconcerted by the manner—almost the 
coarse manner—in which she expressed herself. 

44 I have been talking to your wife’s maid while 
you have been away,” she said. 44 1 find you have 
married an old lady for her money. She is jealous 
of me, of course ? ” 

44 Let me beg you to alter your opinion,” he an¬ 
swered. 44 You are wronging my wife ; she is inca¬ 
pable of any such feeling as you attribute to her.” 

The young lady laughed. 44 At any rate, you are 
a good husband,” she said satirically. 44 Suppose 
you own the truth ? Wouldn’t you like her better if 
she was young and pretty like me ? ” 

He was not merely surprised—he was disgusted. 
Her beauty had so completely fascinated him when 
he first saw her that the idea of associating any want 
of refinement and good-breeding with such a charm¬ 
ing creature never entered his mind. The disen¬ 
chantment of him was already so complete that he 
was even disagreeably affected by the tone of her 
voice : it was almost as repellent to him as the exhi¬ 
bition of unrestrained bad temper which she seemed 
perfectly careless to conceal. 

44 1 confess you surprise me,” he said coldly. 








442 


Treasury of Tales. 


The reply produced no effect on her. On the 
contrary, she became more insolent than ever. 

“ I have a fertile fancy,” she went on, “ and your 
absurd way of taking a joke only encourages me ! 
Suppose you could transform this sour old wife of 
yours, who has insulted me, into the sweetest young 
creature that ever lived, by only holding up your 
finger—wouldn’t you do it?” 

This passed the limits of his endurance. “ I have 
no wish,” he said, “ to forget the consideration which 
is due to a woman. I have but one alternative ; I 
must leave the room.” 

She ran to the door as he spoke, and placed her¬ 
self in the way of his going out. 

He signed to her to let him pass. 

She suddenly threw her arms round his neck, 
kissed him passionately, and whispered, with her 
lips at his ear, “ Oh, Ernest, forgive me ! Could I 
have asked you to marry me for my money if I had 
not taken refuge in a disguise ? ” 

XII. 

When he had sufficiently recovered to think, he 
put her back from him. “ Is there an end of the de¬ 
ception now ? ” he asked sternly. “ Am I to trust 
you in your new character ? ” 

“ You are not to be harder on me than I deserve,” 
she answered gently. “ Did you ever hear of an 
actress named Miss Max ? ” 

He began to understand her. “ Forgive me if I 
spoke harshly,” he said. “ You have put me to a 
severe trial.” 

She burst into tears. “ Love,” she murmured, “is 
my only excuse.” 

From that moment she had won her pardon. He 
took her hand, and made her sit by him. 

“Yes,” he said, “ I have heard of Miss Max, and 
of her wonderful powers of personation—and I 
have always regretted not having seen her while she 
was on the stage.” 

“ Did you hear anything more of her, Ernest ? ” 

“ Yes, I heard that she was a pattern of modesty and 
good conduct, and that she gave up her profession 
at the height of her success, to marry an old man.” 

“ Will you come with me to my room ?” she asked. 
“I have something there which I wish to show you.” 

It was the copy of her husband’s will. 

“ Read the lines, Ernest, which begin at the top 
of the page. Let my dead husband speak for me.” 

The lines ran thus : 

“ My motive in marrying Miss Max must be 
stated in this place, in justice to her—and, I will 
venture to add, in justice to myself. I felt the sin- 
cerest sympathy for her position. She was without 
father, mother, or friends; one of the poor forsaken 
children whom the mercy of the Foundling Hospital 
provides with a home. Her after-life on the stage 
was the life of a virtuous woman : persecuted by 
profligates ; insulted by some of the baser creatures 
associated with her, to whom she was an object of 


envy. I offered her a home, and the protection of a 
father—on the only terms which the world would 
recognize as worthy of us. My experience of 
her since our marriage has been the experience of 
unvarying goodness, sweetness, and sound sense. 
She has behaved so nobly, in a trying position, that 
I wish her (even in this life) to have her reward. I 
entreat her to make a second choice in marriage, 
which shall not be a mere form. I firmly believe 
that she will choose well and wisely—that she 
will make the happiness of a man who is worthy of 
her—and that, as wife and mother, she will set an 
example of inestimable value in the social sphere 
that she occupies. In proof of the heartfelt sincer¬ 
ity with which I pay my tribute to her virtues, I add 
to this my will the clause that follows.” 

With the clause that followed, Ernest was already 
acquainted. 

“Will you now believe that I never loved till I 
saw your face for the first time ? ” said his wife. “ I 
had no experience to place me on my guard against 
the fascination—the madness some people might 
call it—which possesses a woman when all her heart 
is given to a man. Don’t despise me, my dear ! 
Remember that I had to save you from disgrace and 
ruin. Besides, my old stage remembrances tempted 
me. I had acted«in a play in which the heroine did 
—what I have done ! It didn’t end with me, as it 
did with her in the story. S/ie was represented as 
rejoicing in the success of her disguise. / have 
known some miserable hours of doubt and shame 
since our marriage. When I went to meet you in 
my own person at the picture gallery—oh, what re¬ 
lief, what joy I felt, when I saw how you admired 
me—it was not because I could no longer carry on 
the disguise. I was able to get hours of rest from 
the effort; not only at night but in the daytime, 
when I was shut up in my retirement in the music- 
room ; and when my maid kept watch against discov¬ 
ery. No, my love ! I hurried on the disclosure, be¬ 
cause I could no longer endure the hateful triumph 
of my own deception. Ah, look at that witness 
against me ! I can’t bear even to see it! ” 

She abruptly left him. The drawer that she had 
opened to take out the copy of the will also con¬ 
tained the false gray hair which she had discarded. 
It had only that moment attracted her notice. She 
snatched it up, and turned to the fire-place. 

Ernest took it from her, before she could destroy 
it. “Give it to me,” he said. 

« Why?” 

He drew her gently to his bosom, and answered, 
“I must not forget my old wife.” 






The Murders in the Rue Morgue. 


443 


THE MURDERS IN THE F(UE MORGUE. 

BY EDGAR A. POE. 

HE mental features discoursed of as the ana¬ 
lytical, are, in themselves, but little suscepti¬ 
ble of analysis. We appreciate them only 
in their effects. We know of them, among other 
things, that they are always to their possessor, when 
inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest en¬ 
joyment. ^s the strong man exults in his physical 
ability, delighting in such exercises as call his mus¬ 
cles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral 
activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure 
from even the most trivial occupations bringing his 
talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of co¬ 
nundrums, of hieroglyphics ; exhibiting in his solu¬ 
tions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the 
ordinary apprehension preternatural. His results, 
brought about by the very soul and essence of 
method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition. 

The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigo¬ 
rated by mathematical study, and especially by that 
highest branch of it which, unjustly, and merely on 
account of its retrograde operations, has been called, 
as if par excellence , analysis. Yet to calculate is not 
in itself to analyze. A chess-player, for example, 
does the one, without effort at the other. It follows 
that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental 
character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now 
writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat 
peculiar narrative by observations very much at ran¬ 
dom. I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that 
the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more 
decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unosten¬ 
tatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate 
frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces 
have different and bizarre motions, with various and 
variable values, what is only complex is mistaken (a 
not unusual error) for what is profound. The at¬ 
tention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag 
for an instant, an oversight is committed, resulting 
in injury or defeat. The possible moves being not 
only manifold, but involute, the chances of such over¬ 
sights are multiplied ; and, in nine cases out of ten, 
it is the more concentrative rather than the more 
acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the 
•contrary, where the moves are unique and have but 
little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are 
•diminished, and the mere attention being left com¬ 
paratively unemployed, what advantages are obtained 
by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To 
be less abstract—Let us suppose a game of draughts 
where the pieces are reduced to four kings, and 
where, of course, no oversight is to be expected. It 
is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the 
players being at all equal) only by some recherche 
movement, the result of some strong exertion of the 
intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the an¬ 
alyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent, . 
identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently 


sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometimes 
indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may se¬ 
duce into error or hurry into miscalculation. 

Whist has long been noted for its influence upon 
what is termed the calculating power ; and men of 
the highest order of intellect have been known to 
take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while 
eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there 
is nothing of a similar nature so greatly tasking the 
faculty of analysis. The best chess-player in Chris¬ 
tendom may be little more than the best player of 
chess ; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for 
success in all those more important undertakings 
where mind struggles with mind. When I say pro¬ 
ficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which 
includes a comprehension oi-all the sources whence 
legitimate advantage may be derived. These are 
not only manifold, but multiform, and lie frequently 
among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible to 
the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively 
is to remember distinctly ; and, so far, the concentra¬ 
tive chess-player will do very well at whist; while 
the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere 
mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and gener¬ 
ally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive 
memory, and to proceed by “ the book,” are points 
commonly regarded as the sum total of good playing. 
But it is in matters beyond the limits of mere rule 
that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, 
in silence, a host of observations and inferences. 
So, perhaps, do his companions ; and the difference 
in the extent of the information obtained lies not so 
much in the validity of the inference as in the quality 
of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that 
of what to observe. Our player confines himself not 
at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he 
reject deductions from things external to the game. 
He examines the countenance of his partner, com¬ 
paring it carefully with that of each of his opponents. 
He considers the mode of assorting the cards in each 
hand ; often counting trump by trump, and honor by 
honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders 
upon each. He notes every variation of face as the 
play progresses, gathering a fund of thought from 
the differences in the expression of certainty, of sur¬ 
prise, of triumph, or chagrin. From the manner of 
gathering up a trick he judges whether the person 
taking it can make another in the suit. He recog¬ 
nizes what is played through feint, by the air with 
which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or in¬ 
advertent word ; the accidental dropping or turning 
of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or careless¬ 
ness in regard to its concealment; the counting of 
the tricks, with the order of their arrangement; em¬ 
barrassment, hesitation, eagerness or trepidation— 
all afford, to his apparently intuitive perception, in¬ 
dications of the true state of affairs. The first two 
or three rounds having been played, he is in full pos¬ 
session of the contents of each hand, and thencefor¬ 
ward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision 









444 


Treasury 

of purpose as if the rest of the party had turned out¬ 
ward the faces of their own. 

The analytical power should not be confounded 
with simple ingenuity ; for while the analyst is nec¬ 
essarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often re¬ 
markably incapable of analysis. The constructive or 
combining power, by which ingenuity is usually man¬ 
ifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe er¬ 
roneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing 
it a primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in 
those whose intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy 
as to have attracted general observation among 
writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the 
analytic ability there exists a difference far greater, 
indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagi¬ 
nation, but of a character very strictly analogous. It 
will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always 
fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise 
than analytic. 

The narrative which follows will appear to the 
reader somewhat in the light of a commentary upon 
the propositions just advanced. 

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of 
the summer of 18—, I there became acquainted with 
a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young gentle¬ 
man was of an excellent—indeed of an illustrious— 
family, but, by a variety of untoward events, had 
been reduced to such poverty that the energy of his 
character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to be¬ 
stir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval 
of his fortunes. By courtesy of his creditors, there 
still remained in his possession a small remnant of 
his patrimony ; and, upon the income arising from 
this he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, 
to procure the necessaries of life, without troubling 
himself about its superfluities. Books, indeed, were 
his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily ob¬ 
tained. * 

Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the 
Rue Montmartre, where the accident of our both 
being in search of the same very rare and very re¬ 
markable volume brought us into closer communion. 
We saw each otner again and again. I was deeply 
interested in the little family history which he de¬ 
tailed to me with all that candor which a Frenchman 
indulges whenever mere self is the theme. I was 
astonished, too, at the vast extent of his reading ; 
and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled within me 
by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness of his 
imagination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then 
sought, I felt that the society of such a man would 
be to me a treasure beyond price ; and this feeling I 
frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged 
that we should live together during my stay in the 
city ; and as my worldly circumstances were some¬ 
what less embarrassed than his own, I was permitted 
to be at the expense of renting, and furnishing in a 
style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of our 
common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, 
long deserted through superstitions into which we 


of Tales . 

did not inquire, and tottering to its fall, in a retired 
and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain. 

Had the routine of our life at this place been 
known to the world, we should have been regarded 
as madmen—although, perhaps, as madmen of a 
harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We 
admitted no visitors. Indeed the locality of our re¬ 
tirement had been carefully kept a secret from my 
own former associates ; and it had been many years 
since Dupin had ceased to know or be known in 
Paris. We existed within ourselves alone. 

It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else 
shall I call it ?) to be enamored of the night for her 
own sake ; and into this bizarrerie , as into all his 
others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild 
whims with a perfect abandon. The sable divinity 
would not herself dwell with us always ; but we 
could counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn 
of the morning we closed all the massy shutters of 
our old building ; lighted a couple of tapers, which, 
strongly perfumed, threw out only the ghastliest and 
feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we then busied 
our souls in dreams—reading, writing, or conversing, 
until warned by the clock of the advent of the true 
Darkness. Then we sallied forth into the streets, 
arm and arm, continuing the topics of the day, or 
roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid 
the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, 
that infinity of mental excitement which quiet ob¬ 
servation can afford. 

At such times I could not help remarking and ad¬ 
miring (although from his rich ideality I had been 
prepared to expect it) a peculiar analytic ability in 
Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight in 
its exercise—if not exactly in its display—and did 
not hesitate to confess the pleasure thus derived. He 
boasted to me, in a low chuckling laugh, that most 
men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their 
bosoms, and was wont to follow up such assertions 
by direct and very startling proofs of his intimate 
knowledge of my own. His manner at these mo¬ 
ments was frigid and abstract; his eyes w r ere vacant 
in expression ; while his voice, usually a rich tenor, 
rose into a treble, which would have sounded petu¬ 
lant but for the deliberateness and entire distinct¬ 
ness of the enunciation. Observing him in these 
moods, I often dwelt meditatively upon the old phi¬ 
losophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with 
the fancy of a double Dupin—the creative and the 
resolvent. 

Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, 
that I am detailing any mystery, or penning any ro¬ 
mance. What I have described in the Frenchman 
was merely the result of an excited, or perhaps of a 
diseased intelligence. But of the character of his 
remarks at the periods in question an example will 
best convey the idea. 

We were strolling one night down a long dirty 
street, in the vicinity of the Palais Royal. Being 
both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither of 







The Murders in the Rue Morgue . 


445 


us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. 
All at once Dupin broke forth with these words : 

“ He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would 
do better for the Theatre des Varietes.” 

“ There can be no doubt of that,” I replied un¬ 
wittingly, and not at first observing (so much had I- 
been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary man¬ 
ner in which the speaker had chimed in with my 
meditations. In an instant afterward I recollected 
myself, and my astonishment was profound. 

“ Dupin,” said I, gravely, “ this is beyond my com¬ 
prehension. I do not hesitate to say that I am amazed, 
and can scarcely credit my senses. How was it 

possible you should know I was thinking of-? ” 

Here I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether 
he really knew of whom I thought. 

-“of Chantilly,” said he, “ why do you pause? 

You were remarking to yourself that his diminutive 
figure unfitted him for tragedy.” 

This was precisely what had formed the subject of 
my reflections. Chantilly was a quonda 7 n cobbler of 
the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming stage-mad, had 
attempted the role of Xerxes, in Crebillon’s tragedy 
so called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his 
pains. 

“Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the 
method—if method there is—by which you have 
been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter.” In 
fact I was even more startled than I would have 
been willing to express. 

“ It was the fruiterer, ” replied my friend, “ who 
brought you to the conclusion that the mender of 
soles was not of sufficient height for Xerxes et id 
genus otnne. ” 

“ The fruiterer !—you astonish me—I know no 
fruiterer whomsoever. ” 

“ The man who ran up against you as we entered 
the street—it may have been fifteen minutes ago.” 

I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carry¬ 
ing upon his head a large basket of apples, had 
nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we passed 

from the Rue C- into the thoroughfare where 

we stood ; but what this had to do with Chantilly I 
could not possibly understand. 

There was not a particle of charlatanerie about 
Dupin. “I will explain,” he said, “and that you 
may comprehend all clearly, we will first retrace 
the course of your meditations from the moment in 
which I spoke to you until that of the rencontre with 
the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the 
chain run thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, 
Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruit¬ 
erer.” 

There are few persons who have not, at some 
period of their lives, amused themselves in retracing 
the steps by which particular conclusions of their 
own minds have been attained. The occupation is 
often full of interest ; and he who attempts it for the 
first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable 
distance and incoherence between the starting point 


and the goal. What, then, must have been my 
amazement when I heard the Frenchman speak what 
he had just spoken, and when I could not help ac¬ 
knowledging that he had spoken the truth ! He con¬ 
tinued : 

“ We had been talking of horses, if I remember 

aright, just before leaving the Rue C-. This 

was the last subject we discussed. As we crossed 
into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket 
upon his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you 
upon a pile of paving-stones collected at a spot 
where the causeway is undergoing repair. You 
stepped upon one of the loose fragments, slipped, 
slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky, 
muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile, 
and then proceeded in silence. I was not particular¬ 
ly attentive to what you did ; but observation has 
become with me, of late, a species of necessity. 

“ You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing, 
with a petulant expression, at the holes and ruts in 
the pavement (so that I saw you were still thinking 
of the stones') ; until we reached the little alley 
called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of 
experiment, with the overlapping and riveted blocks. 
Here your countenance brightened up, and perceiv¬ 
ing your lips move, I could not doubt that you 
murmured the word ‘ stereotomy,’ a term very 
affectedly applied to this species of pavement. I 
knew that you could not say to yourself ‘ stereotomy ’ 
without being brought to think of atomies, and thus 
of the theories of Epicurus ; and since, when we dis¬ 
cussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned 
to you how singularly, yet with how little notice, 
the vague guesses of that noble Greek had met with 
confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt 
that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward 
to the great nebula in Orion, and I certainly expect¬ 
ed that you would do so. You did look up ; and I 
was now assured that I had correctly followed your 
steps. But in that bitter tirade upon Chantilly, 
which appeared in yesterday’s ‘Muse'e,’ the satirist, 
making some disgraceful allusions to the cobbler’s 
change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a 
Latin line about which we have often conversed. I 
mean the line 

Perdidit antiquam litera prima sonum. 

I had told you that this was in reference to 
Orion, formerly written Urion ; and, from certain 
pungencies connected with this explanation, I was 
aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was 
clear, therefore, that you would not fail to combine 
the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly. That you did 
combine them I saw by the character of the smile 
which passed over your lips. You thought of the 
poor cobbler’s immolation. So far, you had been 
stooping in your gait; but now I saw you draw 
yourself up to your full height. I was then sure 
that you reflected upon the diminutive figure of 
Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your medi- 












446 


Treasury of Tales. 


tations to remark that as, in fact he was a very little 
fellow—that Chantilly—he would do better at the 

Theatre des Varietes. ” 

Not long after this we were looking over an even¬ 
ing edition of the “ Gazette des Tribunaux, ” when 
the following paragraphs arrested our attention. 

“Extraordinary Murders. — This morning, 
about three o’clock, the inhabitants of the Quartier 
St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a succession 
of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the fourth 
story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in 
the sole occupancy of one Madame L’Espanaye, and 
her daughter, Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. 
After some delay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt 
to procure admission in the usual manner, the gate¬ 
way was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten 
of the neighbors entered, accompanied by two gen¬ 
darmes. By this time the cries had ceased ; but, as 
the party rushed up the first flight of stairs, two or 
more rough voices, in angry contention, were distin¬ 
guished, and seemed to proceed from the upper part 
of the house. As the second landing was reached, 
these sounds, also, had ceased, and everything re¬ 
mained perfectly quiet. The party spread them¬ 
selves, and hurried from room to room. Upon ar¬ 
riving at a large back chamber in the fourth story, 
(the door of which, being found locked, with the key 
inside, was forced open), a spectacle presented itself 
which struck every one present not less with horror 
than with astonishment. 

“ The apartment was in the wildest disorder—the 
furniture broken and thrown about in all directions. 
There was only one bedstead ; and from this the 
bed had been removed, and thrown into the middle 
of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared 
with blood. On the hearth were two or three long 
and thick tresses of gray human hair, also dabbled 
in blood, and seeming to have been pulled out by 
the roots. Upon the floor were found four 
Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver 
spoons, three smaller of metal d’Alger, and two bags, 
containing nearly four thousand francs in gold. 
The drawers of a bureau, which stood in one corner, 
were open, and had been, apparently, rifled, al¬ 
though many articles still remained in them. A 
small iron safe was discovered under the bed (not 
under the bedstead). It was open, with the key still 
in the door. It had no contents beyond a few old 
letters, and other papers of little consequence. 

“Of Madame L'Espanaye no traces were here 
seen ; but an unusual quantity of soot being ob¬ 
served in the fire-place, a search was made in the 
chimney, and (horrible to relate !) the corpse of the 
daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom ; 
it having been thus forced up the narrow aperture 
for a considerable distance. The body was quite 
warm. Upon examining it, many excoriations were 
perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with 
which it had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon 
the face were many severe scratches, and, upon the 


throat, dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger 
nails, as if the deceased had been throttled to death. 

“ After a thorough investigation of every portion 
of the house without further discovery, the party 
made its way into a small paved yard in the rear of 
the building, where lay the corpse of the old lady, 
with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an attempt 
to raise her, the head fell off. The body, as well as 
the head, was fearfully mutilated—the former so 
much so as scarcely to retain any semblance of 
humanity. 

“ To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we 
believe, the slightest clew.” 

The next day’s paper had these additional particu¬ 
lars. 

“ The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue .—Many indi¬ 
viduals have been examined in relation to this most 
extraordinary and frightful affair ” [the word 
“ affaire" has not yet, in France, that levity of im¬ 
port which it conveys with us], “but nothing what¬ 
ever has transpired to throw light upon it. We give 
below all the material testimony elicited. 

“ Pauline Dubourg, laundress, deposes that she has 
known both the deceased for three years, having 
washed for them during that period. The old lady 
and her daughter seemed on good terms—very affec¬ 
tionate toward each other. They were excellent 
pay. Could not speak in regard to their mode or 
means of living. Believed that Madame L. told for¬ 
tunes for a living. Was reputed to have money put 
by. Never met any persons in the house when she 
called for the clothes or took them home. Was sure 
that they had no servant in employ. There appeared 
to be no furniture in any part of the building except 
in the fourth story. 

“ Pierre Moreau , tobacconist, deposes that he has 
been in the habit of selling small quantities of to¬ 
bacco and snuff to Madame L’Espanaye for nearly 
four years. Was born in the neighborhood, and has 
always resided there. The deceased and her daughter 
had occupied the house in which the corpses were 
found for more than six years. It was formerly oc¬ 
cupied by a jeweler, who under-let the upper rooms 
to various persons. The house was the property of 
Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse 
of the premises by her tenant, and moved into them 
herself, refusing to let any portion. The old lady 
was childish. Witness had seen the daughter some 
five or six times during the six years. The two lived 
an exceedingly retired life—were reputed to have 
money. Had heard it said among the neighbors that 
Madame L. told fortunes—did not believe it. Had 
never seen any person enter the door except the old 
lady and her daughter, a porter once or twice, and a 
physician some eight or ten times. 

“ Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to 
the same effect. No one was spoken of as frequent¬ 
ing the house. It was not known whether there 
were any living connections of Madame L. and her 
daughter. The shutters of the front windows were 




447 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue. 


seldom opened. Those in the rear were always 
closed, with the exception of the large back room, 
fourth story. The house was a good house—not 
very old. 

“ Isidore Musct , gendarme , deposes that he was 
called to the house about three o’clock in the morn¬ 
ing, and found some twenty or thirty persons at the 
gateway endeavoring to gain admittance. Forced 
it open, at length, with a bayonet—not with a crow¬ 
bar. Had but little difficulty in getting it open, on 
account of its being a double or folding gate, and 
bolted neither at bottom nor top. The shrieks were 
continued until the gate was forced—and then sud¬ 
denly ceased. They seemed to be screams of some 
person (or persons) in great agony—were loud and 
drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the 
way up-stairs. Upon reaching the first landing, 
heard two voices in loud and angry contention—the 
one a gruff voice, the other much shriller—a very 
strange voice. Could distinguish some words of the 
former, which was that of a Frenchman. Was posi¬ 
tive that it was not a woman’s voice. Could distin¬ 
guish the words ‘ sacrg ‘ diable.' The shrill voice 
was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether 
it was the voice of a man or of a woman. Could not 
make out what was said, but believed the language 
to be Spanish. The state of the room and of the 
bodies was described by this witness as we described 
them yesterday. 

“ He 7 iri Duval , a neighbor, and by trade a silver¬ 
smith, deposes that he was one of the party who first 
entered the house. Corroborates the testimony of 
Muset in general. As soon as they forced an en¬ 
trance, they re-closed the door, to keep out the crowd, 
which collected very fast, notwithstanding the late¬ 
ness of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness 
thinks, was that of an Italian. Was certain it was 
not French. Could not be sure that it was a man’s 
voice. It might have been a woman’s. Was 
not acquainted with the Italian language. Could 
not distinguish the words, but was convinced 
by the intonation that the speaker was an Ital¬ 
ian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter. Had 
conversed with both frequently. Was sure that 
the shrill voice was not that of either of the de¬ 
ceased. 

“ - Odenheinier , restaurateur. This witness 

volunteered his testimony. Not speaking French, 
was examined through an interpreter. Is a native 
of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at the time 
of the shrieks. They lasted for several minutes, 
probably ten. They were long and loud—very 
awful and distressing. Was one of those who en¬ 
tered the building. Corroborated the previous evi¬ 
dence in every respect but one. Was sure the shrill 
voice was that of a man—of a Frenchman. Could 
not distinguish the words uttered. They were loud 
and quick—unequal—spoken apparently in fear as 
well as in anger. The voice was harsh—not so 
much shrill as harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. 


The gruff voice said repeatedly, ‘ sacre\' ‘ diable ’ and 
once ‘ mon Dieu.' 

“ Jules Mignaud, banker, of the firm of Mignaud 
et Fils, Rue Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. 
Madame L’Espanaye had some property. Had 
opened an account with his banking house in the 

spring of the year- (eight years previously). 

Made frequent deposits in small sums. Had checked 
for nothing until the third day before her death, 
when she took out in person the sum of 4,000 francs. 
This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home 
with the money. 

“ Adolph Le Bon , clerk to Mignaud et Fils, de¬ 
poses that on the day in question, about noon, he 
accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to her residence 
with the 4,000 francs put up in two bags. Upon the 
door being opened, Mademoiselle L. appeared and 
took from his hands one of the bags, while the old 
lady relieved him of the other. He then bowed and 
departed. Did not see any person in the street at 
the time. It is a by-street—very lonely. . 

“ Willia?n Bird , tailor, deposes that he was one of , 
the party who entered the house. Is an Englishman. 
Has lived in Paris two years. Was one of the first 
to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in conten¬ 
tion. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. 
Could make out several words, but cannot now re¬ 
member all. Heard distinctly, ‘ sacrd' and 1 mon 
Dieu.' There was a sound at the moment as 
if of several persons struggling—a scraping and 
scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud— 
louder than the gruff one. Is sure that it was not 
the voice of an Englishman. Appeared to be that 
of a German. Might have been a woman’s voice. 
Does not understand German. 

“ Four of the above-named witnesses, being re¬ 
called, deposed that the door of the chamber in 
which was found the body of Mademoiselle L. was 
locked on the inside when the party reached it. 
Every thing was perfectly silent—no groans or noises 
of any kind. Upon forcing the door no person was 
seen. The windows, both of the back and front 
room, were down and firmly fastened from within. 

A door between the two rooms was closed, but not 
locked. The door leading from the front room into 
the passage was locked, with the key on the inside. 

A small room in the front of the house, on the 
fourth story, at the head of the passage, was open, 
the door being ajar. This room was crowded with 
old beds, boxes, and so forth. These were carefully 
removed and searched. There was not an inch of 
any portion of the house which was not carefully 
searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chim¬ 
neys. The house was a four-story one, with garrets 
(.mansardes ). A trap-door on the roof was nailed 
down very securely—did not appear to have been 
opened for years. The time elapsing between the 
hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking 
open of the room door, was variously stated by the 
witnesses. Some made it as short as three minutes 






448 


Treasury of Tales. 


—some as long as five. The door was opened with 
difficulty. 

•• Alfonzo Garcio, undertaker, deposes that he re¬ 
sides in the Rue Morgue. Is a native of Spain. 
Was one of the party who entered the house. Did 
not proceed up-stairs. Is nervous, and was appre¬ 
hensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard 
the voices in contention. The gruff voice was that 
of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish what was 
said. The shrill voice was that of an Englishman— 
is sure of this. Does not understand the English 
language, but judges by the intonation. 

“ Alberto Montani, confectioner, deposes that he 
was among the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the 
voices in question. The gruff voice was that of a 
Frenchman. Distinguished several words. The 
speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not 
make out the words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick 
and unevenly. Thinks it the voice of a Russian. 
Corroborates the general testimony. Is an Italian. 
Never conversed with a native of Russia. 

“ Several witnesses recalled, here testified that the 
chimneys of all the rooms on the fourth story were 
too narrow to admit the passage of a human being. 
By * sweeps ’ were meant cylindrical sweeping- 
brushes, such as are employed by those who clean 
chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down 
eveiy flue in the house. There is no back passage 
by which any one could have descended while the 
party proceeded up-stairs. The body of Mademoi¬ 
selle L'Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chim¬ 
ney that it could not be got down until four or five 
of the party united their strength. 

“Paul Dumas , physician, deposes that he was 
called to view the bodies about daybreak. They 
were both then lying on the sacking of the bedstead 
in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. 
The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and 
excoriated. The fact that it had been thrust up the 
chimney would sufficiently account for these appear¬ 
ances. The throat was greatly chafed. There were 
several deep scratches just below the chin, together 
with a series of livid spots which were evidently the 
impression of fingers. The face was fearfully dis¬ 
colored, and the eye-balls protruded. The tongue 
had been partially bitten through. A large bruise 
was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, pro¬ 
duced. apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In 
the opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye 
had been throttled to death by some person or per¬ 
sons unknown. The corpse of the mother was hor¬ 
ribly mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and 
arm were more or less shattered. The left tibia 
much splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left 
side. Whole body dreadfully bruised and discol¬ 
ored. It was not possible to say how th£ injuries 
had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a 
broad bar of iron—a chair—any large, heavy, and 
obtuse weapon would have produced such results, if 
wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No 


woman could have inflicted the blows with any weap¬ 
on. The head of the deceased, when seen by wit¬ 
ness, was entirely separated from the body, and was 
also greatly shattered. The throat had evidently 
been cut with some very sharp instrument—proba¬ 
bly with a razor. 

“ Alexandre Etienne , surgeon, was called with M. 
Dumas to view the bodies. Corroborated the testi¬ 
mony, and the opinions of M. Dumas. 

“ Nothing further of importance was elicited, al¬ 
though several other persons were examined. A 
murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all its 
particulars, was never before committed in Paris— 
if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The 
police are entirely at fault—an unusual occurrence 
in affairs of this nature. There is not, however, the 
shadow of a clew apparent.” 

The evening edition of the paper stated that the 
greatest excitement still continued in the Quartier 
St. Roch—that the premises in question had been 
carefully re-searched, and fresh examinations of wit¬ 
nesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A post¬ 
script, however, mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon 
had been arrested and imprisoned—although noth¬ 
ing appeared to criminate him beyond the facts 
already detailed. 

Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress 
of this affair—at least so I judged from his man¬ 
ner, for he made no comments. It was only after 
the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, 
that he asked me my opinion respecting the mur¬ 
ders. 

I could merely agree with all Paris in considering 
them an insoluble mystery. I saw no means by 
which it would be possible to trace the murderer. 

“We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, 
“ by this shell of an examination. The Parisian po¬ 
lice, so much extolled for acumen, are cunning, but no 
more. There is no method in their proceedings, be¬ 
yond the method of the moment. They make avast 
parade of measures ; but, not unfrequently, these are 
so ill adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us 
in mind of Monsieur Jourdain’s calling for his robe- 
de-ehambre—-pour mieux entendre la musique. The 
results attained by them are not unfrequently sur¬ 
prising, but, for the most part, are brought about by 
simple diligence and activity. When these qualities 
are unavailing, their schemes fail. Vidocq, for ex¬ 
ample, was a good guesser, and a persevering man. 
But, without educated thought, he erred continually 
by the very intensity of his investigations. He im¬ 
paired his vision by holding the object too close. 
He might see, perhaps, one or two points with un¬ 
usual clearness, but in so doing he, necessarily, lost 
sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there is such 
a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always 
in a well. In fact, as regards the more important 
knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably super¬ 
ficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek 
her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is 




449 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue. 


found. The modes and sources of this kind of error 
are well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly 
bodies. To look at a star by glances—to view it in 
a side-long way, by turning toward it the exterior 
portions of the reti?ia (more susceptible of feeble im¬ 
pressions of light than the interior), is to behold the 
star distinctly—is to have the best appreciation of 
its lustre—a lustre which grow’s dim just in propor¬ 
tion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater 
number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the lat¬ 
ter case but in the former there is the more refined 
capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity 
we perplex and enfeeble thought ; and it is possible 
to make even Venus herself vanish from the firma¬ 
ment by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, 
or too direct. 

“ As for these murders, let us enter into some ex¬ 
aminations for ourselves, before we make up an opin¬ 
ion respecting them. An inquiry will afford us 
amusement” [I thought this an odd term, so applied, 
but said nothing], “and, besides, Le Bon once ren¬ 
dered me a service for which I am not ungrateful. 
We will go and see the premises with our own eyes. 

I know G-, the Prefect of Police, and shall 

have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary permis¬ 
sion.” 

The permission was obtained, and we proceeded 
at once to the Rue Morgue. This is one of those 
miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the 
Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in 
the afternoon when we reached it, as this quarter is 
at a great distance from that in which we resided. 
The house was readily found ; for there were still 
many persons gazing up at the closed shutters, with 
an objectless curiosity, from the opposite side of the 
way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with a 
gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch- 
box, with a sliding panel in the window, indicating a 
loge de concierge. Before going in we walked up the 
street, turned down an alley, and then, again turning, 
passed in the rear of the building—Dupin, mean¬ 
while, examining the whole neighborhood, as well as 
the house, with a minuteness of attention for which 
I could see no possible object. 

Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of 
the dwelling, rang, and, having shown our creden¬ 
tials, were admitted by the agents in charge. We 
went up-stairs—into the chamber where the body of 
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been found, and 
where both the deceased still lay. The disorders of 
the room had, as usual, been suffered to exist. I saw 
nothing beyond what had been stated in the “ Gazette 
des Tribunaux.” Dupin scrutinized everything— 
not excepting the* bodies of the victims. We then 
went into the other rooms, and into the yard ; a 
gendarme accompanying us throughout. The exam¬ 
ination occupied us until dark, when we took our 
departure. On our way home my companion stepped 
in for a moment at the office of one of the daily 
papers. 


I have said that the whims of my friend were man¬ 
ifold, and that Je les menagais: —for this phrase there 
is no English equivalent. It was his humor, now, to 
decline all conversation on the subject of the murder, 
until about noon the next day. He then asked me, 
suddenly, if I had observed anything peculiar at the 
scene of the atrocity. 

There was something in his manner of emphasiz¬ 
ing the word “ peculiar,” which caused me to shud¬ 
der, without knowing why. 

“No, nothing peculiar ,” I said; “nothing more, 
at least, than we both saw stated in the paper.” 

“The ‘Gazette,’ ” he replied, “has not entered, I 
fear, into the unusual horror of the thing. But dis¬ 
miss the idle opinions of this print. It appears to 
me that this mystery is considered insoluble for the 
very reason which should cause it to be regarded as 
easy of solution—I mean for the outrd character of 
its features. The police are confounded by the 
seeming absence of motive—not for the murder 
itself—but for the atrocity of the murder. They 
are puzzled, too, by the seeming impossibility of 
reconciling the voices heard in contention with the 
facts that no one was discovered up-stairs but the 
assassinated Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and that 
there was no means of egress without the notice of 
the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room ; 
the corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the 
chimney ; the frightful mutilation of the body of 
the old lady : these considerations, with those just 
mentioned, and others which I need not mention, 
have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by putting com¬ 
pletely at fault the boasted acumen of the govern¬ 
ment agents. They have fallen into the gross but 
common error of confounding the unusual with the 
abstruse. But it is by these deviations from the 
plane of the ordinary that reason feels its way, if at 
all, in its search for the true. In investigations such 
as we are now pursuing, it should not be so much 
asked ‘ What has occurred,’ as * What has occurred 
that never has occurred before.’ In fact, the facil¬ 
ity with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the 
solution of this mystery, is in the direct ratio of its 
apparent insolubility in the eyes of the police.” 

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment. 

“ I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking to¬ 
ward the door of our apartment—“ I am now await¬ 
ing a person who, although perhaps not the perpe¬ 
trator of these butcheries, must have been in some 
measure implicated in their perpetration. Of the 
worst portion of the crimes committed, it is probable 
that he is innocent. I hope that I am right in this 
supposition ; for upon it I build my expectation of 
reading the entire riddle. I look for the man here 
—in this room—every moment. It is true that he 
may not arrive ; but the probability is that he will. 
Should he come, it will be necessary to detain him. 
Here are pistols ; and we both know how to use 
them when occasion demands their use.” 

I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or 









450 


Treasury of Tales\ 


believing what I heard, while Dupin went on, very 
much as if in a soliloquy. I have already spoken of 
his abstract manner at such times. His discourse 
was addressed to myself; but his voice, although by 
no means loud, had that intonation which is com¬ 
monly employed in speaking to some one at a great 
distance. His eyes, vacant in expression, regarded 
only the wall. 

“ That the voices heard in contention,” he said, 
“ by the party upon the stairs, were not the voices of 
the women themselves, was fully proved by the evi¬ 
dence. This relieves us of all doubt upon the ques¬ 
tion whether the old lady could have first destroyed 
the daughter and afterward have committed suicide. 
I speak of this point chiefly for the sake of method ; 
for the strength of Madame L’Espanaye would have 
been utterly unequal to the task of thrusting her 
daughter’s corpse up the chimney as it was found ; 
and the nature of the wounds upon her own person 
entirely precludes the idea of self-destruction. Mur¬ 
der, then, has been committed by some third party ; 
and the voices of this third party were those heard 
in contention. Let me now advert—not to the 
whole testimony respecting these voices—but to 
what was peculiar in that testimony. Did you ob¬ 
serve anything peculiar about it?” 

I remarked that, while all the.witnesses agreed in 
supposing the gruff voice to be that of a Frenchman, 
there was much disagreement in regard to the shrill, 
or as one individual termed it, the harsh voice. 

“ That was the evidence itself, ” said Dupin, 
“ but it was not the peculiarity of the evidence. 
You have observed nothing distinctive. Yet there 
was something to be observed. The witnesses, as 
you remark, agreed about the gruff voice ; they 
were here unanimous. But in regard to the shrill 
voice, the peculiarity is—not that they disagreed— 
but that, while an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, 
a Hollander, and a Frenchman attempted to describe 
it, each one spoke of it as that of a foreigner. 
Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his 
own countrymen. Each likens it—not to the voice 
of an individual of any nation with whose language 
he is conversant, but the converse. The French¬ 
man supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and ‘ might 
have distinguished some words had he been acquaint¬ 
ed with the Spanish.' The Dutchman maintains it to 
have been that of a Frenchman ; but we find it 
stated that ‘ not understanding French, this witness 
was examined through an interpreter.' The English¬ 
man thinks it the voice of a German, and ‘does ?iot 
understand German.' The Spaniard ‘ is sure’ that it 
was that of an Englishman, but ‘judges by the in¬ 
tonation’ altogether, ‘as he has no knowledge of the 
English.' The Italian believes it the voice of a 
Russian, but ‘ has never conversed with a native of 
Russia.' A second Frenchman differs, moreover, 
with the first, and is positive that the voice was that 
of an Italian; but, not being cognizant of that tongue , 
is, like the Spaniard, ‘ convinced by the intonation.’ 


Now how strangely unusual must that voice have 
really been, about which such testimony as this could 
have been elicited !—in whose toties even the deni¬ 
zens of the five great divisions of Europe could rec¬ 
ognize nothing familiar ! You will say that it might 
have been the voice of an Asiatic—of an African. 
Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in Paris ; but, 
without denying the inference, I will now merely call 
your attention to three points. The voice is termed 
by one witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It is rep¬ 
resented by two others to have been ‘ quick and u?i- 
equal.' No words—no sounds resembling words— 
were by any witness mentioned as distinguishable. 

“ I know not,” continued Dupin, “ what impres¬ 
sion I may have made, so far, upon your own under¬ 
standing ; but I do not hesitate to say that legitimate 
deductions even from this portion of the testimony— 
the portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices— 
are in themselves sufficient to engender a suspicion 
which should give direction to all farther progress 
in the investigation of the mystery. I said ‘ legiti¬ 
mate deductions ’; but my meaning is not thus fully 
expressed. I designed to imply that the deductions 
are the sole proper ones, and that the suspicion arises 
inevitably from them as the single result. What the 
suspicion is, however, I will not say just yet. I 
merely wish you to bear in mind that, with myself, 
it was sufficiently forcible to give a definite form—a 
certain tendency—to my inquiries in the chamber. 

“ Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this 
chamber. What shall we first seek here ? The 
means of egress employed by the murderers. It is 
not too much to say that neither of us believes in 
preternatural events. Madame and Mademoiselle 
L’Espanaye were not destroyed by spirits. The 
doers of the deed were material, and escaped 
materially. Then how? Fortunately, there is but 
one mode of reasoning upon the point, and that 
mode must lead us to a definite decision.—Let us 
examine, each by each, the possible means of egress. 
It is clear that the assassins were in the room where 
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found, or at least in 
the room adjoining, when the party ascended the 
stairs. It is, then, only from these two apartments 
that we have to seek issues. The police have laid 
bare the floors, the ceilings, and the masonry of the 
walls, in every direction. No secret issues could 
have escaped their vigilance. But, not trusting to 
their eyes, I examined with my own. There were, 
then, 7 io secret issues. Both doors leading from the 
rooms into the passage were securely locked, with 
the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. 
These, although of ordinary width for some eight 
or ten feet above the hearths, will not admit through¬ 
out their extent the body of a large cat. The 
impossibility of egress, by means already stated, 
being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows. 
Through those of the front room no one could have 
escaped without notice from the crowd in the street. 
The murderers niust have passed, then, through 






45i 


\ 


The Murders in 


those of the back room. Now, brought to this con¬ 
clusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is 
not our part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of 
apparent impossibilities. It is only left for us to 
prove that these apparent ‘ impossibilities’ are in 
reality not such. 

“ There are two windows in the chamber. One of 
them is unobstructed by furniture, and is wholly 
visible. The lower portion of the other is hidden 
from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead, 
which is thrust close up against it. The former was 
found securely fastened from within. It resisted the 
utmost force of those who endeavored to raise it. A 
large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its frame to 
the left, and a very stout nail was found fitted therein, 
nearly to the head. Upon examining the other 
window, a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; 
and a vigorous attempt to raise this sash, failed also. 
The police were now entirely satisfied that egress 
had not been in these directions. And, therefore , it 
was thought a matter of supererogation to withdraw 
the nails and open the windows. 

“ My own examination was somewhat more par¬ 
ticular, and was so for the jeason I have just given— 
because here it was, I knew, that all apparent im¬ 
possibilities must be proved to be not such in reality. 

“ I proceeded to think thus— a posteriori. The 
murderers did escape from one of these windows. 
This being so, they could not have re-fastened the 
sashes from the inside, as they were found fas¬ 
tened ;—the consideration which put a stop, through 
its obviousness, to the scrutiny of the police in this 
quarter. Yet the sashes were fastened. They must, 
then, have the power of fastening themselves. There 
was no escape from this conclusion. I stepped to 
the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with 
some difficulty, and attempted to raise the sash. It 
resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A con¬ 
cealed spring must, I now knew, exist; and this cor¬ 
roboration of my idea convinced me that my premises, 
at least, were correct, however mysterious still ap¬ 
peared the circumstances attending the nails. A 
careful search soon brought to light the hidden spring. 
I pressed it, and, satisfied with the discovery, forbore 
to upraise the sash. 

“ I now replaced the nail and regarded it atten¬ 
tively. A person passing out through this window 
might have reclosed it, and the spring would have 
caught—but the nail could not have been replaced. 
The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the 
field of my investigations. The assassins must have 
escaped through the other window. Supposing, 
then, the springs upon each sash to be the same, as 
was probable, there must be found a difference be¬ 
tween the nails, or at least between the modes of 
their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bed¬ 
stead, I looked over the head-board minutely at the 
second casement. Passing my hand down behind 
the board, I readily discovered and pressed the 
spring, which was, as I had supposed, identical in 
2 


the Rue Morgue. 

character with its neighbor. I now looked at the 
nail. It was as stout as the other, and apparently 
fitted in the same manner—driven in nearly up to 
the head. 

“ You will say that I was puzzled ; but, if you think 
so, you must have misunderstood the nature of the 
inductions. To use a sporting phrase, I had not 
been once ‘ at fault.’ The scent had never for an 
instant been lost. There was no flaw in any link of 
the chain. I had traced the secret to its ultimate re¬ 
sult,—and that result was the nail. It had, I say, in 
every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other 
window ; but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclu¬ 
sive as it might seem to be) when compared with the 
consideration that here, at this point, terminated the 
clew. ‘ There must be something wrong,’ I said, 
‘about the nail.’ I touched it; and the head, with 
about a quarter of an inch of the shank, came off in 
my fingers. The rest of the shank was in the gim¬ 
let-hole, where it had been broken off. The fracture 
was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with 
rust), and had apparently been accomplished by the 
blow of a hammer, which had partially imbedded, in 
the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the 
nail. I now carefully replaced this head portion in 
the indentation whence I had taken it, and the re¬ 
semblance to a perfect nail was complete—the fissure 
was invisible. Pressing the spring, I gently raised 
the sash for a few inches ; the head went up with it, 
remaining firm in its bed. I closed the window, and 
the semblance of the whole nail was again perfect. 

“ The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The 
assassin had escaped through the window which 
looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own accord 
upon his exit (or perhaps purposely closed), it had 
become fastened by the spring ; and it was the re¬ 
tention of this spring which had been mistaken by 
the police for that of the nail,—farther inquiry being 
thus considered unnecessary. 

“ The next question is that of the mode of descent. 
Upon this point I had been satisfied in my walk with 
you around the building. About five feet and a half 
from the casement in question there runs a lightning- 
rod. From this rod it would have been impossible 
for any one to reach the window itself, to say nothing 
of entering it. I observed, however, that the shutters 
of the fourth story were of a peculiar kind, called by 
Parisian carpenters ferrades —a kind rarely employed 
at the present day, but frequently seen upon very old 
mansions at Lyons and Bourdeaux. They are in the 
form of an ordinary door (a single, not a folding- 
door), except that the lower half is latticed or worked 
in open trellis—thus affording an excellent hold for 
the hands. In the present instance these shutters 
are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw 
them from the rear of the house, they were both 
about half open—that is to say, they stood off at 
right angles from the wall. It is probable that the 
police, as well as myself, examined the back of the 
tenement ; but, if so, in looking at these ferrades in 




452 


Treasury of Tales. 


the line of their breadth (as they must have done), 
they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or, at 
all events, failed to take it into due consideration. 
In fact, having once satisfied themselves that no 
egress could have been made in this quarter, they 
would naturally bestow here a very cursory examina¬ 
tion. It was clear to me, however, that the shutter 
belonging to the window at the head of the bed, 
would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach to with¬ 
in two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident 
that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity 
and courage, an entrance into the window, from the 
rod, might have been thus effected. By reaching to 
the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose 
the shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might 
have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Let¬ 
ting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing his feet 
securely against the wall, and springing boldly from 
it, he might have swung the shutter so as to close it, 
and, if we imagine the window open at that time, 
might even have swung himself into the room. 

“ I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have 
spoken of a very unusual degree of activity as requi¬ 
site to success in so hazardous and so difficult a feat. 
It is my design to show you, first, that the thing 
might possibly have been accomplished :—but, sec¬ 
ondly and chiefly , I wish to impress upon your un¬ 
derstanding the very extraordinary —the almost pre¬ 
ternatural character of that agility which could have 
accomplished it. 

“ You will say, no doubt, using the language of 
the law, that ‘to make out my case,’ I should rather 
undervalue, than insist upon a full estimation of, the 
activity required in this matter. This may be the 
practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. 
My ultimate object is only the truth. My immediate 
purpose is to lead you to place in juxtaposition 
that very unusual activity of which I have just spoken, 
with that very peculiar shrill (or harsh) and unequal 
voice, about whose nationality no two persons could 
be found to agree, and in whose utterance no syllab¬ 
ification could be detected.” 

At these words a vague and half-formed concep¬ 
tion of the meaning of Dupin flitted over my mind. 
I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, 
without power to comprehend ; as men, at times, find 
themselves upon the brink of remembrance, without 
being able, in the end, to remember. My friend went 
on with his discourse. 

“You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted the 
question from the mode of egress to that of ingress. 
It was my design to convey the idea that both were 
effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let 
us now revert to the interior of the room. Let us 
survey the appearances here. The drawers of the 
bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many ar¬ 
ticles of apparel still remained within them. The 
conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess—a 
very silly one—and no more. How are we to know 
that the articles found in the drawers were not all 


these drawers had originally contained ? Madame 
L’Espanaye and her daughter lived an exceedingly 
retired life—saw no company—seldom went out— 
had little use for numerous changes of habiliment. 
Those found were at least of as good quality as any 
likely to be possessed by these ladies. If a thief had 
taken any, why did he not take the best—why did 
he not take all ? In a word, why did he abandon 
four thousand francs in gold to encumber himself 
with a bundle of linen ? The gold was abandoned. 
Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mig- 
naud, the banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the 
floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your 
thoughts the blundering idea of motive , engendered 
in the brains of the police by that portion of the evi¬ 
dence which speaks of money delivered at the door 
of the house. Coincidences ten times as remarkable 
as this (the delivery of the money, and murder com¬ 
mitted within three days upon the party receiving it), 
happen to all of us every hour of our lives, without 
attracting even momentary notice. Coincidences, in 
general, are great stumbling-blocks in the way of that 
class of thinkers who have been educated to know 
nothing of the theory of prt^babilities—that theory to 
which the most glorious objects of human research are 
indebted for the most glorious of illustration. In the 
present instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its 
delivery three days before would have formed some¬ 
thing more than a coincidence. It would have been 
corroborative of this idea of motive. But, under the 
real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose 
gold the motive of this outrage, we must also im¬ 
agine the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to 
have abandoned his gold and his motive together. 

“ Keeping now steadily in mind the points to 
which I have drawn your attention—that peculiar 
voice, that unusual agility, and that startling absence 
of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this 
—let us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a 
woman strangled to death by manual strength, and 
thrust up a chimney, head downward. Ordinary 
assassins employ no such modes of murder as this. 
Least of all, do they thus dispose of the murdered. In 
the manner of thrusting the corpse up the chimney, 
you will admit that there was something excessively 
outre- —something altogether irreconcilable with our 
common notions of human action, even when we 
suppose the actors the most depraved of men. 
Think, too, how great must have been that strength 
which could have thrust the body up such an aper¬ 
ture so forcibly that the united vigor of several per¬ 
sons was found barely sufficient to drag it down! 

“Turn, now, to other indications of the employ¬ 
ment of a vigor most marvellous. On the hearth 
were thick tresses—very thick tresses—of gray 
human hair. These had been torn out by the roots. 
You are aware of the great force necessary in tear¬ 
ing thus from the head even twenty or thirty hairs 
together. You saw the locks in question as well as 
myself. Their roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted 










453 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue . 


with fragments of the flesh of the scalp—sure token 
of the prodigious power which had been exerted in 
uprooting perhaps half a million of hairs at a time. 
The throat of the old lady was not merely cut, but 
the head absolutely severed from the body : the in¬ 
strument was a mere razor. I wish you also to look 
at the brutal ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises 
upon the body of Madame L’Espanaye I do not 
speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor 
Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were 
inflicted by some obtuse instrument; and so far 
these gentlemen are very correct. The obtuse in¬ 
strument was clearly the stone pavement in the 
yard, upon which the victim had fallen from the win¬ 
dow which looked in upon the bed. This idea, 
however simple it may now seem, escaped the police 
for the same reason that the breadth of the shutters 
escaped them—because, by the affair of the nails, 
their perceptions had been hermetically sealed against 
the possibility of the windows having ever been 
opened at all. 

“ If now, in addition to all these things, you have 
properly reflected upon the odd disorder of the 
chamber, we have gone so far as to combine the 
ideas of an agility astounding, a strength super¬ 
human, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, 
a grotesquerie in horror absolutely alien from hu¬ 
manity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of 
men of many nations, and devoid of all distinct or 
intelligible syllabification. What result, then, has 
ensued ? What impression have I made upon your 
fancy ?” 

I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me 
the question. “A madman,” I said, “has done this 
deed—some raving maniac, escaped from a neigh¬ 
boring Maison de Sant/.” 

“ In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not 
irrelevant. But the voices of madmen, even in their 
wildest paroxysms, are never found to tally with 
that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen 
are of some nation, and their language, however in¬ 
coherent in its words, has always the coherence of 
syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is 
not such as I now hold in my hand. I disentangled 
this little tuft from the rigidly clutched fingers of 
Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me what you make of 
it.” 

“ Dupin ! ” I said, completely unnerved, “ this 
hair is most unusual—this is no human hair.” 

“ I have not asserted that it is,” said he ; “ but be¬ 
fore we decide this point, I wish you to glance at the 
little sketch I have here traced upon this paper. It 
is a facsimile drawing of what has been described in 
one portion of the testimony as ‘ dark bruises, and 
deep indentations of finger nails,’ upon the throat of 
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and in another (by 
Messrs. Dumas and Etienne,) as a ‘series of livid 
spots, evidently the impression of fingers.’ 

“ You will perceive,” continued my friend, spread¬ 
ing out the paper upon the table before us, “ that 


this drawing gives the idea of a firm and fixed hold. 
There is no slipping apparent. Each finger has re¬ 
tained—possibly until the death of the victim—the 
fearful grasp by which it originally imbedded itself. 
Attempt, now, to place all your fingers at the same 
time, in the respective impressions as you see them.” 

I made the attempt in vain. 

“We are possibly not giving this matter a fair 
trial,” he said. “ The paper is spread out upon a 
plain surface ; but the human throat is cylindrical. 
Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which 
is about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around 
it, and try the experiment again.” 

I did so ; but the difficulty was even more obvious 
than before. “ This,” I said, “ is the mark of no 
human hand.” 

“Read now,” replied Dupin, “this passage from 
Cuvier.” 

It was a minute anatomical and generally descrip¬ 
tive account of the large fulvous Ourang-Outang of 
the East Indian Islands. The gigantic stature, the 
prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, 
and the imitative propensities of these mammalia are 
sufficiently well known to all. I understood the full 
horrors of the murder at once. 

“ The description of the digits,” said I, as I made 
an end of reading, “is in exact accordance with this 
drawing. I see that no animal but an Ourang-Ou¬ 
tang, of the species here mentioned, could have im¬ 
pressed the indentations as you have traced them. 
This tuft of tawny hair, too, is identical in character 
with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot pos¬ 
sibly comprehend the particulars of this frightful 
mystery. Besides, there were two voices heard in 
contention, and one of them was unquestionably the 
voice of a Frenchman.” 

“ True ; and you will remember an expression at¬ 
tributed almost unanimously, by the evidence, to this 
voice,—the expression ‘ mon Dieu ! ’ This, under 
the circumstances, has been justly characterized by 
one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner) as 
an expression of remonstrance or expostulation. 
Upon these two words, therefore, I have mainly built 
my hopes of a full solution of the riddle. A French¬ 
man was cognizant of the murder. It is possible— 
indeed it is far more than probable—that he was in¬ 
nocent of all participation in the bloody transactions 
which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have 
escaped from him. He may have traced it to the 
chamber; but, under the agitating circumstances 
which ensued, he could never have recaptured it. It 
is still at large. I will not pursue these guesses—for 
I have no right to call them more—since the shades 
of reflection upon which they are based are scarcely 
of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my own in¬ 
tellect, and since I could not pretend to make them 
intelligible to the understanding of another. We 
will call them guesses, then, and speak of them as 
such. If the Frenchman in question is indeed, as I 
suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement, 







454 


Treasury of Tales. 


which I left last night, upon our return home, at the 
office of ‘ Le Monde ’ (a paper devoted to the ship¬ 
ping interest, and much sought by sailors), will bring 
him to our residence.” 

He handed me a paper, and 1 read thus : 

Caught—I n the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morn¬ 
ing of the — inst. {the morning of the murder), a very 
large, tawny Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The 
owner (who is ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to 
a Maltese vessel) may have the animal again, upon 
identifying it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges aris¬ 
ing from its capture and keeping. Call at No. —, Rue 
-, Faubourg St. Germain—au troisteme. 

“ How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should 
know the man to be a sailor, and belonging to a 
Maltese vessel ? ” 

“ I do not know it,” said Dupin. “ I am not sure 
of it. Here, however, is a small piece of ribbon, 
which from its form, and from its greasy appearance, 
has evidently been used in tying the hair in one of 
those long queues of which sailors are so fond. More¬ 
over, this knot is one which few besides sailors can 
tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked the 
ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could 
not have belonged to either of the deceased. Now 
if, after all, I am wrong in my induction from this 
ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to 
a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in 
saying what I did in the advertisement. If I am in 
error, he will merely suppose that I have been mis¬ 
led by some circumstance into which he will not 
take the trouble to inquire. But if I am right, a 
great point is gained. Cognizant, although innocent, 
of the murder, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate 
about replying to the advertisement—about de¬ 
manding the Ourang-Outang. He will reason thus :— 

‘ I am innocent; I am poor ; my Ourang-Outang is 
of great value—to one in my circumstances a fortune 
of itself—why should I lose it through idle appre¬ 
hensions of danger ? Here it is, within my grasp. 
It was found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast 
distance from the scene of that butchery. How can 
it ever be suspected that a brute beast should have 
done the deed ? The police are at fault—they have 
failed to procure the slightest clew. Should they 
even trace the animal, it would be impossible to 
prove me cognizant of the murder, or to implicate me 
in guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all, 
/ am known. The advertiser designates me as the 
possessor of the beast. I am not sure to what limit 
his knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claim¬ 
ing a property of so great value, which it is known 
that I possess, I will render the animal, at least, liable 
to suspicion. It is not my policy to attract attention 
either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the 
advertisement, get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it 
close until this matter has blown over.’ ” 

At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs. 

“ Be ready,” said Dupin, “ with your pistols, but 


neither use them nor show them until at a signal 
from myself.” 

The front door of the house had been left open, 
and the visitor had entered, without ringing, and ad¬ 
vanced several steps upon the staircase. Now, how¬ 
ever, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we heard 
him descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the 
door, when we again heard him coming up. He did 
not turn back a second time, but stepped up with- 
decision, and rapped at the door of our chamber. 

“ Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty 
tone. 

A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently,'—a 
tall, stout, and muscular-looking person, with a cer¬ 
tain dare-devil expression of countenance, not alto¬ 
gether unprepossessing. His face, greatly sunburnt, 
was more than half hidden by whiskers and tnustachio. 
He had with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared 
to be otherwise unarmed. He bowed awkwardly, 
and bade us “good-evening,” in French accents, 
which, although somewhat Neufchatelish, were still 
sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin. 

“ Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin. “ I suppose 
you have called about the Ourang-Outang. Upon 
my word, I almost envy you the possession of him ; 
a remarkably fine and no doubt a very valuable 
animal. How old do you suppose him to be ? ” 

The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a 
man relieved of some intolerable burden, and then 
replied, in an assured tone : 

“ I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more 
than four or five years old. Have you got him 
here ? ” 

“ Oh no ; we had no conveniences for keeping him 
here. He is at a livery stable in the Rue Dubourg, 
just by. You can get him in the morning. Of 
course you are prepared to identify the property ? ” 

“ To be sure I am, sir.” 

“ I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin. 

“ I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble 
for nothing, sir,” said the man. “Couldn’t expect 
it. Am very willing to pay a reward for the finding 
of the animal—that is to say, anything in reason.” 

“Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, 
to be sure. Let me think !—what should I have ? 
Oh ! I will tell you. My reward shall be this. You 
shall give me all the information in your power about 
these murders in the Rue Morgue.” 

Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and 
very quietly. Just as quietly, too, he walked toward 
the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. 
He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it, 
without the least flurry, upon the table. 

The sailor’s face flushed up as if he were strug¬ 
gling with suffocation. He started to his feet and 
grasped his cudgel ; bu.t the next moment he fell 
back into his seat, trembling violently, and with the 
countenance of death itself. He spoke not a word. 

I pitied him from the bottom of my heart. 

“ My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “ you are 






455 


The Murders in 


alarming yourself unnecessarily—you are indeed. 
We mean you no harm whatever. I pledge you the 
honor of a gentleman, and of a Frenchman, that we 
intend you no injury. I perfectly well know you are 
innocent of the atrocities in the Rue Morgue. It 
will not do, howevtr, to deny that you are in some 
measure implicated in them. From what I have 
already said, you must know that I have had means 
of information about this matter—means of which 
you could never have dreamed. Now the thing 
stands thus : You have done nothing which you 
could have avoided—nothing, certainly which ren¬ 
ders you culpable. You were not even guilty of 
robbery, when you might have robbed with impunity. 
You have nothing to conceal. You have no reason 
for concealment. On the other hand, you are bound 
by every principle of honor to confess all you know. 
An innocent man is now imprisoned, charged with 
that crime of which you can point out the perpe¬ 
trator.” 

The sailor had recovered his presence of mind, in 
a great measure, while Dupin uttered these words ; 
but his original boldness of bearing was all gone. 

“ So help me God,” said he, after a brief pause, “ I 
will tell you all I know about this affair ;—but I do 
not expect you to believe one-half I say—I would be 
a fool indeed if I did. Still, I am innocent, and I 
will make a clean breast if I die for it.” 

What he stated was, in substance, this : He had 
lately made a voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A 
party, of which he formed one, landed at Borneo, 
and passed into the interior on an excursion of pleas¬ 
ure. Himself and a companion had captured the 
Ourang-Outang. This companion dying, the animal 
fell into his own exclusive possession. After great 
trouble, occasioned by the intractable ferocity of his 
captive during the home voyage, he at length suc¬ 
ceeded in lodging it safely at his own residence in 
Paris, where, not to attract toward himself the un¬ 
pleasant curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it care¬ 
fully secluded, until such time as it should recover 
from a wound in the foot, received from a splinter 
on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell it. 

Returning home from some sailors’ frolic on the 
night, or rather in the morning of the murder, he 
found the beast occupying his own bedroom, into 
which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where 
it had been, as was thought, securely confined. 
Razor in hand, and fully lathered, it was sitting be¬ 
fore a looking-glass, attempting the operation of 
shaving, in which it had no doubt previously watched 
its master through the key-hole of the closet. Terri¬ 
fied at the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the pos¬ 
session of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to 
use it, the man, for some moments, was at a loss what 
to do. He had been accustomed, however, to quiet 
the creature, even in its fiercest moods, by the use of 
a whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon sight of 
it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the 
door of the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, 


the Rue Morgue. 

through a window, unfortunately open, into the 
street. 

The Frenchman followed in despair ; the ape, 
razor still in hand, occasionally stopping to look back 
and gesticulate at its pursuer, until the latter had 
nearly come up with it. It then again made off. In 
this manner the chase continued for a long time. 
The streets were profoundly quiet, as it was nearly 
three o’clock in the morning. In passing down an 
alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s 
attention was arrested by a light gleaming from the 
open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s chamber, in 
the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the build¬ 
ing, it perceived the lightning-rod, clambered up 
with inconceivable agility, grasped the shutter, which 
was thrown fully back against the wall, and, by its 
means, swung itself directly upon the headboard of 
the bed. The whole feat did not occupy a minute. 
The shutter was kicked open again by the Ourang- 
Outang as it entered the room. 

The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced 
and perplexed. He had strong hopes of now recap¬ 
turing the brute, as it could scarcely escape from the 
trap into which it had ventured, except by the rod, 
where it might be intercepted as it came down. On 
the other hand, there was much cause for anxiety as 
to what it might do in the house. This latter reflec¬ 
tion urged the man still to follow the fugitive. A 
lightning-rod is ascended without difficulty, especially 
by a sailor ; but when he had arrived as high as the 
window, which lay far to his left, his career was 
stopped ; the most that he could accomplish was to 
reach over so as to obtain a glimpse of the interior 
of the room. At this glimpse he nearly fell from his 
hold through excess of horror. Now it was that those 
hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which had 
startled from slumber the inmates of the Rue Morgue. 
Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter, habited in 
their night clothes, had apparently been occupied in 
arranging some papers in the iron chest already men¬ 
tioned, which had been wheeled into the middle of 
the room. It was open, and its contents lay beside 
it on the floor. The victims must have been sitting 
with their backs toward the window ; and, from the 
time elapsing between the ingress of the beast and 
the screams, it seems probable that it was not im¬ 
mediately perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter 
would naturally have been attributed to the wind. 

As the sailor looked in, the gigantic animal had 
seized Madame L’Espanaye by the hair (which was 
loose, as she had been combing it), and was flourish¬ 
ing the razor about her face, in imitation of the mo¬ 
tions of a barber. The daughter lay prostrate and 
motionless ; she had swooned. The screams and 
struggles of the old lady (during which the hair was 
torn from her head) had the effect of changing the 
probably pacific purposes of the Ourang-Outang into 
those of wrath. With one determined sweep of its 
muscular arm it nearly severed her head from her 
body. The sight of blood inflamed its anger into 





456 


Treasury of Tales. 


frenzy. Gnashing its teeth, and flashing fire from 
its eyes, it flew upon the body of the girl, and im¬ 
bedded its fearful talons in her throat, retaining its 
grasp until she expired. Its wandering and wild 
glances fell at this moment upon the head of the bed, 
over which the face of its master, rigid with horror, 
was just discernible. The fury of the beast, who no 
doubt bore still in mind the dreaded whip, was in¬ 
stantly converted into fear. Conscious of having 
deserved punishment, it seemed desirous of conceal¬ 
ing its bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber 
in an agony of nervous agitation ; throwing down 
and breaking the furniture as it moved, and drag¬ 
ging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, it 
seized first the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it 
up the chimney, as it was found ; then that of the 
old lady, which it immediately hurled through the 
window headlong. 

As the ape approached the casement with its mu¬ 
tilated burden, the sailor shrank aghast to the rod, 
and, rather gliding than clambering down it, hurried 
at once home—dreading the consequences of the 
butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his terror, all 
solicitude about the fate of the Ourang-Outang. The 
words heard by the party upon the staircase were the 
Frenchman’s exclamations of horror and affright, 
commingled with the fiendish jabberings of the brute. 

I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang- 
Outang must have escaped from the chamber, by the 
rod, just before the breaking of the door. It must 
have closed the window as it passed through it. It 
was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who 
obtained for it a very large sum at the Jardin des 
Plantes. Le Bon was instantly released, upon our 
narration of the circumstances (with some comments 
from Dupin) at the bureau of the Prefect of Police. 
This functionary, however well disposed to be my 
friend, could not altogether conceal his chagrin at 
the turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to in¬ 
dulge in a sarcasm or two about the propriety of 
every person minding his own business. 

“ Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought 
it necessary to reply. “ Let him discourse ; it will 
ease his conscience. I am satisfied with having de¬ 
feated him in his own castle. Nevertheless, that he 
failed in the solution of this mystery is by no means 
that matter for wonder which he supposes it; for, in 
truth, our friend the Prefect is somewhat too cunning 
to be profound. In his wisdom is no stamen. It is 
all head and no body, like the pictures of the Goddess 
Laverna,—or, at best, all head and shoulders, like a 
codfish. But he is a good creature after all. I like 
him especially for one master-stroke of cant, by 
which he has attained his reputation for ingenuity. I 
mean the way he has ‘ de nier ce qui est, et d'expliquer 
ce qui n'estpas."' 



A TRUE STORY. 

Repeated Word for Word as I Heard It. 

BY “ MARK TWAIN.” 

T was summer time and twilight. We were sit¬ 
ting on the porch of the farm-house, on the 
summit of the hill, and “Aunt Rachel ” was sit¬ 
ting respectfully below our level, on the steps, for 
she was our servant and colored. She was of mighty 
frame and stature ; she was sixty years old, but her 
eye was undimmed and her strength unabated. She 
was a cheerful, hearty soul, and it was no more 
trouble for her to laugh than it is for a bird to sing. 
She was under fire now, as usual when the day w r as 
done. That is to say, she w r as being chaffed with¬ 
out mercy, and was enjoying it. She would let off 
peal after peal of laughter, and then sit with her 
face in her hands and shake with throes of enjoy¬ 
ment which she could no longer get breath enough 
to express. At such a moment as this a thought oc¬ 
curred to me, and I said : 

“Aunt Rachel, how is it that you’ve lived sixty 
years and never had any trouble ? ” 

She stopped quaking. She paused, and there was 
a moment of silence. She turned her face over her 
shoulder toward me, and said, without even a smile 
in her voice : 

“ Misto C-, is you in ’arnest ? ” 

It surprised me a good deal ; and it sobered my 
manner and my speech, too. I said : 

“ Why, I thought—that is, I meant—why, you 
can’t have had any trouble. I’ve never heard you 
sigh, and never seen your eye when there wasn’t a 
laugh in it.” 

She faced fairly around, now, and was full of 
earnestness. 

“ Has I had any trouble ? Misto C-, I’s 

gwyne to tell you, den I leave it to you. I was 
bawn down ’mongst de slaves ; I knows all ’bout 
slavery, ’case I been one of ’em my own se’f. Well, 
sah, my ole man—dat’s my husban’—he was lovin’ 
an’ kind to me, jist as kind as you is to yo’ own wife. 
An’ we had chil’en—seven chil’en—an’ we loved dem 
chil’en jist de same as you loves yo’ chil’en. Dey 
was black, but de Lord can’t make no chil’en so 
black but what dey mother loves ’em an’ wouldn’t 
give ’em up, no, not for anything dat’s in this whole 
world. 

“Well, sah, I was raised in ole Fo’ginny, but my 
mother she was raised in Maryland ; an’ my souls! 
she was turrible when she’d git started ! My lan ! 
but she’d make de fur fly ! When she’d git into dem 
tantrums, she always had one word dat she said. 
She’d straighten herse’f up an’ put her fists in her 
hips an’ say, ‘ I want you to understan’ dat I wa’nt 
bawn in de mash to be fool’ by trash ! I’s one o’ 
de ole Blue Hen’s Chickens, I is ! ’ ’Ca’se, you see, 
dat’s what folks dat’s bawn in Maryland calls dey- 
selves, an’ dey’s proud of it. Well, dat was her 
word. I don’t ever forgit it, beca’se she said it so 


* 










A True Story. 


457 


much, an' beca’se she said it one day when my little 
Henry tore his wris’ awful, and most busted his 
head, right up at the top of his forehead, an’ de 
niggers didn’t fly aroun’ fas’ enough to ’tend to him. 
An’ when dey talk’ back at her, she up an’ she says, 

‘ Look-a-heah ! ’ she says, ‘ I want you niggers to 
understan’ that I wa’nt bawn in de mash to be fool’ 
by trash ! I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s Chickens, / 
is ! ’ an’ den she clar’ dat kitchen an’ bandage’ up de 
chile herse’f. So I says dat word, too, when I’s riled. 

“ Well, bymeby my ole mistis say she’s broke, an’ 
she’ got to sell all de niggers on de place. An’ 
when I heah dat dey gwyne to sell us all off at oc- 
tion in Richmon’, oh de good gracious ! I know 
what dat mean ! ” 

Aunt Rachel had gradually risen, while she warmed 
to her subject, and now she towered above us, black 
against the stars. 

“ Dey put chains on us an’ put us on a stan’ as 
high as dis po’ch,—twenty foot high,—an’ all de 
people stood aroun’, crowds an’ crowds. An’ dey’d 
come up dah an’ look at us all roun’, an’ squeeze our 
arm, an’ make us git up an’ walk, an’ den say, ‘ Dis 
one too ole,’ or ‘ Dis one lame,’ or ‘ Dis one don’t 
’mount to much.’ An’ dey sole my ole man, an’ 
took' him away, an’ dey begin to sell my chil’en an’ 
take dem away, an’ I begin to cry ; an’ de man say, 
‘ Shet up yo dam blubberin’,’ an’ hit me on de 
mouf wid his han’. An’ when de las’ one was gone 
but my little Henry, I grab’ him dost up to my breas’ 
so, an’ I ris up an’ says, ‘ You shan’t take him away,’ 
I says ; ‘ I’ll kill de man that tetches him ! ’ I says. 
But my little Henry whisper an’ say, * I gwyne to 
run away, an’ den I work an’ buy yo’ freedom.’ Oh, 
bless de chile, he always so good ! But dey got him 
—dey got him, de men did ; but I took and tear de 
clo’es mos’ off of ’em an’ beat ’em over de head wid 
my chain ; an’ dey give it to me , too, but I didn’t 
mine dat. 

“Well, dah was my ole man gone, an’ all my 
chil’en, all my seven chil’en—an’ six of ’em I hain’t 
set eyes on ag’in to dis day, an’ dat’s twenty-two 
year ago las’ Easter. De man dat bought me b’long’ 
in Newbern, an’ he took me dah. Well, bymeby de 
years roll on an’ de waw come. My marster he was 
a Confedrit colonel, an I was his family’s cook. So 
whende Unions took dat town, dey all runaway an’ 
lef me all by myse’f wid de other niggers in dat 
mons’us big house. So de big Union officers move 
in dah, an’ dey ask me would I cook for dem. ‘ Lord 
bless you,’ says I, ‘dat’s what I’s for.' 

“ Dey wa’nt no small-fry officers, mine you, dey 
was de biggest dey is; an’ de way dey made dem 
sojers mosey roun’ ! De Gen’l he tole me to boss 
dat kitchen ; an’ he say, ‘ If anybody come meddlin’ 
wid you, you jist make ’em walk chalk ; don’t you 
be afeared,’ he say ; ‘you’s ’mong frens, now.’ 

“ Well, I thinks to myse’f, if my little Henry ever 
got a chance to run away, he’d make to de Norf, 
o’ course. So one day I comes in dah whar de big 


officers was, in de parlor, an’ I drops a kurtchy, so, 
an’ I up an’ tole ’em ’bout my Henry, dey a-listenin’ 
to my troubles jist de same as if I was white folks ; 
an’ I says, ‘What I come for is beca’se if he got 
away and got up Norf whar you gemmen comes 
from, you might ’a’ seen him, maybe, an’ could tell 
me so as I could fine him ag’in ; he was very little, 
an’ he had a sk-yar on his lef’ wris’, an’ at de top of 
his forehead.’ Den dey look mournful, an de Gen’l 
say, ‘ How long since you los’ him ? ’ an I say, ‘ Thir¬ 
teen year.’ Den de Gen’l say, ‘ He wouldn’t be little 
no mo’, now—he’s a man ! ’ 

“ I never thought o’ dat befo’ ! He was only dat 
little feller to me , yit. I never thought ’bout him 
growin’ up and bein’ big. But I see it den. Nope 
o’ de gemmen had run acrost him, so dey couldn’t 
do nothin’ for me. But all dat time, do’ I didn’t 
know it, my Henry was runoff to de Norf, years an’ 
years, an’ he was a barber, too, an’ worked for his- 
se’f. An’ bymeby, when de waw come, he ups an’ 
he says : ‘Is done barberin’,’ he says, ‘ I’s gwyne to 
fine my ole mammy, less’n she’s dead.’ So he sole 
out an’ went to whar dey was recruitin', an’ hired 
hisse’f out to de colonel for his servant; an’ den he 
went all froo de battles everywhah, huntin’ for his ole 
mammy ; yes indeedy, he’d hire to fust one officer 
an’ den another, tell he’d ransacked de whole Souf ; 
but you see I didn’t know nuffin ’bout dis. How was 
I gwyne to know it ? 

“ Well, one night we had a big sojer ball; de so¬ 
jers dah at Newbern was always havin’ balls an’ car- 
ryin’ on. Dey had ’em in my kitchen, heaps o’ times, 
’case it was so big. Mine you, I was down on sich 
doins ; beca’se my place was wid de officers, an’ it 
rasp me to have dem common sojers cavortin’ roun’ 
my kitchen like dat. But 1 alway’ stood aroun’ an’ 
kep’ things straight, I did ; an’ sometimes dey’d git 
my dander up, an’ den I’d make ’em clar dat kitchen, 
mine I tell you ! 

“Well, one night—it was a Friday night—dey 
comes a whole platoon f’m a nigger ridgment dat 
was on guard at de house,—de house was head-quar¬ 
ters, you know,—an’ den I was jist a -bilin' ! Mad ? 
I was jist a -boomin'! I swelled aroun’, an swelled 
aroun’; I jist was a-itchin’ for ’em to do somefin for 
to start me. An dey was a-waltzin’ an’ a dancin’ 1 
my ! but dey was havin’ a time ! an’ I jist a-swellin’ an’ 
a-swellin’ up ! Booty soon, ’long comes sich a spruce 
young nigger a-sailin’ down de room with a yaller 
wench roun’ de wais’; an’ roun’ an’ roun an’ roun’ dey 
went, enough to make a body drunk to look at ’em ; 
an’ when dey get abreas’ o’ me, dey went to kin’ o’ 
balancin’ aroun’ fust on one leg an’ den on t’other, 
an smilin’ at my big red turban, an’ makin’ fun, an’ 
I ups an’ says ‘ Git along wid you !—rubbage ! ’ De 
young man’s face kin’ o’ changed, all of a sudden 
for 'bout a second, but den he went to smilin’ ag’in, 
same as he was befo’. Well, ’bout dis time, in comes 
some niggers dat played music and b’long’ to de 
ban’, an’ dey never could git along without puttin’on 






458 


Treasury 

airs. An ! de very fust air dey put on dat night, I lit 
into ’em ! Dey laughed, an’ dat made me wuss. 
De res’ o’ de niggers got to laughin’, an’ den my soul 
alive but I was hot! My eye was jist a-blazin’! I 
jist straightened myself up, so,—jist as I is now, 
plum to de ceilin’, mos’,—an’ I digs my fists into my 
hips, an’ I says, ‘ Look-a-heah ! ’ I says, ‘ I want you 
niggers to understan’ dat I wa’nt bawn in de mash 
to be fool’ by trash ! I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s 
Chickens, I is ! ’ an’ den I see dat youg man stan’ a- 
starin’ an’ stiff, lookin’ kin’ o’ up at de ceilin’ like he 
fo’got somefin, an’ couldn’t ’member it no mo’. 
Well, I jist march on dem niggers,—so, lookin’ like 
a gen’l,—an’ dey jist cave’ away befo’ me an’ out at 
de do’. An’ as dis young man was a-goin’ out, I 
heah him say to another nigger, ‘ Jim,’ he says, ‘you 
go ’long an’ tell de cap’n I be on han’ ’bout eight 
o’clock in de mawnin’; dey’s somefin on my mine,’ 
he says ; ‘ I don’t sleep no mo’ dis night. You go 
’long’, he says, ‘an’ leave me by my own se’f.’ 

“ Dis was ’bout one o’clock in de mawnin’. Well, 
’bout seven, I was up an’ on han’, gittin’ de officers’ 
breakfast. I was a-stoopin’ down by de stove,—jist 
so, same as if yo’ foot was de stove,—an’ I’d opened 
de stove do’ wid my right han’,—so, pushin’ it back, 
jist as I pushes yo’ foot,—an’ I’d jist got de pan o’ hot 
biscuits in my han’ an’ was ’bout to raise up, when I 
see a black face come aroun’ under mine, an’ de eyes 
a-lookin’ up into mine, jist as I’s a-lookin’ up dost 
under yo’ face now ; an’ I jist stopped right dah , an’ 
never budged ! jist gazed, an’ gazed, so ; an’ de pan 
begin to tremble, an’ all of a suden I knowed! De 
pan drop’ on de flo’ an’ I grab his lef’ han’ an’ shove 
back his sleeve,—jist so, as I’s doin’ to you,—an’ 
den I goes for his forehead an’ push de hair back, 
so, an’ ‘ Boy !’ I says, ‘ if you an’t my Henry, what 
is you doin’ wid dis welt on yo’ wris’ an’ dat sk-yar 
on yo’ forehead ? De Lord God ob heaven be 
praise’, I got my own ag’in ! ’ 

“ Oh, no, Misto C-, I hain’t had no trouble. 

An’ no joy ! ” 


A FAREWELL APPEARANCE. 

BY F. ANSTEY, 

AUTHOR OF “VICE VERSA.” 

ANDY, come here, sir, I want you.” The 
little girl who spoke was standing by the 
table in the morning-room of a London 
house one summer day, and she spoke to a small 
silver-gray terrier lying curled up at the foot of one 
of the window curtains. 

As Dandy happened to be particularly comfortable 
just then, he pretended not to hear, in the hope that 
his child-mistress would not press the point. 

But she did not choose to be trifled with in this 
way ; he was called more imperiously still, until he 
could dissemble no longer and came out gradually, 


of Tales. 

stretching himself and yawning with a deep sense 
of injury. 

“ I know you haven’t been asleep—I saw you 
watching the flies,” she said. “ Come up here, on 
the table.” 

Seeing there was no help for it he obeyed, and 
sat down on the table-cloth opposite to her, with his 
tongue hanging out and his eyes blinking, waiting 
her pleasure. 

Dandy was rather particular as to the hands he al¬ 
lowed to touch him, but generally speaking he found 
it pleasant enough (when he had nothing better to 
do) to resign himself to be pulled about, lectured, 
or caressed by Hilda. 

She was a strikingly pretty child, with long curling 
brown locks, and a petulant profile which reminded 
one of Mr. Doyle’s charming wilful little fairy 
princesses. 

On the whole, although Dandy privately consid¬ 
ered she had taken rather a liberty in disturbing 
him, he was willing to overlook it. 

“ I’ve been thinking, Dandy,” said Hilda reflect¬ 
ively, “that as you and Lady Angelina will be 
thrown a good deal together when we go into the 
country next week, you ought to know one another, 
and you’ve never been properly introduced yet; so 
I’m going to introduce you now.” 

Now Lady Angelina was only Hilda’s doll, and a 
doll, too, with perhaps as few ideas as any doll ever 
had yet—which is a good deal to say. 

Dandy despised her with all the enlightenment of 
a thoroughly superior dog ; he considered there was 
simply nothing in her, except possibly bran, and it 
had made him jealous and angry for a long time to 
notice what influence this staring, simpering creature 
had managed to gain over her mistress. 

“Now sit up,” said Hilda. Dandy sat up. He 
felt that committed him to nothing, but he was care¬ 
ful not to look at Lady Angelina, who was lolling 
ungracefully in the work-basket with her toes 
turned in. 

“ Lady Angelina,” said Hilda next, with great 
ceremony, “ let me introduce my particular friend, 
Mr. Dandy. Dandy, you ought to bow and say 
something nice and clever, only you can’t ; so you 
must give Angelina your paw instead.” 

Here was an insult for a self-respecting dog ! 
Dandy determined never to disgrace himself by pre¬ 
senting his paw to a doll—it was quite against his 
principles. He dropped on all fours rebelliously. 

“That’s very rude of you,” said Hilda, “but you 
shall do it. Angelina will think it so odd of you. Sit 
up again and give your paw, and let Angelina stroke 
your head.” 

The dog’s little black nose wrinkled and his lips 
twitched, showing his sharp white teeth ; he was not 
going to be touched by Angelina’s flabby wax hand 
if he could help it ! 

Unfortunately Hilda—like older people sometimes 
—was bent upon forcing persons to know one an- 








459 


A Farewell 


other, in spite of an obvious unwillingness on at 
least one side, and so she brought the doll up to the 
terrier, and, taking one limp pink arm, attempted to 
pat the dog’s head with it. 

This was too much ; his eyes flamed red like two 
signal lamps, there was a sharp sudden snap, and 
the next minute Lady Angelina’s right 'arm was 
crunched viciously between Dandy’s keen teeth. 

After that there was a terrible pause. Dandy 
knew he was in for it, but he was not sorry. He 
dropped the mangled pieces of wax one by one, and 
stood there with his head on one side, growling to 
himself, but wincing for all that, for he was afraid to 
meet Hilda’s indignant gray eyes. 

“You abominable, barbarous dog!” she said at 
last, using the longest words she could to impress him. 
“ See what you’ve done ! you’ve bitten poor Lady 
Angelina’s arm off.” 

He could not deny it—he had ; he looked down at 
the fragments before him, and then sullenly up again 
at Hilda. His eyes said what he felt—“ I’m glad of 
it; serves her right—I’d do it again ! ” 

“You deserve to be well whipped,” continued 
Hilda severely ; “ but you do howl so. I shall leave 
you to your own conscience ” (a favorite remark of 
her governess) “ until your bad heart is touched, and 
you come here and say you’re sorry and beg both 
our pardons. I only wish you could be made to pay 
for a new arm. Go away out of my sight, you bad 
dog, I can’t bear to look at you! ” 

Dandy, still impenitent, moved leisurely down 
from the table and out of the open door into the 
kitchen. He was thinking that Angelina’s arm was 
very nasty, and he should like something to take the 
taste away. When he got downstairs, however, he 
found the butcher was calling and had left the area 
gate open—which struck him as a good opportunity 
for a ramble. By the time he came back Hilda 
would have forgotten all about it, or she might think 
he was lost, and find out which was the more valua¬ 
ble animal—an intelligent dog like himself or a silly 
useless doll. 

Hilda saw him from the window as he bolted out 
with tail erect. “ He’s doing it to show off,” she 
said to herself ; “ he’s a horrid dog sometimes. But 
I suppose I shall have to forgive him when he comes 
back ! ” 

However, Dandy did not come back that night, 
nor all next day, nor the day after that, nor any 
more ; for the fact was, an experienced dog-stealer 
had long had his eye upon him, and Dandy hap¬ 
pened to come across him that very morning. 

He was not such a stupid dog as to be unaware 
he was doing wrong in following a stranger, but then 
the man had such delightful suggestions about him 
of things dogs love to eat, and Dandy had started 
for his run in a disobedient temper. 

So he followed the broken-nosed, bandy-legged 
man till they reached a narrow lonely alley, and 
then, just as Dandy was thinking about going home 


Appearance. 

again, the stranger turned suddenly on him, hemmed 
him up in a corner, caught him dexterously up in 
one hand, tapped him sharply on the head, and 
slipped him, stunned, into a capacious inside pocket. 
****** 

“ I thought werry likely I should come on you in 
’ere, Bob,” said a broken-nosed man in a fur cap, 
about a week after Dandy’s disappearance, to a 
short, red-faced hoarse man, who was drinking at 
the bar of a public-house. 

“ Ah,” said the hoarse man, “ well, you ain’t fur 
out, as it happens.” 

“Yes, I did,” said the other. “I met your part¬ 
ner the other day, and he tells me you’re looking out 
for a noo Toby dawg—I’ve got a article somewheres 
about me at this moment I should like you to cast a 
eye over.” 

And, diving into his inside pocket, he fished out a 
small shining silver-gray terrier, which he slammed 
down rather roughly on the pewter counter. 

Of course the terrier was Hilda’s lost Dandy. For 
some reason or other, the dog-stealer had not 
thought it prudent to claim the reward offered for 
him as he had intended to do at first, and Dandy, 
not being of a breed in fashionable demand, the man 
was trying to get rid of him now for the best price 
he could obtain from humble purchasers. 

“Well, we do want a understudy, and that’s a 
fact,” said the hoarse man, who was one of the man¬ 
agers of Mr. Punch’s Theater. “ The Toby as 
travels with us now is breakin’ up, getting so blind 
he don’t know Punch from Jack Ketch. But that 
there animal ’ud never make a ’it as a Toby,” he 
said, examining Dandy critically : “ why, that’s been 
a gen’leman’s dog once, that has—we don’t want no 
amatoors on our show ! ” 

“ It’s the amatoors as draws nowadays,” said the 
dog-fancier ; “ not but what this ’ere particular dawg 
has his gifts for the purfession. You see him sit up 
and smoke a pipe and give yer his paw, now.” 

And he put Dandy through these performances on 
the sloppy counter. It was much worse than being 
introduced to Angelina ; but hunger and fretting 
and rough treatment had broken down the dog’s 
spirit, and it was with dull submission now that he 
repeated the poor little tricks Hilda had taught him 
with such pretty perseverance. 

“ It’s no use talking,” said the showman, though 
he began to show some signs of yielding ; “ it takes 
a tyke born and bred to make a reg’lar Toby. And 
this ain’t a young dog, and he ain’t ’ad no proper 
dramatic eddication—he’s not worth to us not the 
lowest you’d take for him.” 

“Well now, I’ll tell you ’ow fur I’m willing to 
meet yer,” said the other persuasively ; “ you shall 
have him, seein’ it’s you , for-. . . .” And so they 
haggled on for a little longer, but at the end of the 
interview Dandy had changed hands, and was per¬ 
manently engaged as a member of Mr. Punch’s 
travelling company. 




460 


Treasury of Tales. 


A few days after that Dandy made acquaintance 
with his strange fellow-performers. The men had 
put the show up on a deserted part of a common 
near London, behind the railings of a little cemetery 
where no one was likely to interfere with them, and 
the new Toby was hoisted up on the very narrow 
and uncomfortable shelf to go through his first in¬ 
terview with Mr. Punch. 

When that popular gentleman appeared at his side 
Dandy examined him with pricked and curious ears. 
He was rather odd-looking, but his smile, though 
there was certainly a good deal of it, seemed genial 
and encouraging, and the poor dog wagged his tail 
in a conciliatory manner—he wanted some one to be 
kind to him again. 

“ The dawg’s a fool, Jem,” growled Bob, the other 
proprietor of the show, a little shabby dirty-faced 
man with a thin and ragged red beard, who was 
watching the experiment from the outside: “ he’s 
a-waggin’ his bloomin’ tail—he’ll be a-lickin’ of 
Punch’s face next! Try him with a squeak.” 

And Jem produced a sound which was a hideous 
compound of chuckle, squeak, and crow, when 
Dandy, in the full persuasion that the strange figure 
must be a new variety of cat, flew at it blindly. 

But though he managed to get a firm grip of its 
great hook nose, there was not much satisfaction to 
be got out of that—the hard wood made his teeth 
ache, and besides, in his excitement he overbalanced 
himself and came suddenly down upon Mr. James 
Blott inside,who swore horribly and put him up again. 

Then, after a little highly mysterious dancing up 
and down, and wagging his head, Mr. Punch, in the 
most uncalled-for manner, hit Dandy over the head 
with a stick (in order, as Jem put it, “to get up a 
ill-feeling between them ”), a wanton insult which 
made the dog madder than ever. 

He did not revenge himself at once ; he only 
barked furiously and retreated to his corner of the 
stage ; but the next time Punch came sidling 
cautiously up to him, Dandy made, not for his 
wooden head, but for a place between his shoulders 
which he thought looked more yielding. 

There was a savage howl from below, Punch 
dropped in a heap on the narrow shelf, and Mr. 
Blott sucked his finger and thumb with many curses. 

Mr. Punch was not killed, however, though Dandy 
had at first imagined he had settled him. He re¬ 
vived almost directly, when he proceeded to rain 
down such a shower of savage blows from his thick 
stick upon every »part of the dog’s defenceless body, 
that Dandy was completely subdued long before his 
master thought fit to leave off. 

By the time the lesson came to an end, Dandy was 
sore and shaken and dazed, for Jem had allowed 
himself to be a little carried away by personal feel¬ 
ing ; still it only showed Dandy more plainly that 
Mr. Punch was not a person to be trifled with, and, 
though he liked him as little as ever, he respected as 
well as feared him. 


Unfortunately for Dandy, he was a highly intelli¬ 
gent terrier, of an inquiring turn of mind, and so, 
after he had been led about for some days with the 
show, and was able to think things over and put 
them together, he began to suspect that Punch and 
the other figures were not alive after all, but only 
a particularly ugly set of dolls, which Mr. Blott put 
in motion in some way best known to himself. 

From the time he was perfectly certain of this he 
felt a degraded dog indeed. He had scorned once 
to allow himself to be even touched by Angelina 
(who at least was not unpleasant to look at, and 
always quite inoffensive); now, every hour of his 
life he found himself ordered about and insulted be¬ 
fore a crowd of shabby strangers by a vulgar tawdry 
doll, to which he was obliged to be civil and even 
affectionate—as if it was something real ! 

Dandy was an honest dog, and so, of course, it 
was very revolting to his feelings to have to impose 
on the public in this manner ; but Mr. Punch, if he 
was only a doll, had a way of making himself 
obeyed. 

And though in time the new Toby learnt to per¬ 
form his duties respectably enough, he did so with¬ 
out the least enthusiasm ; it wounded his pride 
—besides making him very uncomfortable—when 
Punch caught hold of his head, and something with 
red whiskers and a blue frock took him by the hind 
legs, and danced jerkily round the stage with him. 
He hated that more than anything. Day by day he 
grew more miserable and homesick. He never 
could forget what he had once been, and what he 
was, and often, in the close sleeping-room of some 
common lodging-house, he dreamed of the comfort¬ 
able home he had lost, and Hilda’s pretty imperious 
face, and woke to miss her more than ever. 

At first his new masters had been careful to keep 
him from all chance of escape, and Bob led him after 
the show by a string ; but as he seemed to be get¬ 
ting resigned to his position, they allowed him to run 
loose. 

He was trotting tamely at Jem’s heels one hot 
August morning, followed by a small train of admir¬ 
ing children, when all at once he became aware that 
he was in a street he knew well—he was near his old 
home—a few minutes’ hard run and he would be safe 
with Hilda ! 

He looked up sideways at Bob, who was beating 
his drum and blowing his pipes with his eyes on the 
lower and upper windows. Jem’s head was inside 
the show, and both were in front and not thinking of 
him just then. Dandy stopped, turned around 
upon the unwashed children behind, looked wistfully 
up at them as much as to say “ Don’t tell,” and then 
bolted at the top of his speed. 

There was a shrill cry from the children at once of 
“Oh, Mr. Punch, sir, please—your dawg’s a-runnin’ 
away from yer! ” and angry calls to return from the 
two men. Bob even made an attempt to pursue him, 
but the drum was too much in his way, and a small 





461 


A Farewell 


dog is not easily caught when he takes it into his 
head to run away. So he gave it up sulkily. 

Meanwhile Dandy ran on, till the shouts behind 
died away. Once an errand boy, struck by the parti¬ 
colored frill round the dog’s neck, tried to stop him, 
but he managed to slip past him and run out into the 
middle of the road, and kept on blindly, narrowly 
escaping being run over several times by tradesmen’s 
carts. And at last, panting and exhausted, he 
reached the well-remembered gate, out of which he 
had marched so defiantly, it seemed long ages ago. 

The railings were covered with wire-netting inside, 
as he knew, but fortunately some one had left the 
gate open, and he pattered eagerly down the area 
steps, feeling safe and at home at last. 

The kitchen door was shut, but the window was 
not, and, as the sill was low, he contrived to scramble 
up somehow and jump into the kitchen, where he 
reckoned upon finding friends to protect him. 

But he found it empty, and looking strangely cold 
and desolate ; only a small fire was smouldering in 
the range, instead of the cheerful blaze he remem¬ 
bered there, and he could not find the cook—an es¬ 
pecial patroness of his—anywhere. He scampered 
up into the hall, making straight for the morning- 
room, where he knew he should find Hilda curled 
up in one of the arm-chairs with a book. 

But that room was empty too—the shutters were 
up, and the half-light which streamed in above them 
showed a dreary state of confusion ; the writing-table 
was covered with a sheet and put away in a corner, 
the chairs were piled up on the centre-table, the car¬ 
pet had been taken up and rolled under the side¬ 
board, and there was a faint warm smell of flue and 
dust and putty in the place. 

He pattered out again, feeling puzzled and a little 
afraid, and went up the bare staircase to find Hilda 
in one of the upper rooms, perhaps in the nursery. 

But the upper rooms, too, were all bare and sheeted 
and ghostly; and, higher up, the stairs were spotted 
with great stars of whitewash, and there were ladders 
and planks on which strange men in dirty white 
blouses were talking and joking a great deal, and 
doing a little whitewashing now and then, when they 
had time for it. 

Their voices echoed up and down the stairs with 
a hollow noise that scared him, and he was afraid to 
venture any higher. Besides, he knew by this time 
somehow that Hilda, her father and mother, all the 
friends he had counted upon seeing again, would not 
be found in any part of that house. 

He picked his way forlornly down to the hall 
again, and there he found a mouldy old woman with 
a duster pinned over her head and a dustpan and 
brush in her hand ; for, unhappily for him, the fam¬ 
ily, servants and all, had gone away some days before 
into the country, and this old woman had been put 
into the house as care-taker. 

She dropped her brush and pan with a start as she 
saw him, for she was not fond of dogs. 


Appearance. 

“ Why, deary me,” she said morosely, “ if it hasn’t 
give me quite a turn. However did the nasty little 
beast get in ? a-gallivantin’ about as if the ’ole place 
belonged to him ! ” 

Dandy sat up and begged. In the old days he 
would not have done such a thing for any servant 
below a cook (who was always worth being polite to), 
but he felt a very reduced and miserable little animal 
indeed just then. 

“ Why, if it ain’t a Toby dawg ! ” she cried, as 
her dim old eyes caught sight of his frill. “ Here, 
you get out, you don’t belong ’ere ! ” 

And she took him up by the scruff of the neck and 
went to the front door. As she opened it, a sound 
came from the street outside which Dandy knew 
only too well : it was the long-drawn squeak of Mr. 
Punch. 

“That’s where he come from, I’ll bet a penny,” 
cried the care-taker, and she went down the steps 
and called over the gate, “ Hi, master, you don’t 
happen to have lost your Toby dawg, do you ? Is 
this him ? ” 

The man with the drum came up—it was Bob 
himself ; and thereupon Dandy was ignominiously 
handed over the railings to him, and delivered up 
once more to the hard life he had so nearly succeeded 
in shaking off. 

He had a severe beating when they got him home, 
as a warning to him not to rebel again—and he never 
did try to run away a second time. Where was the 
good of it ? Hilda was gone he did not know where, 
and the house was a home no longer. 

So he went patiently about with the show, a dis¬ 
mal little dog-captive, the dullest little Toby that 
ever delighted a street audience ; so languid and 
listless at times that Mr. Punch was obliged to rap 
him really hard on the head before he could induce 
him to take the slightest notice of him. 

* * * 3 = * * 

It was winter time, about a fortnight after Christ¬ 
mas, and the night was snowy and slushy outside 
though warm enough in the kitchen of a big Bel- 
gravian house. The kitchen was crowded, a stream 
of waiters and gorgeous powdered footmen and smart 
maids perpetually coming and going ; in front of the 
fire a tired little terrier, with a shabby frill round his 
neck, was basking in the blaze, and near him sat a 
little dirty-faced man with a red beard, who was 
being listened to with some attention by a few of 
the upper servants. 

“ Yes,” he was saying, “ I’ve been in the purfession 
a sight o’ years now, but I don’t know as I ever 
heard on a Punch’s show like me and my mate’s bein’ 
engaged for a reg’lar swell evenin’ party afore. It 
shows, to my mind, as public taste is a-comin’ round 
—it ain’t quite so low as formerly.” 

The little man was Bob ; and he, with his partner 
Jem, and Dandy, were in the house owing to an ec¬ 
centric notion of its master, who happened to have 
a taste for experiments. He was curious to see 




462 


Treasury of Tales. 


whether the drama of Punch and Judy had quite 
lost its old power to please. So he had decided 
upon introducing the original Mr. Punch from his 
native streets and in his natural uncivilized state, 
and Jem and Bob chanced to be the persons se¬ 
lected to exhibit him. 

“ Juveniles is all alike,” observed the butler, who, 
having been commissioned to engage the showmen, 
condescended to feel a fatherly interest in the affair ; 
“ ’igh or low, there’s nothing pleases ’em more than 
seeing one party a-fetching another party a thunderin’ 
good whack over the ’ead. That’s where, in my 
opinion, all these pantomimes makes a mistake. 
There’s too much bally and music-’all about ’em, and 
not ’arf enough buttered slide and red-’ot poker.” 

There’s plenty of ’ead-whackin’ in our show,” 
said Bob, with some pride, “for my partner Jem, 
you see, he don’t find as the dialogue come as fluid 
to him as he could wish for, so he cuts a deal of it, 
and what ain’t squeakin’ is most likely stick—like a 
cheap operer.” 

“Your little dog seems very wet and tired,” said 
a pretty house-maid, bending down to pat Dandy, 
as he lay stretched out wearily at her feet. “ Would 
he eat a cake if I got one for him ? ” 

“ He ain’t, not to say, fed on cakes as a general 
thing,” said Bob dryly; “but you can try him, miss, 
and thankee.” 

“ He won’t hardly look at it,” said the house-maid 
compassionately. “ I don’t think he can be well.” 

“ Well ! ” said Bob—“ he's well enough—that’s all 
his contrariness, that is ; the fact is, he thinks his- 
self a deal too good for the likes of us, he do—thinks 
he ought to be kep’ on chicking, in a droring-room !” 
he sneered, wasting his satire on the unconscious 
Dandy. “I tell you what it is, miss, that there 
dawg’s ’art ain’t in his business—he reg’lar looks 
down on the ’ole concern, thinks it low ! Why, I see 
’im from the werry fust a-turnin’ up his nose at it, 
and it downright set me against ’im. Give me a 
Toby as takes a interest in the drama ! The last 
but one as we had afore ’im, now, he used to look 
on from start to finish, and when Punch went and 
’anged Jack Ketch, why, that dawg used to bark 
and jump about as pleased as Punch ’isself, and 
he’d go in among the crowd too and fetch back the 
babby as Punch pitched out o’ winder, as tender 
with it as a Newfunland ! And he warn’t like the 
general run of Tobies neither, for he got quite thick 
with the Punch figger—thought a deal on ’im, he 
did—and if you’ll believe me, when I ’ad to get that 
figger a noo ’ead and costoom, it broke that dawg’s 
’art—he pined away quite rapid. But this ’ere one 
wouldn’t turn a ’air if the ’ole company went to 
blazes together ! ” 

Here Jem, who had been setting up the show in 
one of the rooms, came into the kitchen, looking 
rather uneasy at finding himself in such fine com¬ 
pany, and Dandy was spared further upbraidings, as 
he was called upon to follow the pair up-stairs. 


They went up into a large handsome room, where 
at one end there were placed rows of rout seats and 
chairs, and at the other the homely old show, seem¬ 
ing oddly out of place in its new surroundings. 

Poor draggled Dandy felt more ashamed of it and 
himself than ever, and he was glad to get away 
under its ragged hangings and lie still by Jem’s 
dirty boots till he was wanted. 

And then there was a sound of children’s voices 
and laughter as they all came trooping in, with a 
crisp rustle of delicate dresses and a scent of hot¬ 
house flowers and kid gloves that reached Dandy 
where he lay ; it reminded him of evenings long ago, 
when Hilda had had parties and he had been washed 
and combed and decked out in ribbons for the occa¬ 
sion, and children had played with him and given 
him nice things to eat—they had generally disagreed 
with him, but now he only remembered the pleasure 
and the petting of it all. 

He would not be petted any more! Presently 
these children would see him smoking a pipe and 
being familiar with that low Punch. They would 
laugh at him, too—they always did—and Dandy, 
like most dogs, hated being laughed at, and never 
took it as a compliment. 

The host’s experiment was evidently a complete 
success; the children, even the most biases, who 
danced the newest valse step and thought pantomimes 
vulgar, were delighted to meet an old friend so un¬ 
expectedly. A good many had often yearned to see 
the whole show right through from beginning to end, 
and chance or a stern nurse had never permitted it. 
Now their time had come, and Mr. Punch, in spite 
of his lamentable shortcomings in every relation of 
life, was received with the usual uproarious applause. 

At last the hero called for his faithful dog Toby, 
as a distraction after the painful domestic scenes, in 
which he had felt himself driven to throw his child 
out of window and silence the objections of his wife 
by becoming a widower, and accordingly Dandy 
was caught up and set on the shelf by his side. 

The sudden glare hurt his eyes, and he sat there, 
blinking at the audience wnth a pitiful want of 
pride in his dignity as dog Toby. 

He tried to look as if he didn’t know Punch, who 
was doing all he could to catch his eye, for his riot¬ 
ous “rootitoot” made him shiver nervously, and 
long to get away from the whole thing and lie down 
somewhere in peace. 

Bob was scowling up at him balefully ; “ I know’d 
that ’ere dawg would go and disgrace hisself,” he 
was saying to himself; “when I get him to myself 
he shall catch it for this ! ” 

Dandy was able to see better now, and he found, 
as he had guessed, that here was not one of his usual 
audiences—no homely crowd of loitering errand boys, 
smirched maids-of-all-work, and ragged children 
jostling and turning their grinning white faces up to 
him. 

There were children here too—plenty of them— 




A Pair of Dramatists. 


463 


but children at their best and daintiest, and looking 
as if untidiness and quarrels were things unknown 
to them—though possibly they were not. 

But all at once he ran backward and forward on 
his ledge, sniffing and whining, wagging his tail 
and giving short piteous barks in a state of the 
wildest excitement. The reason of it was this— 
near the end of the front row he saw a little girl 
who was bending eagerly forward with her pretty 
gray eyes wide open and a puzzled line on her fore¬ 
head. 

Dandy knew her at the very first glance. It was 
Hilda, looking more like a fairy princess than ever, 
in a pale, rose-tinted dress, and a row of pearls 
twisted in her bright hair. 

She knew him almost as soon, for her clear voice 
rang out above the general laughter. “Oh, that 
isn’t Toby—he’s my own dog, my Dandy, that I 
lost! It is really ; let him come to me, please do ! 
Don’t you see how badly he wants to ? ” 

There was a sudden surprised silence at this—even 
Mr. Punch was quiet for an instant; but as soon as 
Dandy heard her voice he could wait no longer, and 
crouched for a spring. 

“ Catch the dog, somebody, he’s going to jump ! ” 
cried the master of the house, more amused than 
ever, from behind. 

Bob was too sulky to interfere, but some good- 
natured grown-up person caught the trembling dog 
just in time to save him from a broken leg, or worse, 
and handed him to his delighted little mistress ; and 
I think the frantic joy which Dandy felt as he was 
clasped tight in her loving arms once more and cov¬ 
ered her flushed face with his eager kisses more than 
made up for all he had suffered. Hilda scornfully 
refused to have anything to do with Bob, who tried 
hard to convince her she was mistaken. She took 
her recovered favorite to her hostess. 

“ He really is mine ! ” she assured her earnestly ; 
“and he doesn’t want to be a Toby—I’m sure he 
doesn’t; see how he trembles when that horrid man 
comes near. Dear Mrs. Lovibond, please tell them 
I’m to have him ! ” 

And of course Hilda carried her point, for the 
showmen were not unwilling, after a short conversa¬ 
tion with the master of the house, to give up their 
rights in a dog who would never be much of an or¬ 
nament to their profession, and was out of health 
into the bargain. 

Hilda held Dandy, all muddy and draggled as he 
was, fast in. her arms all through the remainder of 
the performance, as if she was afraid Mr. Punch 
might still claim him for his own ; and the dog lay 
there in measureless content. The hateful squeak 
made him start and shiver no more ; he was too happy 
to howl at Bob’s dismal pipes and drum ; they had 
no terrors for him any more. 

“ I think I should like to go home now,” she said 
to her hostess, when Mr. Punch had finally retired. 
“ Dandy is so excited ; feel how his heart beats, just 


there, you^cnow ; he ought to be in bed, and I want 
to tell them all at home, so much ! ” 

So her carriage was called, and she and Dandy 
drove home in it together once more. 

“ Dandy, you’re very quiet,” she said once, as they 
bowled easily and swiftly along. “ Aren’t you going . 
to tell me you’re glad to be mine again ! ” 

But Dandy could only wag his tail feebly and 
look up in her face with an exhausted sigh. He had 
suffered much and was almost worn out; but rest 
was coming to him at last. As soon as the carriage 
had stopped and the door was opened, Hilda ran in 
breathless with excitement: 

“ Oh, Parker, look ! ” she cried to the maid in the 
hall, “ Dandy is found—he’s here ! ” 

The maid took the lifeless little body from her, 
looked at it for a moment under the lamp, and turned 
away without speaking. Then she placed it gently 
in Hilda’s arms again. 

“ Oh, Miss Hilda, didn’t you see ? ” she said, with 
a catch in her voice. “ Don’t take on, now : but it’s 
come too late—poor little dog, he’s gone ! ” 


A PAIR OF DRAMATISTS. 

N dear old Berlin there lived two playwrights. 
The one was called Barsewisch, the other Blitz- 
enberg. 

As soon as these two set eyes on each other, 
they felt a mutual attraction, swore eternal brother¬ 
hood over sundry glasses of beer, took rooms in 
common, and made up a common purse for their 
common expenses. 

Before their alliance each had regarded himself as 
an unappreciated genius, not yet understood by a 
thankless world. Now, however, relying on the math¬ 
ematical truth that two negatives make a positive, 
they believed that they would attain a flattering 
recognition. 

It is well known that every poet must have a 
sweetheart to understand him, to inspire his thoughts, 
to kindle his fancy, and to fill his heart with those 
gentle tones that in union with his more masculine 
notes may produce the harmony every dramatic work 
should possess. 

Barsewisch and Blitzenberg, then, had their sweet¬ 
hearts. This fact, however, each had kept secret to 
such an extent that neither had ever caught sight 
of the other’s lady-love. 

One of the ladies was called Tina; she was a 
member of the National Theatre Company; the 
other was named Lena, and she played in a minor 
theatre under an assumed name. 

After the partnership of our two poets was estab¬ 
lished, things went on for the most part as before; 
all the pieces they concocted together were returned 
by the various theatre managers, and their system of 
living out of a common purse soon reduced itself to 
a system of common credit, and finally to common 








464 


Treasury of Tales. 


impecuniosity. In this desperate condition the two 
friends resolved to shake off the load of the earthly 
and hasten to that undiscovered land from whose 
bourne no traveller returns. 

This very day their double suicide was to take 
place. The two poets sat in their rooms, each mak¬ 
ing his last will and testament. 

Let us first visit Barsewisch, look over his shoulder, 
and see what he writes : 

“ I blame no one for my premature departure ; I 
kill myself of my own free impulse, and because it 
gives me especial pleasure so to do. All my debts 
I leave to our common landlady, with the prayer that 
she will keep them sacred and make no bad use of 
them. 

“ But, O Tina, unspeakably beautiful Tina, what 
will you say when you hear of my cruel death ! Would 
that I could see thee when in unutterable sorrow 
thou tearest thy dark raven hair—then wilt thou be 
divinely beautiful ! ” 

Dipping his pen in the inkstand, he was preparing 
to make further testamentary dispositions, when the 
door suddenly opened and Blitzenberg entered the 
room, his hair picturesquely disordered. 

“ Life on earth is like a sojourn in a hotel,” said 
he, “ where the rent of rooms is so dear that one can¬ 
not blame the poor guest if he quietly slips out and 
seeks death in the compassionate river ; a lodging 
rather damp perhaps, but quite inexpensive. Ah ! Is 
that you, Barsewisch ? Busy on our last act ? ” 

Barsewisch contemptuously shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders. 

“ I—still writing for the theatre ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ Far from it. I was drawing up my last will.” 

“ You remain, then, true to our resolve ?” 

“ Certainly, my friend. To-night we go hence- 

“ Our last day ! ” he went on in declamatory tones ; 
“ how the sick breast dilates at this holy thought ! 
Bound by friendship to work together, hissed together 
in every theatre, we now go together the darksome 
road to the home of eternal Light.” 

“ What has been the use of all our work ? ” queried 
the other, more discontented but less pathetic. “ What 
was the good of our taking rooms in the houses 
where Lessing and Schiller once dwelt ? None at 
all ! People may say it hurt us. Envy and igno¬ 
rance were not idle in sharpening their poisoned 
arrows against us, and so it has happened that our 
master-piece, ‘ Fallen Angels,’ had a worse fall in the 
National Theatre.” 

“ Oh ! Still echo in my ears the shrill hissings and 
whistlings from key and catcall,” said Barsewisch ; 
“ the scorn of the ungrateful public still rends my 
heart-strings. No—no—we cannot survive our dis¬ 
grace, Blitzenberg ; we must die—die—die ! ” 

“ And this night is really to be our last, then ? ” re¬ 
plied the other. “Well, so be it! I should like, 
however, to be able to see to-morrow what the papers 
will say about us. ‘Two meritorious young poets’ 
•—when a man is dead, he is always meritorious — 


‘ two opening buds of talent who have not seldom 
been damned at the National and other theatres, have 
voluntarily put an end to their lives during the past 
night. Details in next edition.’ ” 

“ I think we had better choose as the key for the 
gate to the next world the revolver we bought to 
protect ourselves against robbers, ’ Barsewisch now 
suggested. 

A bitter smile spread over Blitzenberg’s counte¬ 
nance. 

“Useless precaution,” he said. “ What fanciful 
ideas one used to have ! But how do you propose 
to arrange our exit ? ” 

“ First let us take a good lunch. It is a long way 
to the darksome Styx.” 

“ You are quite right—one cannot go to sleep hun¬ 
gry. Look lively, friend Barsewisch, and bring in 
the needful ! ” 

“ But we have no money ! ” 

“ Hang it up, as usual ! ” 

“ But if we are going to die to-night-” 

“ The more reason—a good excuse for not paying. 
Away with you, Barsewisch ; do your best, never 
mind the expense. One does not die every day, old 
friend.” 

“Well! I will see what I can do.” With these 
words Barsewisch put on their joint-stock hat, 
brushed his coat and left the room—that room whose 
shelter would so soon be indifferent to him. 

When Blitzenberg was alone, he began to pace up 
and down with long strides, for sad thoughts occu¬ 
pied his mind. 

He sat down at last near the window and pulled 
out of his pocket a crumpled letter. Although he 
had read it so often that he knew it by heart, still 
this letter seemed to possess a lively interest for him. 

He unfolded it, and for the twentieth time mut¬ 
tered its contents. 

“Dear Waldemar :—Everybody in our theatre has 
great hopes of ‘ Fallen Angels,’ and believes it will draw 
the town. All the world knows what genius you have, 
but unfortunately your collaborator is so stupid that he 
spoils your most talented creations. Au revoir; with a 
thousand kisses, your faithful . “Tina.’’ 

After he had perused this document Blitzenberg 
stuck it into his pocket, and raised his clenched 
fist to heaven in the most approved tragic fashion. 

“ These are the twin causes of my mournful death,” 
he exclaimed, “ the stupidity of my partner and the 
faithlessness of my Tina. It is incredible ; he kills 
all the characters in our plays into which I have la¬ 
boriously breathed a breath of life, and she—it tor¬ 
tures my soul to say it—she, the most deceiving of 
all deceivers, was seen in the Vienna bakery—with a 
gentleman—and it was not with me. But she is quite 
right about Barsewisch ; he is a blockhead. Of course 
I have not shown him this letter, because I do not 
want to make him feel bad. If he had the faintest 
notion of this, he would be even more miserable 
than he r 








A Pair of Dramatists. 


465 


He could not go on with his monologue because 
he heard his friend coming up the stairs. 

“ Here we are again ! ” cried Barsewisch, dragging 
a big basket into the room. “ Help me to unpack, 
and pull out the table.” 

Blitzenberg did as he was requested, put a couple 
of chairs at the table, and then with greedy hands 
dived into the basket. His first prize was a mighty 
sausage, then he produced some cold veal, a pound 
of butter, a Dutch cheese, and two bottles of Rhine 
wine. 

“ You have done well, Barsewisch,” cried Blitzen¬ 
berg. “ Let us eat and drink to our heart’s content. 
One can die easily when one is in good spirits.” 

Then they took their places and filled their glasses. 

“ A pleasant journey,” said Barsewisch, clinking 
his glass. 

Next they attacked the eatables for a full half- 
hour without saying a word. Barsewisch, who was 
not so fond of material comforts as his friend, was 
the first to stop stuffing himself. 

“If you are ready,” he then said, “lend me your 


“I will lend you anything,” was the reply. “Any¬ 
thing, that is, but money.” 

“ Are you ready, then ? ” 

“ I am—speak.” 

“ The moment has now arrived,” began Barse¬ 
wisch, “when we must have no secrets between us.” 

“ Of course, of course, dear boy.” 

“You know,” he continued, “that there is a 
maiden to whom I am devoted with my whole soul.” 

“ Like me, old fellow, like me.” 

“ But what you do not know, dear Blitzenberg,. is 
the appalling fact that my Tina has deceived me. 
She was seen one evening with another man.” 

“ Just like me, old fellow, just like me.” 

“ Just like you ? You, too ! ” 

“ Yes, alas, yes ! My Lena has deserted me. This 
is the main reason why I am resolved to die.” 

“ Just my case, just my case ! ” 

“ Then I am sorry for you, my friend,” continued 
Barsewisch, while he drew a crumpled letter out of 
his pocket; “ but it is some comfort to know that we 
are both deceived. You shall know my inmost heart. 
Listen to my Lena’s last letter.” 

“Dear Eginhard :—You must send me tickets for 
your first night. I am glad to hear it will be produced. 
All the world knows what genius you have, but your part¬ 
ner-” 

Here he paused as if reluctant to read further. 

“Go on,” cried Blitzenberg. 

“ Why, really, I cannot, I don’t like-” 

“Between friends like us ! Go on, I pray.” 

“ Well, then, ‘ but your partner is such a donkey.’ ” 

Blitzenberg looked astonished. 

“ Very curious,” he thought; “ the very same idea!” 

They were both silent for a while and looked with 
pity on each other. 


“ Dear friend, what is life ? ” at last Barsewisch 
resumed, while a tear trembled in his dark eye. 

“ Ah, what is it ? ” responded Blitzenberg, in tears. 
“ And what is love ? ” 

“ Speak no more of love, speak of noble friend¬ 
ship.” 

“You are right. Let us speak only of friend¬ 
ship.” Hereupon they embraced each other. 

“ Are we not the Siamese twins of ill-luck ? ” cried 
Barsewisch. 

“ Alas, yes,” his friend replied, in tragic tones. 
“We have borne all things together, together we will 
fling ourselves into the soft, dark arms of death ! ” 

“ Have we not some time left ? ” 

“ Well, as we have had our supper, it seems to me 

that there is nothing more to be done-” 

Here a knock at the door made them both start 
from their chairs. 

“ What can it be ? ” asked Barsewisch. 

“ A letter, perhaps. They’ll push it under the 
door.” 

“Yes, there it is. I have not the courage to pick 
it up.” 

Blitzenberg picked it up. “From the Victoria 
Theatre,” he cried. “Open it and read it at once.” 

Barsewisch did so. “ Gentlemen,” he read, “ I 
am happy to say that your grand spectacular piece 

has been accepted by the management-” 

“ Hurrah ! ” shouted Blitzenberg. 

“ Saved ! Saved ! ” cried the other, dancing about. 
“ Read on, read on ! ” 

“ The manager takes the liberty of adding some 
conditions, namely, that the authors engage to pro¬ 
vide scenery and costumes and to pay the actors, 
orchestra, carpenters, and scene-shifters as long as 
the piece runs.” 

Barsewisch let the letter drop. At this moment 
the dull sound of one o’clock echoed through the 
room. 

“ It’s our last hour ! ” said Barsewisch. 

“Nonsense. It is the Professor’s clock up-stairs. 
It is always half an hour too fast.” 

They were silent for a few minutes. 

“ I have an idea,” said Blitzenberg. 

“ Out with it! ” replied Barsewisch. 

“As we have only one revolver-” 

“ True.” 

“ And cannot shoot each other at the same 

time-” 

“ Well-” 

“ Let us toss up.” 

No sooner said than done. Barsewisch was the 
winner. 

“You have won,” said Blitzenberg. “How I 
envy you ! ” 

“ What ! Have I won ? ” 

“ Certainly. You will have the happiness of dying 
by the hand of your friend. I congratulate you.” 

“Well—but you see—I’m not selfish—not a bit,” 
said Barsewisch. “ I won’t take advantage of my 













466 


Treasury of Tales. 


luck. I’ll leave it to you. Give me the revolver, 
and you, my dear, dear friend, shall experience the 
pleasure of dying by a friend’s hand.” 

Blitzenberg was equally unselfish. “ By no 
means,” he said. “ You are the fortunate one. 
Give me the revolver ! ” 

Blitzenberg took the revolver. “ Take care,” ex¬ 
claimed his friend. “ It is loaded ! ” 

“Never mind, I am used to fire-arms. Prepare, 
lucky fellow ! ” 

“Look here,” said Barsewisch. “On your honor, 
you'll follow ? ” 

“ On my honor ! ” 

Blitzenberg raised the pistol. 

“ Stop a moment,” cried Barsewisch. “ I want to 
turn my back to you. I don’t like to see you com¬ 
mitting a crime.” He had turned round, when a 
loud knock was heard. 

Barsewisch gave a howl, and fell, crying, “ I’m a 
dead man, I’m a dead man.” 


“Nonsense. It is only another letter ! ” 

“ Are you sure ? ” asked the other, raising his 
head. 

“ Quite sure. Let me read it.” 

He broke the seal and read, “ Good news. Your 
piece, ‘A Crime from Good Nature,’is accepted.” 

“ What do I see ? ” said Barsewisch, who had been 
looking over his friend’s shoulder. “ The letter is 
from Tina.” 

“Excuse me,” replied Blitzenberg, “it is from 
Lena.” 

“ Let me look at the signature.” 

“ Why it is Tina ! ” 

“ Nonsense. It is Lena ! ” 

“The writing is not clear, but it is Tina’s hand.” 

“ The writing is my Lena’s ! ” 

They both seemed struck by the same bolt of 
lightning and looked solemnly at each other. 

Then followed a long embrace. “Partners stiP / ” 
sighed Barsewisch. 







Rip Van Winkle. 


467 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING. 

W HOEVER has made a voyage up the Hud¬ 
son must remember the Kaatskill Moun¬ 
tains. They are a dismembered branch of 
the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to 
the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, 
and lording it over the surrounding country. Every 
change of season, every change of weather, indeed, 
every hour of the day, produces some change in the 
magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and 
they are regarded by all the good-wives, far and 
near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is 
fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, 
and print their bold outlines on the clear evening 
sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape 
is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors 
about their summits, which, in the last rays of the 
setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of 
glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager 
may have descried the light smoke curling up from 
a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the 
trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt 
away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. 
It is a little village of great antiquity, having been 
founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early 
time of the province, just about the beginning of the 
government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he 
rest in peace !), and there were some of the houses 
of the original settlers standing within a few years, 
built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, 
having latticed windows and gable fronts, sur¬ 
mounted with weather-cocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn 
and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, 
while the country was yet a province of Great 
Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name 
of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the 
Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous 
days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to 
the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, 
but little of the martial character of his ancestors. 
I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured 
man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an 


obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter 
circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit 
which gained him such universal popularity ; for 
those men are most apt to be obsequious and con¬ 
ciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of 
shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are 
rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of 
domestic tribulation ; and a curtain lecture is worth 
all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues 
of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife 
may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a 
tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was 
thrice blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among 
all the good-wives of the village, who, as usual, with 
the amiable sex, took his part in all family squab¬ 
bles ; and never failed, whenever they talked those 
matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all 
the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of 
the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he 
approached. He assisted at their sports, made their 
playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot mar¬ 
bles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, 
and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the 
village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, 
hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and 
playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity ; 
and not a dog would bark at him throughout the 
neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip’s composition was an in¬ 
superable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. 
It could not be from the want of assiduity or per¬ 
severance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a 
rod as long and heavy as a Tartar’s lance, and fish 
all day without a murmur, even though he should 
not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would 
carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours to¬ 
gether, trudging through woods and swamps, and 
up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or 
wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a 
neighbor, even in the roughest toil, and was a fore¬ 
most man at all country frolics for husking Indian 
corn, or building stone-fences ; the women of the 
village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, 
and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging 
husbands would not do for them. In a word, Rip 
was ready to attend to anybody’s business but his 



























468 Treasury 

own ; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his 
farm in order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his 
farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground 
in the whole country ; everything about it went 
wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His 
fences were continually falling to pieces ; his cow 
would either go astray or get among the cabbages • 
weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than 
anywhere else ; the rain always made a point of set¬ 
ting in just as he had some out-door work to do ; so 
that, though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away 
under his management, acre by acre, until there was 
little more left than a mere patch of Indian-corn and 
potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm in the 
neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if 
they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin 
begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the 
habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was 
generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother’s 
heels, equipped in a pair of his father’s cast-off galli¬ 
gaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one 
hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 
mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take 
the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever 
can be got with least thought or trouble, and would 
rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If 
left to himself, he would have whistled life away in 
perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually 
dinning in his ears about his idleness, his careless¬ 
ness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. 
Morning, noon, and night her tongue was incessantly 
going, and everything he said or did was sure to 
produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had 
but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, 
and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. 
He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up 
his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always 
provoked a fresh volley from his wife ; so that he 
was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the out¬ 
side of the house—the only side which, in truth, 
belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 

Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, 
who was as much hen-pecked as his master ; for 
Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in 
idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil 
eye, as the cause of his master’s going so often astray. 
True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honor¬ 
able dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever 
scoured the woods—but what courage can withstand 
the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman’s 
tongue ? The moment Wolf entered the house his 
crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled 
between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows 
air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van 
Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or 
ladle he would fly to the door with yelping precipi¬ 
tation. 


of Tales . 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle 
as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never 
mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only 
edged tool that grows keener with constant use. 
For a long while he used to console himself, when 
driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpet¬ 
ual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle 
personages of the village ; which held its sessions on 
a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund 
portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here 
they used to sit in the shade through a long lazy 
summer’s day, talking listlessly over village gossip, 
or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But 
it would have been worth any statesman’s money to 
have heard the profound discussions that sometimes 
took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell 
into their hands from some passing traveller. How 
solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled 
out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school-master, a 
dapper learned little man, who was not to be daunted 
by the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and 
how sagely they would deliberate upon public events 
some months after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely con¬ 
trolled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, 
and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took 
his seat from morning till night, just moving suffi¬ 
ciently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a 
large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell the hour 
by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It 
is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his 
pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every 
great man has his adherents), perfectly understood 
him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When 
anything that was read or related displeased him, he 
was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to 
send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs ; but 
when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and 
tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds ; and 
sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and let¬ 
ting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would 
gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was 
at length routed by his termagant wife, who would 
suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assem¬ 
blage and call the members all to naught; nor was 
that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, 
sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, 
who charged him outright with encouraging her 
husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; 
and his only alternative, to escape from the labor of 
the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in 
hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would 
sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and 
share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with 
whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in perse¬ 
cution. “ Poor Wolf,” he would say, “thy mistress 
leads thee a dog’s life of it; but never mind, my lad, 
whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand 





469 


Rip Van Winkle. 


by thee ! ” Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully 
in his master’s face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily 
believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his 
heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal 
day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the 
highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was 
after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the 
still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the re¬ 
ports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw 
himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, cov¬ 
ered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow 
of a precipice. From an opening between the trees 
he could overlook all the lower country for many a 
mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the 
lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its 
silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a 
purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and 
there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing 
itself in the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep 
mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bot¬ 
tom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, 
and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the 
setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this 
scene ; evening was gradually advancing ; the moun¬ 
tains began to throw their long blue shadows over 
the valleys ; he saw that it would be dark long be¬ 
fore he could reach the village, and he heaved a 
heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the 
terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice 
from a distance, hallooing, “ Rip Van Winkle! Rip 
Van Winkle ! ” He looked round, but could see 
nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across 
the mountain. He thought his fancy must have 
deceived him, and turned again to descend, when 
he heard the same cry ring through the still evening 
air : “ Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! ”—at the 
same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a 
low growl, skulked to his master’s side, looking fear¬ 
fully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague ap¬ 
prehension stealing over him ; he looked anxiously 
in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure 
slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the 
weight of something he carried on his back. He 
was surprised to see any human being in this lonely 
and unfrequented place ; but supposing it to be some 
one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, 
he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at 
the singularity of the stranger’s appearance. He 
was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy 
hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the 
antique Dutch fashion—a cloth jerkin strapped 
round the waist—several pair of breeches, the outer 
one of ample volume, decorated with rows of but¬ 
tons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He 
bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of 
liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and as¬ 


sist him with the load. Though rather shy and dis¬ 
trustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with 
his usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving one 
another, they clambered up a narrow gully, ap¬ 
parently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As 
they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long 
rolling peals like distant thunder, that seemed to 
issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between 
lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path con¬ 
ducted. He paused for a moment, but supposing it 
to be the muttering of one of those transient thun¬ 
der-showers which often take place in mountain 
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, 
they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, 
surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the 
brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, 
so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky 
and the bright evening cloud. During the whole 
time Rip and his companion had labored on in 
silence ; for though the former marvelled greatly 
what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor 
up this wild mountain, yet there was something 
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, 
that inspired awe and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of 
wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in 
the centre was a company of odd-looking person¬ 
ages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a 
quaint outlandish fashion ; some wore short doub¬ 
lets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, 
and most of them had enormous breeches of similar 
style with that of the guide’s. Their visages, too, 
were peculiar ; one had a large beard, broad face, 
and small piggish eyes ; the face of another seemed 
to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by 
a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock’s 
tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and 
colors. There was one who seemed to be the com¬ 
mander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a 
weather-beaten countenance ; he wore a laced doub¬ 
let, broad belt and hanger, high crowned hat and 
feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with 
roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of 
the figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor 
of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, which 
had been brought over from Holland at the time of 
the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that 
though these folks were evidently amusing them¬ 
selves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the 
most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most 
melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. 
Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the 
noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, 
echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of 
thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they 
suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him 
with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, 
uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart 






470 


Treasury of Tales. 


turned within him, and his knees smote together. 
His companion now emptied the contents of the keg 
into large flagons, and made signs to him to w r ait 
upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trem¬ 
bling^ they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, 
and then returned to their game. 

By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided. 
He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon 
him, to taste the beverage, which he found had 
much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was 
naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to 
repeat the draught. One taste provoked another ; 
and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often 
that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes 
swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and 
he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll 
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. 
He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright, sunny morn¬ 
ing. The birds were hopping and twittering among 
the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and 
breasting the pure mountain breeze. “ Surely,” 
thought Rip, “ I have not slept here all night.” 
He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. 
The strange man with a keg of liquor—the moun¬ 
tain ravine—the wild retreat among the rocks—the 
woe-begone party at nine-pins—the flagon—“ Oh ! 
that flagon ! that wicked flagon ! ” thought Rip— 
“ what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Win¬ 
kle?” 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the 
clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire¬ 
lock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, 
the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He 
now suspected that the grave roisters of the moun¬ 
tain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed 
him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, 
too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed 
away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled 
after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain ; 
the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no 
dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last 
evening’s gambol, and if he met with any of the 
party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to 
walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and want¬ 
ing in his usual activity. “ These mountain beds 
do not agree with me,” thought Rip, “and if this 
frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheuma¬ 
tism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van 
Winkle.” With some difficulty he got down into 
the glen ; he found the gully up which he and his 
companion had ascended the preceding evening; 
but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now 
foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and 
filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, how¬ 
ever, made shift to scramble up its sides, working 
his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, 
and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or en¬ 
tangled by the wild grape-vines that twisted their 


coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind 
of net-work in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had 
opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but 
no traces of such opening remained. The rocks 
presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the 
torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, 
and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the 
shadows of the surrounding forests. Here, then, 
poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called’ 
and whistled after his dog ; he was only answered 
by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high 
in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny prec¬ 
ipice, and who, secure in their elevation, seemed 
to look down and scoff at the poor man’s perplex¬ 
ities. What was to be done ? the morning was 
passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his 
breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun : 
he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would not do to 
starve among the mountains. He shook his head, 
shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full 
of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of 
people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat 
surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted 
with every one in the country round. Their dress, 
too, was of a different fashion from that to which he 
was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal 
marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes 
upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The con¬ 
stant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, invol¬ 
untarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, 
he found his beard had grown a foot long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A 
troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting 
after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The 
dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an 
old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The 
very village was altered ; it was larger and more 
populous. There were rows of houses which he had 
never seen before, and those which had been his 
familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names 
were over the doors—strange faces at the windows 
—everything was strange. His mind now misgave 
him.; he began to doubt whether both he and the 
world around him were not bewitched. Surely this 
was his native village, which he had left but the day 
before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains— 
there ran the silver Hudson at a distance—there 
was every hill and dale precisely as it had always 
been—Rip was sorely perplexed—“ The flagon last 
night,” thought he, “has addled my poor head 
sadly ! ” 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way 
to his own house, which he approached with silent 
awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice 
of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to 
decay—the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, 
and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog 
that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip 




Rip Van Winkle. 


47i 


called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his 
teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut in¬ 
deed—“ My very dog,” sighed poor Rip, “ has for¬ 
gotten me ! ” 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, 
Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. 
It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. 
This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears 
—he called loudly for his wife and children—the 
lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, 
and then again all was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old re¬ 
sort, the village inn—but it, too, was gone. A large, 
rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great 
gaping windows, some of them broken and mended 
with old hats and petticoats, and over the door 
was painted, “ The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doo¬ 
little.” Instead of the great tree that used to shelter 
the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was 
reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top 
that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was 
fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage 
of stars and stripes—all this was strange and incom¬ 
prehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, 
the ruby face of King George, under which he had 
smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but even this was 
singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was 
changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held 
in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was dec¬ 
orated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted 
in large characters, General Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the 
door, but none that Rip recollected. The very 
character of the people seemed changed. There was 
a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead 
of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. 
He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, 
with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, 
uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle 
speeches ; or Van Bummel, the school-master, dol¬ 
ing forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In 
place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his 
pockets full of hand-bills, was haranguing vehemently 
about rights of citizens—elections—members of 
Congress—liberty—Bunker’s Hill—heroes of sev¬ 
enty-six—and other words, which were a perfect 
Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled 
beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, 
and an army of women and children at his heels, 
soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. 
They crowded round him, eying him from head to 
foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to 
him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired “ on 
which side' he voted ? ” Rip stared in vacant stu¬ 
pidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled 
him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in 
his ear, “Whether he was Federal or Democrat?” 
Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the ques¬ 
tion ; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, 


in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the 
crowd, putting them to the right and left with his 
elbows as he passed, and planting himself before 
Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting 
on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, 
as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an aus¬ 
tere tone, “ what brought him to the election with a 
gun on his shoulder and a mob at his heels, and 
whether he meant to breed a riot in the village ? ”— 
“ Alas ! gentlemen,” cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, 
“lama poor quiet man, a native of the place, and 
a loyal subject of the King, God bless him ! ” 

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers— 
“A tory! a tory ! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! 
away with him ! ” It was with great difficulty that 
the self-important man in the cocked hat restored 
order ; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of 
brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what 
he came there for, and whom he was seeking ? The 
poor man humbly assured him that he meant no 
harm, but merely came there in search of some of 
his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. 

“Well—who are they?—name them.” 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
“ Where’s Nicholas Vedder ? ” 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old 
man replied, in a thin, piping voice, “ Nicholas Ved¬ 
der ! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen 
years ! There was a wooden tombstone in the church¬ 
yard that used to tell all about him, but that’s rotten 
and gone too.” 

“ Where’s Brom Dutcher ? ” 

“ Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of 
the war ; some say he was killed at the storming of 
Stony Point—others say he was drowned in a squall 
at the foot of Antony’s Nose. I don’t know—he 
never came back again.” 

“Where’s Van Bummel, the school-master?” 

“ He went off to the wars too, was a great militia 
general, and is now in Congress.” 

Rip’s heart died away at hearing of these sad 
changes in his home and friends, and finding himself 
thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him 
too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and 
of matters which he could not understand : war— 
Congress—Stony Point ;—he had no courage to ask 
after any more friends, but cried out in despair, 
“ Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle ? ” 

“Oh, Rip Van Winkle ?” exclaimed two or three. 
“ Oh, to be sure ! that’s Rip Van Winkle yonder, 
leaning against the tree.” 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of 
himself as he went up the mountain : apparently as 
lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was 
now completely confounded. He doubted his own 
identity, and whether he was himself or another man. 
In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the 
cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was 
his name ? 

“ God knows,” exclaimed he at his wit’s end ; 






472 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ I’m not myself—I’m somebody else—that’s me 
yonder—no—that’s somebody else got into my shoes 
—I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the 
mountain, and they’ve changed my gun, and every¬ 
thing’s changed, and I’m changed, and I can’t tell 
what’s my name, or who I am ! ” 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, 
nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against 
their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about 
securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from 
doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the 
self-important man in the cocked hat retired with 
some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, 
comely woman pressed through the throng to get a 
peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby 
child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, be¬ 
gan to cry. “ Hush, Rip,” she cried, “ hush, you 
little fool; the old man won’t hurt you.” The 
name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of 
her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his 
mind. “ What is your name, my good woman ? ” 
asked he. 

“Judith Gardenier.” 

“ And your father’s name ? ” 

“Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, 
but it’s twenty years since he went away from home 
with his gun, and never has been heard of since,— 
his dog came home without him ; but whether he 
shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, no¬ 
body can tell. I was then but a little girl.” 

Rip had but one question more to ask ; and he 
put it with a faltering voice :— 

“ Where’s your mother ? ” 

“ Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she 
broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New- 
England peddler.” 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this in¬ 
telligence. The honest man could contain himself 
no longer. He caught his daughter and her child 
in his arms. “ I am your father !” cried he—“ Young 
Rip Van Winkle once—old Rip Van Winkle now ! 
Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?” 

All stood amazed, until an old woman tottering 
out from among the crowd, put her hand to her 
brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, 
exclaimed, “ Sure enough ! it is Rip Van Winkle— 
it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor— 
Why, where have you been these twenty long years ? ” 

Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole twenty 
years had been to him but as one night. The neigh¬ 
bors stared when they heard it ; some were seen to 
wink at each other, and put their tongues in their 
cheeks ; and the self-important man in the cocked 
hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to 
the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and 
shook his head—upon which there was a general 
shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion 
of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly 
advancing up the road. He was a descendant of 


the historian of that name, who wrote one of the 
earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the 
most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well 
versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of 
the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and 
corroborated his story in the most satisfactory man¬ 
ner. He assured the company that it was a fact, 
handed down from his ancestor the historian, that 
the Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted 
by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the 
great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the 
river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every 
twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon ; being 
permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his 
enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, 
and the great city called by his name. That his 
father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses 
playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain ; 
and that he himself had heard, one summer after¬ 
noon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of 
thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke 
up, and returned to the more important concerns of 
the election. Rip’s daughter took him home to live 
with her ; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and 
a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip 
recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb 
upon his back. As to Rip’s son and heir, who was 
the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, 
he was employed to work on the farm ; but evinced 
an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else 
but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he 
soon found many of his former cronies, though all 
rather the worse for the wear and tear of time ; and 
preferred making friends among the rising genera¬ 
tion, with whom he soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived 
at that happy age when a man can be idle with im¬ 
punity, he took his place once more on the bench at 
the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the 
patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old 
times “ before the war.” It was some time before 
he could get into the regular track of gossip, or 
could be made to comprehend the strange events 
that had taken place during his torpor. How that 
there had been a revolutionary war—that the country 
had thrown off the yoke of old England—and that, 
instead of being a subject of his Majesty George 
the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United 
States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the changes 
of states and empires made but little impression 
on him ; but there was one species of despotism 
under which he had long groaned, and that was— 
petticoat government. Happily that was at an end ; 
he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, 
and could go in and out whenever he pleased, with¬ 
out dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. 
Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he 
shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast 





The Pit and the Pendulum. 


473 


up his eyes ; which might pass either for an ex¬ 
pression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his 
deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that 
arrived at Mr. Doolittle’s hotel. He was observed, 
at first to vary on some points every time he told it, 
which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently 
awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the 
tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child 
in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some 
always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and in¬ 
sisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that 
this was one point on which he always remained 
flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost 
universally gave it full credit. Even to this day 
they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer after¬ 
noon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick 
Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins ; 
and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands 
in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their 
hands, that they might have a quieting draught out 
of Rip Van Winkle’s flagon. 


THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM. 

BY EDGAR A. POE. 

WAS sick—sick unto death with that long 
agony ; and when they at length unbound me, 
and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses 
were leaving me. The sentence—the dread sentence 
of death—was the last of distinct accentuation which 
reached my ears. After that, the sound of the in¬ 
quisitorial voices seemed merged in one dreamy in¬ 
determinate hum. It conveyed to my soul the idea 
of revolution —perhaps from its association in fancy 
with the burr of a mill-wheel. This only for a brief 
period ; for presently I heard no more. Yet, for a 
while, I saw ; but with how terrible an exaggeration ! 
I saw the lips of the black-robed judges. They 
appeared to me white—whiter than the sheet upon 
which I trace these words—and thin even to gro¬ 
tesqueness ; thin with the intensity of their expres¬ 
sion of firmness—of immovable resolution—of stern 
contempt of human torture. I saw that the decrees 
of what to me was Fate, were still issuing from those 
lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. I 
saw them fashion the syllables of my name ; and I 
shuddered because no sound succeeded. I saw, too, 
for a few moments of delirious horrQr, the soft and 
nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies 
which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And 
then my vision fell upon the seven tall candles upon 
the table. At first they wore the aspect of charity, 
and seemed white slender angels who would save 
me ; but then, all at once, there came a most deadly 
nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in my 
frame thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic 
battery, while the angel forms became meaningless 
spectres, with heads of flame, and I saw that from 
them there would be no help. And then there stole 


| into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought 
of what sweet rest there must be in the grave. The 
thought came gently and stealthily, and it seemed 
long before it attained full appreciation ; but just as 
my spirit came at length properly to feel and enter¬ 
tain it, the figures of the judges vanished, as if magi¬ 
cally, from before me ; the tall candles sank into 
nothingness; their flames went out utterly; the 
blackness of darkness supervened ; all sensations 
appeared swallowed up in a mad rushing descent as 
of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and stillness, 
and night were the universe. 

I had swooned ; but still will not say that all of 
consciousness was lost. What of it there remained 
I will not attempt to define, or even to describe ; 
yet all was not lost. In the deepest slumber—no ! 
In delirium—no ! In a swoon—no ! In death—no ! 
even in the grave all is not lost. Else there is no 
immortality for man. Arousing from the most pro¬ 
found of slumbers, we break the gossamer web of 
some dream. Yet in a second afterward (so frail 
may that web have been) we remember not that we 
have dreamed. In the return to life from the swoon 
there are two stages; first, that of the sense of men¬ 
tal or spiritual ; secondly, that of the sense of physi¬ 
cal, existence. It seems probable that if, upon reach¬ 
ing the second stage, we could recall the impressions 
of the first, we should find these impressions elo¬ 
quent in memories of the gulf beyond. And that 
gulf is—what ? How at least shall we distinguish its 
shadows from those of the tomb ? But if the impres¬ 
sions of what I have termed the first stage, are not, 
at will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they not 
come unbidden, while we marvel whence they come ? 
He who has never swooned, is not he who finds 
strange palaces and wildly familiar faces in coals 
that glow ; is not he who beholds floating in mid-air 
the sad visions that the many may no^view ; is not 
he who ponders over the perfume of some novel 
flower—is not he whose brain grows bewildered with 
the meaning of some musical cadence which has 
never before arrested his attention. 

Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to re¬ 
member ; amid earnest struggles to regather some 
token of the state of seeming nothingness into which 
my soul had lapsed, there have been moments when 
I have dreamed of success ; there have been brief, 
very brief periods when I have conjured up remem¬ 
brances which the lucid reason of a later epoch 
assures me could have had reference only to that 
condition of seeming unconsciousness. These shad¬ 
ows of memory tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that 
lifted and bore me in silence down—down—still 
down—till a hideous dizziness oppressed me at the 
mere idea of the interminableness of the descent. 
They tell also of a vague horror at my heart, on ac¬ 
count of that heart’s unnatural stillness. Then 
comes a sense of sudden motionlessness throughout 
all things ; as if those who bore me (a ghastly train !) 
had outrun, in their descent, the limits of the limit- 










less, and paused from the wearisomeness of their toil. 
After this I call to mind flatness and dampness ; and 
then all is madness —the madness of a memory which 
busies itself among forbidden things. 

Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion 
and sound—the tumultuous motion of the heart, and, 
in my ears, the sound of its beating. Then a pause 
in which all is blank. Then again sound, and motion, 
and touch—a tingling sensation pervading my frame. 
Then the mere consciousness of existence, without 
thought —a condition which lasted long. Then, very 
suddenly, thought , and shuddering terror, and earnest 
endeavor to comprehend my true state. Then a 
strong desire to lapse into insensibility. Then a 
rushing revival of soul and a successful effort to 
move. And now a full memory of the trial, of the 
judges, of the sable draperies, of the sentence, of the 
sickness, of the swoon. Then entire forgetfulness of 
all that followed ; of all that a later day and much 
earnestness of endeavor have enabled me vaguely to 
recall. 

So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I 
lay upon my back, unbound. I reached out my 
hand, and it fell heavily upon something damp and 
hard. There I suffered it to remain for many min¬ 
utes, while I strove to imagine where and what I 
could be. I longed, yet dared not to employ my 
vision. I dreaded the first glance at objects around 
me. It was not that I feared to look upon things 
horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be 
nothing to see. At length, with a wild desperation 
at heart, I quickly unclosed my eyes. My worst 
thoughts, then, were confirmed. The blackness of 
eternal night encompassed me. I struggled for 
breath. The intensity of the darkness seemed to 
oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere was intoler¬ 
ably close. I still lay quietly, and made effort to 
exercise my reason. I brought to mind the inquisi¬ 
torial proceedings, and attempted from that point 
to deduce my real condition. The sentence had 
passed ; and it appeared to me that a very long in¬ 
terval of time had since elapsed. Yet not for a 
moment did I suppose myself actually dead. Such 
a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in 
fiction, is altogether inconsistent with real existence ; 
but where and in what state was I ? The condemned 
to death, I knew, perished usually at the auto-da-fe's , 
and one of these had been held on the very night of 
the day of my trial. Had I been remanded to my 
dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, which would not 
take place for many months? This I at once saw 
could not be. Victims had been in immediate de¬ 
mand. Moreover, my dungeon, as well as all the 
condemned cells at Toledo, had stone floors, and 
light was not altogether excluded. 

A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in 
torrents upon my heart, and for a brief period I 
once more relapsed into insensibility. Upon recov¬ 
ering, I at once started to my feet, trembling con¬ 
vulsively in every fibre. I thrust my arms wildly 


above and around me in all directions. I felt 
nothing ; yet dreaded to move a step, lest I should 
be impeded by the walls of a tomb. Perspiration 
burst from every pore, and stood in cold big beads 
upon my forehead. The agony of suspense grew at 
length intolerable, and I cautiously moved forward, 
with my arms extended, and my eyes straining from 
their sockets, in the hope of catching some faint ray 
of light. I proceeded for many paces ; but still all 
was blackness and vacancy. I breathed more freely. 
It seemed evident that mine was not, at least, the 
most hideous of fates. 

And now, as I still continued to step cautiously 
onward, there came thronging upon my recollection 
a thousand vague rumors of the horrors of Toledo. 
Of the dungeons there had been strange things nar¬ 
rated—fables I had always deemed them-but yet 
strange, and too ghastly to repeat, save in a whisper. 
Was I left to perish of starvation in this subterranean 
world of darkness ; or what fate, perhaps even more 
fearful, awaited me? That the result would be 
death, and a death of more than customary bitter¬ 
ness, I knew too well the character of my judges 
to doubt. The mode and the hour were all that 
occupied or distracted me. 

My outstretched hands at length encountered some 
solid obstruction. It was a wall, seemingly of stone 
masonry—very smooth, slimy, and cold. I followed 
it up ; stepping with all the careful distrust with 
which certain antique narratives had inspired me. 
This process, however, afforded me no means of 
ascertaining the dimensions of my dungeon ; as I 
might make its circuit, and return to the point 
whence I set out, without being aware of the fact; 
so perfectly uniform seemed the wall. I therefore 
sought the knife which had been in my pocket, when 
led into the inquisitorial chamber ; but it was gone ; 
my clothes had been exchanged for a wrapper of 
coarse serge. I had thought of forcing the blade in 
some minute crevice of the masonry, so as to identify 
my point of departure. The difficulty, nevertheless, 
was but trivial ; although, in the disorder of my 
fancy, it seemed at first insuperable. I tore a part 
of the hem from the robe and placed the fragment 
at full length, and at right angles to the wall. In 
groping my way around the prison, I could not fail 
to encounter this rag upon completing the circuit. 
So, at least, I thought : but I had not counted upon 
the extent of the dungeon, or upon my own weak¬ 
ness. The ground was moist and slippery. I stag¬ 
gered onward for some time, when I stumbled and 
fell. My excessive fatigue induced me to remain 
prostrate ; and sleep soon overtook me as I lay. 

Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I 
found beside me a loaf and a pitcher with water. I 
was too much exhausted to reflect upon this circum¬ 
stance, but ate and drank with avidity. Shortly 
afterward I resumed my tour around the prison, and 
with much toil came at last upon the fragment of 
the serge. Up to the period when I fell I had 


474 


Treasury of Tales. 






The Pit and the Pendulum. 


475 




counted fifty-two paces, and, upon resuming my 
walk, I had counted forty-eight more—when I 
arrived at the rag. There were in all, then, a hundred 
paces ; and, admitting two paces to the yard, I pre¬ 
sumed the dungeon to be fifty yards in circuit. I 
had met, however, with many angles in the wall, and 
thus I could form no guess at the shape of the vault, 
for vault I could not help supposing it to be. 

I had little object—certainly no hope—in these 
researches ; but a vague curiosity prompted me to 
continue them. Quitting the wall, I resolved to 
cross the area of the inclosure. At first, I proceed¬ 
ed with extreme caution, for the floor, although 
seemingly of solid material, was treacherous with 
slime. At length, however, I took courage, and did 
not hesitate to step firmly—endeavoring to cross in 
as direct a line as possible. I had advanced some 
ten or twelve paces in this manner, when the rem¬ 
nant of the torn hem of my robe became entangled 
between my legs. I stepped on it, and fell violently 
on my face. 

In the confusion attending my fall, I did not im¬ 
mediately apprehend a somewhat startling circum¬ 
stance, which yet, in a few seconds afterward, and 
while I still lay prostrate, arrested my attention. It 
was this: my chin rested upon the floor of the 
prison, but my lips, and the upper portion of my 
head, although seemingly at a less elevation than the 
chin, touched nothing. At the same time, my fore¬ 
head seemed bathed in a clammy vapor, and the 
peculiar smell of decayed fungus arose to my nos¬ 
trils. I put forward my arm, and shuddered to find 
that I had fallen at the very brink of a circular pit, 
whose extent, of course, I had no means of ascer¬ 
taining at the moment. Groping about the masonry 
just below the margin, I succeeded in dislodging a 
small fragment, and let it fall into the abyss. For' 
many seconds I hearkened to its reverberations as it 
dashed against the sides of the chasm in its descent: 
at length, there was a sullen plunge into water, suc¬ 
ceeded by loud echoes. At the same moment there 
came a sound resembling the quick opening, and 
as rapid closing of a door overhead, while a faint 
gleam of light flashed suddenly through the gloom, 
and as suddenly faded away. 

I saw clearly the doom which had been prepared 
for me, and congratulated myself upon the timely 
accident by which I had escaped. Another step be¬ 
fore my fall, and the world had seen me no more. 
And the death just avoided was of that very charac¬ 
ter which I had regarded as fabulous and frivolous 
in the tales respecting the Inquisition. To the 
victims of its tyranny, there was the choice of death 
with its direst physical agonies, or death with its 
most hideous moral horrors. I had been reserved 
for the latter. By long suffering my nerves had 
been unstrung, until I trembled at the sound of my 
own voice, and had become in every respect a fitting 
subject for the species of torture which awaited me. 

Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back to 


the wall—resolving there to perish rather than risk 
the terrors of the wells, of which my imagination 
now pictured many in various positions about the 
dungeon. In other conditions of mind, I might 
have had courage to end my misery at once, by a 
plunge into one of these abysses ; but now I was the 
veriest of cowards. Neither could I forget what I 
had read of these pits—that the siidden extinction 
of life formed no part of their most horrible plan. 

Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long 
hours; but at length I again slumbered. Upon 
arousing, I found by my side, as before, a loaf and a 
pitcher of water. A burning thirst consumed me, 
and I emptied the vessel at a draught. It must have 
been drugged—for scarcely had I drunk, before I 
became irresistibly drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon 
me—a sleep like that of death. How long it lasted, 
of course I know not; but when, once again, I un¬ 
closed my eyes, the objects around me were visible. 
By a wild, sulphurous lustre, the origin of which I 
could not at first determine, I was enabled to see the 
extent and aspect of the prison. 

In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The 
whole circuit of its walls did not exceed twenty-five 
yards. For some minutes this fact occasioned me a 
world of vain trouble ; vain indeed—for what could 
be of less importance, under the terrible circum¬ 
stances which environed me, than the mere dimen¬ 
sions of my dungeon ? But my soul took a wild 
interest in trifles, and I busied myself in endeavors 
to account for the error I had committed in my 
measurement. The truth at length flashed upon 
me. In my first attempt at exploration, I had 
counted fifty-two paces, up to the period when I 
fell: I must then have been within a pace or two of 
the fragment of serge ; in fact, I had nearly per¬ 
formed the circuit of the vault. I then slept—and, 
upon awaking, I must have returned upon my steps 
—thus supposing the circuit nearly double what it 
actually was. My confusion of mind prevented me 
from observing that I began my tour with the wall 
to the left, and ended it with the wall to the right. 

I had been deceived, too, in respect to the shape 
of the inclosure. In feeling my way I had found 
many angles, and thus deduced an idea of great ir¬ 
regularity ; so potent is the effect of total darkness 
upon one arousing from lethargy or sleep ! The 
angles were simply those of a few slight depressions, 
or niches, at odd intervals. The general shape of 
the prison was square. What I had taken for ma¬ 
sonry, seemed now to be iron, or some other metal, 
in huge plates, whose sutures or joints occasioned 
the depressions. The entire surface of this metallic 
inclosure was rudely daubed in all the hideous and 
repulsive devices to which the charnel superstition of 
the monks has given rise. The figures of fiends in 
aspects of menace, with skeleton forms and other 
more really fearful images, overspread and disfig¬ 
ured the walls. I observed that the outlines of these 
monstrosities were sufficiently distinct, but that the 





476 


Treasury of Tales. 


colors seemed faded and blurred, as if from the ef¬ 
fects of a damp atmosphere. I now noticed the 
floor, too, which was of stone. In the centre yawned 
the circular pit from whose jaws I had escaped ; but 
it was the only one in the dungeon. 

All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort— 
for my personal condition had been greatly changed 
during slumber. I now lay upon my back, and at 
full length, on a species of low frame-work of wood. 
To this I was securely bound by a long strap resem¬ 
bling a surcingle. It passed in many convolutions 
about my limbs and body, leaving at liberty only my 
head, and my left arm to such extent that I could, by 
dint of much exertion, supply myself with food from 
an earthen dish which lay by my side on the floor. 
I saw, to my horror, that the pitcher had been re¬ 
moved. I say, to my horror—for I was consumed 
with intolerable thirst. This thirst it appeared to be 
the design of my persecutors to stimulate—for the 
food in the dish was meat pungently seasoned. 

Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of my 
prison. It was some thirty or forty feet overhead, 
and constructed much as the side walls. In one of 
its panels a very singular figure riveted my whole 
attention. It was the painted figure of Time as he 
is commonly represented, save that, in lieu of a 
scythe, he held what, at a casual glance, I supposed 
to be the pictured image of a huge pendulum, such 
as we see on antique clocks. There was something, 
however, in the appearance of this machine which 
caused me to regard it more attentively. While I 
gazed directly upward at it (for its position was im¬ 
mediately over my own), I fancied that I saw it in 
motion. In an instant afterward the fancy was con¬ 
firmed. Its sweep was brief, and of course slow. I 
watched it for some minutes, somewhat in fear, but 
more in wonder. Wearied at length with observing 
its dull movement, I turned my eyes upon the other 
objects in the cell. 

A slight noise attracted my notice, and, looking to 
the floor, I saw several enormous rats traversing it. 
They had issued from the well, which lay just within 
view to my right. Even then, while I gazed, they 
came up in troops, hurriedly, with ravenous eyes, al¬ 
lured by the scent of the meat. From this it re¬ 
quired much effort and attention to scare them 
away. 

It might have been half an hour, perhaps even an 
hour (for I could take but imperfect note of time), 
before I again cast my eyes upward. What I then 
saw confounded and amazed me. The sweep of the 
pendulum had increased in extent by nearly a yard. 
As a natural consequence its velocity was also much 
greater. But what mainly disturbed me was the 
idea that it had perceptibly descended. I now ob¬ 
served—with what horror it is needless to say—that 
its nether extremity was formed of a crescent of 
glittering steel, about a foot in length from horn to 
horn ; the horns upward, and the under edge evi¬ 
dently as keen as that of a razor. Like a razor also, 


it seemed massy and heavy, tapering from the edge 
into a solid and broad structure above. It was ap¬ 
pended to a weighty rod of brass, and the whole 
hissed as it swung through the air. 

I could no longer doubt the doom prepared forme 
by monkish ingenuity in torture. My cognizance of 
the pit had become known to the inquisitorial agents 
—the pit , whose horrors had been destined for so 
bold a recusant as myself— the pit , typical of hell, 
and regarded by rumor as the Ultima Thule of all 
their punishments. The plunge into this pit I had 
avoided by the merest of accidents, and I knew that 
surprise, or entrapment into torment, formed an im¬ 
portant portion of all the grotesquerie of these dun¬ 
geon deaths. Having failed to fall, it was no part 
of the demon plan to hurl me into the abyss ; and 
thus (there being no alternative) a different and a 
milder destruction awaited me. Milder! I half 
smiled in my agony as I thought of such application 
of such a term. 

What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of 
horror more than mortal, during which I counted the 
rushing oscillations of the steel ! Inch by inch— 
line by line—with a descent only appreciable at in¬ 
tervals that seemed ages—down and still down it 
came ! Days passed—it might have been that many 
days passed—ere it swept so closely over me as to 
fan me with its acrid breath. The odor of the sharp 
steel forced itself into my nostrils. I prayed—I 
wearied heaven with my prayer for its more speedy 
descent. I grew frantically mad, and struggled to 
force myself upward against the sweep of the fear¬ 
ful cimiter. And then I fell suddenly calm, and 
lay smiling at the glittering death, as a child at some 
rare bauble. 

There was another interval of utter insensibility; 
it was brief ; for, upon again lapsing into life, there 
had been no perceptible descent in the pendulum. 
But it might have been long—for I knew there were 
demons who took note of my swoon, and who could 
have arrested the vibration at pleasure. Upon my 
recovery, too, I felt very—oh, inexpressibly—sick 
and weak, as if through long inanition. Even amid 
the agonies of that period, the human nature craved 
food. With painful effort I outstretched my left arm 
as far as my bonds permitted, and took possession 
of the small remnant which had been spared me by 
the rats. As I put a portion of it within my lips, there 
rushed to my mind a half-formed thought of joy—of 
hope. Yet what business had / with hope ? It was, 
as I say, a half-formed thought—man has many 
such, which are never completed. I felt that it was 
of joy—of hope ; but I felt also that it had perished 
in its formation. In vain I struggled to perfect—to 
regain it. Long suffering had nearly annihilated all 
my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile— 
an idiot. 

The vibration of the pendulum was at right angles 
to my length. I saw that the crescent was designed 
to cross the region of the heart. It would fray the 




The Pit and the Pendulum. 


477 




surge of my robe—it would return and repeat its op¬ 
erations—again—and again. Notwithstanding its 
terrifically wide sweep (some thirty feet or more), 
and the hissing vigor of its descent, sufficient to 
sunder these very walls of iron, still the fraying of 
my robe would be all that, for several minutes, it 
would accomplish. And at this thought I paused. I 
dared not go farther than this reflection. I dwelt 
upon it with a pertinacity of attention—as if, in so 
dwelling, I could arrest here the descent of the steel. 
I forced myself to ponder upon the sound of the 
crescent as it should pass across the garment—upon 
the peculiar thrilling sensation which the friction 
of cloth produces on the nerves. I pondered upon 
all this frivolity until my teeth were on edge. 

Down—steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied 
pleasure in contrasting its downward with its lateral 
velocity. To the right—to the left—far and wide— 
with the shriek of a damned spirit ! to my heart, 
with the stealthy pace of the tiger ! I alternately 
laughed and howled, as the one or the other idea 
grew predominant. 

Down—certainly, relentlessly down ! It vibrated 
within three inches of my bosom ! I struggled vio¬ 
lently—furiously—to free my left arm. This was 
free only from the elbow to the hand. I could reach 
the latter, from the platter beside me, to my mouth, 
with great effort, but no farther. Could I have 
broken the fastenings above the elbow, I would have 
seized and attempted to arrest the pendulum. I 
might as well have attempted to arrest an ava¬ 
lanche ! 

Down—still unceasingly—still inevitably down ! 
I gasped and struggled at each vibration. I shrunk 
convulsively at its every sweep. My eyes followed 
its outward or upward whirls with the eagerness of 
the most unmeaning despair ; they closed themselves 
spasmodically at the descent, although death would 
have been a relief, oh, how unspeakable! Still I 
quivered in every nerve to think how slight a sinking 
of the machinery would precipitate that keen, glisten¬ 
ing axe upon my bosom. It was hope that prompted 
the nerve to quiver—the frame to shrink. It was 
hope —the hope that triumphs on the rack—that 
whispers to the death-condemned even in the dun¬ 
geons of the Inquisition. 

I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would 
bring the steel in actual contact with my robe—and 
with this observation there suddenly came over my 
spirit all the keen, collected calmness of despair. 
For the first time during many hours—or perhaps 
days—I thought. It now occurred to me that the 
bandage, or surcingle, which enveloped me, was 
unique. I was tied by no separate cord. The first 
stroke of the razor-like crescent athwart any portion 
of the band, would so detach it that it might be 
unwound from my person by means of my left hand. 
But how fearful, in that case, the proximity of the 
steel ! The result of the slightest struggle, how 
deadly ! Was it likely, moreover, that the minions 


of the torturer had not foreseen and provided for 
this possibility? Was it probable that the bandage 
crossed my bosom in the track of the pendulum? 
Dreading to find my faint, and, as it seemed, my 
last hope frustrated, I so far elevated my head as to 
obtain a distinct view of my breast. The surcingle 
enveloped my limbs and body close in all directions 
—save in the path of the destroying crescent. 

Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its orig¬ 
inal position, when there flashed upon my mind 
what I cannot better describe than as the unformed 
half of that idea of deliverance to which I have pre¬ 
viously alluded, and of which a moiety only floated 
indeterminately through my brain when I raised food 
to my burning lips. The whole thought was now 
present—feeble, scarcely sane, scarcely definite—but 
still entire. I proceeded at once, with the nervous 
energy of despair, to attempt its execution. 

For many hours the immediate vicinity of the low 
frame-work upon which I lay had been literally 
swarming with rats. They were wild, bold, raven¬ 
ous—their red eyes glaring upon me as if they waited 
but for motionlessness on my part to make me their 
prey. “To what food,” I thought,“have they been 
accustomed in the well?” 

They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts to 
prevent them, all but a small remnant of the con¬ 
tents of the dish. I had fallen into an habitual see¬ 
saw, or wave of the hand about the platter ; and, at 
length, the unconscious uniformity of the movement 
deprived it of effect. In their voracity, the ver¬ 
min frequently fastened their sharp fangs in my fin¬ 
gers. With the particles of the oily and spicy viand 
which now remained, I thoroughly rubbed the ban¬ 
dage wherever I could reach it; then, raising my 
hand from the floor, I lay breathlessly still. 

At first, the ravenous animals were startled and 
terrified at the change—at the cessation of move¬ 
ment. They shrank alarmedly back ; many sought 
the well. But this was only for a moment. I had 
not counted in vain upon their voracity. Observing 
that I remained without motion, one or two of the 
boldest leaped upon the frame-work, and smelt at the 
surcingle. This seemed the signal for a general rush. 
Forth from the well they hurried in fresh troops. They 
clung to the wood—they overran it, and leaped in 
hundreds upon my person. The measured move¬ 
ment of the pendulum disturbed them not at all. 
Avoiding its strokes, they busied themselves with the 
anointed bandage. They pressed—they swarmed 
upon me in ever accumulating heaps. They writhed 
upon my throat; their cold lips sought my own ; I 
was half stifled by their thronging pressure ; disgust, 
for which the world has no name, swelled my bosom, 
and chilled, with a heavy clamminess, my heart. Yet 
one minute, and I felt that the struggle would be 
over. Plainly I perceived the loosening of the band¬ 
age. I knew that in more than one place it must be 
already severed. With a more than human resolu¬ 
tion I lay still. 






473 


Treasury of Tales. 


Nor had I erred in my calculations—nor had I en¬ 
dured in vain. I at length felt that I was free. The 
surcingle hung in ribbons from my body. But the 
stroke of the pendulum already pressed upon my 
bosom. It had divided the serge of the robe. It 
had cut through the linen beneath. Twice again it 
swung, and a sharp sense of pain shot through every 
nerve. But the moment of escape had arrived. At 
a wave of my hand my deliverers hurried tumultu¬ 
ously away. With a steady movement-—cautious, 
side-long, shrinking, and slow—I slid from the em¬ 
brace of the bandage and beyond the reach of the 
cimiter. For the moment, at least, I was free. 

Free !—and in the grasp of the Inquisition ! I had 
scarcely stepped from my wooden bed of horror upon 
the stone floor of the prison, when the motion of the 
hellish machine ceased, and I beheld it drawn up, 
by some invisible force, through the ceiling. This 
was a lesson which I took desperately to heart. My 
every motion was undoubtedly watched. Free !—I 
had but escaped death in one form of agony, to be 
delivered unto worse than death in some other. With 
that thought I rolled my eyes nervously around on 
the barriers of iron that hemmed me in. Something 
unusual—some change which, at first, I could not 
appreciate distinctly—it was obvious, had taken place 
in the apartment. For many minutes of a dreamy 
and trembling abstraction, I busied myself in vain, 
unconnected conjecture. During this period I be¬ 
came aware, for the first time, of the origin of the 
sulphurous light which illumined the cell. It pro¬ 
ceeded from a fissure, about half an inch in width, 
extending entirely around the prison at the base of 
the walls, which thus appeared, and were, completely 
separated from the floor. I endeavored, but of 
course in vain, to look through the aperture. 

As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of the 
alteration in the chamber broke at once upon my 
understanding. I have observed that, although the 
outlines of the figures upon the walls were suffi¬ 
ciently distinct, yet the colors seemed blurred and 
indefinite. These colors had now assumed, and 
were momentarily assuming, a. startling and most 
intense brilliancy, that gave to the spectral and 
fiendish portraitures an aspect that might have 
thrilled even firmer nerves than my own. Demon 
eyes, of a wild and ghastly vivacity, glared upon me 
in a thousand directions, where none had been visi¬ 
ble before, and gleamed with the lurid lustre of a 
fire that I could not force my imagination to regard 
as unreal. 

Unreal! —Even while I breathed there came to 
my nostrils the breath of the vapor of heated iron ! 
A suffocating odor pervaded the prison ! A deeper 
glow settled each moment in the eyes that glared at 
my agonies ! A richer tint of crimson diffused 
itself over the pictured horrors of blood. I panted ! 
I gasped for breath ! There could be no doubt of 
the design of my tormentors—oh ! most unrelent¬ 
ing! oh ! most demoniac of men ! I shrank from 


the glowing metal to the centre of the cell. Amid 
the thought of the fiery destruction ‘that impended, 
the idea of the coolness of the well came over my 
soul like balm. I rushed to its deadly brink. I 
threw my straining vision below. The glare from 
the enkindled roof illumined its inmost recesses. 
Yet, for a wild moment, did my spirit refuse to com¬ 
prehend the meaning of what I saw. At length it 
forced—it wrestled its way into my soul—it burned 
itself in upon my shuddering reason. Oh ! for a 
voice to speak !—oh ! horror !—oh ! any horror but 
this ! With a shriek, I rushed from the margin, and 
buried my face in my hands—weeping bitterly. 

The heat rapidly increased, and once again I 
looked up, shuddering as with a fit of the ague. 
There had been a second change in the cell—and 
now the change was obviously in the form. As be¬ 
fore, it was in vain that I at first endeavored to appre¬ 
ciate or understand what was taking place. But not 
long was I left in doubt. The inquisitorial ven¬ 
geance had been hurried by my twofold escape, and 
there was to be no more dallying with the King of 
Terrors. The room had been square. I saw that 
two of its iron angles were now acute—two, con¬ 
sequently, obtuse. The fearful difference quickly 
increased, with a low rumbling or moaning sound. 
In an instant the apartment had shifted its form into 
that of a lozenge. But the alteration stopped not 
here—I neither hoped nor desired it to stop. I 
could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a 
garment of eternal peace. “ Death,” I said, “ any 
death but that of the pit! ” Fool ! might I not 
have known that into the pit it was the object of the 
burning iron to urge me ? Could I resist its glow ? 
or if even that, could I withstand its pressure ? And 
now, flatter and flatter grew the lozenge, with a ra¬ 
pidity that left me no time for contemplation. Its 
centre, and of course its greatest width, came just 
over the yawning gulf. I shrank back—but the 
closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward. At 
length for my seared and writhing body there was 
no longer an inch of foothold on the firm floor of the 
prison. I struggled no more, but the agony of my 
soul found vent in one loud, long, and final scream 
of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink— 
I averted my eyes— 

There was a discordant hum of human voices ! 
There was a loud blast as of many trumpets ! There 
was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders I 
The fiery walls rushed back ! An outstretched arm 
caught my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It 
was that of General Lasalle. The French army had 
entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands, 
of its enemies. 







A Chase for a Wife. 


479 


A CHASE FOI\ A WIFE. 

BY T. C. HALIBURTON. 

I N the morning all the guests assisted Mr. Neal 
and his men in endeavoring to cut a passage 
through the enormous drift that had obstructed 
our progress on the night of our arrival. Although 
apparently a work of vast labor, the opening was, in 
fact, effected with great ease, and in an incredibly 
short space of time. The drift shovel is made of 
dry wood, weighs very little, and lifts a large quan¬ 
tity of snow at once. There were no arrivals during 
the day, nor did any of the party at Mount Hope 
venture to leave it and become pioneers. In the 
afternoon we adjourned again, for the last time, to 
the Keeping Room, for Barclay expressed his deter¬ 
mination to force his way to Illinoo on the follow¬ 
ing day, and Mr. Stephen Richardson said, as the 
road to Halifax would, from its position, be so much 
more obstructed than, that which lay through the 
woods, he had resolved to leave his horse, and per¬ 
form the remaining part bf the journey on snow 
shoes. 

“ 1 can’t say my business is so very urgent, 
neither,” he observed ; “but I can’t bear to be idle, 
and when a man’s away from home things don’t, in 
a general way, go ahead so fast, or get so well done, 
as when he is to the fore. Them that work never 
think ; and if the thinking man is away, the laboring 
men may as well be away also, for the chances are 
they will work wrong, and, at any rate, they are sure 
to work badly. That’s my idea, at any rate. But 
there is one comfort, anyhow ; there is no fishery 
law where I live ; and if there was, I don’t think 
Mrs. Richardson, my wife, would be altogether just 
so sharp upon me as Luke Loon’s was. I must tell 
you that story, Miss Lucy. For instance, folks like 
you have no idea of what is going on sometimes sea¬ 
board ways. Plowing the land and plowing the sea 
is about as different things as may be, and yet they 
ain’t more different than them who turn the furrows 
or hold the tiller. It ain’t no easy matter to give 
you an idea of a fishing-station ; but I’ll try, miss. 

“We have two sorts of emigrants to this province 
of Nova Scotia, do you observe ; droves of paupers 
from Europe, and shoals of fish from the sea ; old 
Nick sends one, and the Lord sends the other ; one 
we have to feed, and the other feeds us ; one brings 
■destitution, distress, and disease, and the other health, 
wealth, and happiness. Well, when our friends the 
mackerel strike in toward the shore, and travel round 
the province to the northward, the whole coasting 
population is on the stir, too. Perhaps there never was 
seen, under the blessed light of the sun, anything 
like the everlasting number of mackerel in one shoal 
on our sea-coast. Millions is too little a word for 
it ; acres of them is too small a tarm to give a right 
notion; miles of them, perhaps, is more like the thing ; 
and when they rise to the surface, it’s a solid body 


of fish you sail through. It’s a beautiful sight to see 
them tumbling into a harbor, head over tail, and tail 
over head, jumping and thumping, sputtering and 
fluttering, lashing and thrashing, with a gurgling 
kind of sound, as much as to say, ‘ Here we are, my 
hearties ! How are you off for salt ? Is your barrels 
all ready ?—because we are. So bear a hand, and 
out with your nets, as we are off to the next harbor 
to-morrow, and don’t wait for such lazy fellows as 
you be.’ Well, when they come in shoals that way, 
the fishermen come in swarms, too. O, it beats all 
natur—that’s a fact! Did you ever stand on a beach, 
miss, or on a pasture, that’s on a river, or on a bay, 
and see a great flock of plover, containing hundreds, 
and hundreds, and hundreds of birds, come and light 
all at once in one spot, where a minute afore there 
warn’t one ? Well, that’s the way with humans on 
the fishery-stations. Take Crow Harbor now, or 
Fox Island, or Just-au-Corps Point, or Louisburg, 
or any of them places, whenever the fish strike in, 
they are all crowded right up in a minute, chock full 
of people from all parts of these colonies and Eastern 
States of America, in flats and boats, and decked 
vessels, and shallops, and schooners, and pinks, and 
sloops, and smacks, and every kind and sort of small 
craft ; and, in course, where there are such a num¬ 
ber of men, the few women that live near at hand 
just lay down the law their own way, and carry things 
with a high hand. Like all other legislators, too, 
they make ’nactments to suit themselves. Petticoat 
government is a petty tyrannical government, I tell 
you.” 

“ Why, Mr. Stephen ! ” said Miss Lu> 

“ Beg your pardon, miss, I actilly forg . hat 
he continued. “ I did make a hole in 
that pitch, I grant, and I am sorry for it. n don . 
to tell the truth at all times, that’s a fact. The fishery 
regulation that I am a-going to speak of is repealed 
now, I guess, everywhere a’most, except at the Mag¬ 
dalen Islands, and there, I believe, it is in full force 
yet, and carried out very strict; but I recollect when 
it prevailed here at Shad Harbor, and poor Luke 
Loon suffered under it. Time flies so, a body can 
hardly believe, when they look back, that things that 
seem as if they happened yesterday, actilly took 
place twenty years ago : but so it is, and it appears 
to me sometimes, as if the older events are, the 
clearer they be in the mind ; but I suppose it is be¬ 
cause they are like the lines of our farms in the 
woods, so often blazed anew, by going over agin 
and agin, they are kept fresh and plain. Howsurn- 
ever that may be, it’s about the matter of nineteen 
years ago come next February, when that misfor- 
tunate crittur, Luke Loon, came to me in a most 
desperate pucker of a hurry— 

“ ‘ Steve,’ says he, ‘ for Heaven’s sake ! let me 
have a horse, that’s a good fellow—will you ? to go 
to Shad Harbor ; and I’ll pay you anything in the 
world you’ll ask for it.’ 

“ ‘ Are you in a great hurry ? ’ said I. 






480 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ ‘ I must clap on all sail and scud before the wind 
like the devil. I haven’t a minit to lose,’ said he. 

“ ‘ Then you can’t have him,’ said I, ‘ for you will 
ride the beast too fast.’ 

“ You never saw a feller so taken a-back, and so 
chap-fallen, in all your life. He walked about the 
room, and wrung his hands, and groaned as if his 
heart was breaking, and at last he fairly boo-hooed 
right out- 

“ ‘ O, my soul ! ’ said he, ‘I shall lose Miss Loon, 
my wife, for a sartenty ! I shall be adrift again in 
the world, as sure as fate ! I have only to-morrow 
to reach home in ; for, by the law of the fishery, if 
a man is absent over three months, his wife can 
marry again ; and the time will be up in twenty-four 
hours. What onder the sun shall I do ? ’ 

“ ‘ If that’s the sort of gal she is, Luke,’ said I, 
* she won’t keep ; let her run into another man’s net 
if she likes, for she won’t stand the inspection brand, 
and ain’t a No. 1 article! Do you just bait your 
hook and try your luck again, for there is as good 
fish in the sea as was ever hauled out of it! ’ 

“ But he carried on so after the gal, and took it so 
much to heart, I actilly pitied the crittur ; and at 
last consented to let him have the horse. Poor fel¬ 
low ! he was too late, after all. His wife, the cun¬ 
ning minx, to make up time, counted the day of sail¬ 
ing as one day, which was onfair, oncustomary, and 
contrary to the fishery laws ; and was married again 
the night before he arrived to big Tom Bullock, of 
Owl’s Head. When Luke heard it he nearly went 
crazy ; he raved and carried on so, and threatened 
to shoot Tom, seeing that he warn’t abje to thrash 
him ; but the more he raved the more the neighbors’ 
boys and gals made game of him, following him 
about, and singing out— 

“ ‘Get out of the way, old Dan Tucker, 

You are too late to come to supper !’ 

And fairly tormented him out of the fishery-station.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Miss Lucy, “ I know you made up 
that story—didn’t you, now ? It ain’t true, is it ? ” 

“ Fact! I assure you,” said Stephen. “ There is 
others besides me that’s a knowing to it.” 

“ Well, I never ! ” said the young lady. “ That 
beats all I ever heard. O my ! what folks fishing 
people must be ! ” 

“Well, there are some droll things done, and droll 
people to do them in this world,” replied Stephen. 

An exclamation from one of the little boys called 
Miss Lucy’s attention to him, and she sent the little 
culprit off to bed, notwithstanding Mr. Stephen’s 
earnest entreaties to the contrary. The young lady 
was inexorable. She said— 

“That in an establishment like that of Mount 
Hope, nothing could be accomplished without order 
and regularity ; and that there were certain rules in 
the household which were never deviated from on 
any account whatever.” 

“You don’t mean to say,” inquired Stephen, “that 


you have rules you never alter or bend a little on 
one side, if you don’t break them, do you ?” 

“ Yes, I do,” said M-ss Lucy ; “ I couldn’t keep 
house if I didn’t.” 

“ Well, you must break one of them for me to¬ 
night, my little rosebud ! ” 

“ Indeed, I shall not ! ” 

“ O, but you must ! ” 

“ O, but I must not! ” 

“ O, but you will, tho’! ” 

“ O, but I won’t, tho’! ” 

“ Well, we shall see,” said Stephen ; “but you are 
too hard on those poor little fellows. They are 
nice, manly little boys, and I love them ; and, after 
all, what is it they did, now ? ” 

“What became of poor Luke ? ” said the inflexible 
hostess, in order to turn the conversation. “ I 
should like to hear the rest of that story.” 

“ Poor little dears ! ” said Stephen, regardless of 
the question. 

“ O, never mind the boys, Mr. Stephen,” she re¬ 
plied. “ It’s time they went to bed, at any rate ; 
but Luke !—did you ever hear of him afterward ? ” 
“ I didn’t think you would be so hard-hearted, 
now, Miss Lucy,” he said, pursuing the subject. 

“ Now, Mr. Stephen, there is just one favor I have 
to ask of you.” 

“ Granted before told,” he replied. “ Anything 
under the sun I can do for you, miss, either by day 
or by night, I am ready to do. I only wish we had 
plenty more of such well broughten up, excellent 
housekeepers as you be, and such rail right down 
hand-” 

“ Now, don’t talk nonsense,” she said, “ or I am 
done. But just tell me, that’s a good soul, is that 
story of yours about Luke Loon true, or were you 
only romancing ? Is it a bam or a fact ? ” 

“ Fact, miss, and no mistake. Do you think, now, 
I would go for to deceive you that way ? No, not 
for the world. It’s as true as I am here.” 

“Well, it’s a very odd story, then,” said Miss 
Lucy—“ the oddest story I ever heard in all my life. 
What a wretch that woman must have been ! And 
poor Luke, what became of him ? ” 

“ O, don’t ask me,” replied Stephen, with a serious 
air—“don’t ask me that; anything else but that.” 

“ Ah, do ! ” 

“I’d rather not, excuse me, miss.” 

“ Did he die of a broken heart ? ” 

“Worse than that.” 

“ Did he make ’way with himself ? ” 

“Worse than that.” 

“Get desperate, do something awful, and get 
hanged for it ? ” 

“ Worse than that.” 

“ O my ! didn’t you say just now you’d do any¬ 
thing for me—O ! you false man ! And now you 
have raised my curiosity so, I actilly can’t go to 
sleep till I hear it. Do you know the story, Mr. 
Barclay ? ” 









A Chase for a IVife. 


481 


“ No; if I did, I would tell it to you with pleasure.” 

“ Do you, sir?” applying to the commissary. 

“ No, I never heard it.” 

“ Is there no one knows it ? O, how stupid of 
you, Mr. Stephen, to tease a body so ! You might, 
now- Come, that’s a dear man, do tell me ! ” 

“ My dear friend,” said Stephen, with a sad and 
melancholy air, “ it’s a dismal, shocking story ; and 
I can’t bear to think of it, much less to talk of it. 
You won’t sleep to-night, if I tell it to you, neither 
shall I : and I know you will wish I had let it alone. 
It was an untimely thing.” 

“What ? ” 

“ The end of poor Luke ! ” 

“ Then he is dead—is he ? ” 

“ I didn’t say he was dead.” 

“Ah, Mr. Stephen,” she said, “ don’t tease, now, 
that’s a good man ! ” and she rose up, and stood be¬ 
hind his chair, and patted his cheek with her hand 
coaxingly. “ I’ll do anything in the world for you, 
if you will tell me that story.” 

“Well,” said Stephen, “ I give in; if I must, I 
suppose I must; but mind, I warned you before¬ 
hand ! ” 

And then, looking round, and taking up an empty 
decanter, as if to help himself to some brandy and 
water before he began, he affected surprise at there 
being nothing in it, and, handing it to the young 
hostess, said— 

“ I must have the matter of half-a-pint of mahog- 
ony to get through that dismal affair.” 

“ Certainly, certainly ; anything you please ! ” said 
Miss Lucy, who immediately proceeded to the bar, 
situated in the other part of the house, to procure it. 

As soon as she left the room, Stephen looked up 
and laughed, saying— 

“ Didn’t I manage that well ? They are very strict 
people here about hours, and nothing in the world 
will tempt them to open the bar after twelve at night. 
That is one of the rules she never breaks, she says ; 
but I told her I’d make her do it, and I have suc¬ 
ceeded unbeknown to her. I never saw it fail yet : 
pique a woman’s curiosity, and she’ll unlock her 
door, her purse, her heart, or anything, for you. 
They can’t stand it. In fact, it ain’t a bad story, 
but it’s too long to get through without moistening 
one’s lips.—Ah, miss, there is no resisting you ! ” he 
continued, as the young lady returned. 

“No resisting the brandy and water, you mean ! ” 
retorted Miss Lucy. “ I believe, in my soul, you 
did it a purpose to make me break rules; but, come, 
begin now.” 

“ Well, here’s my service to you, miss, and your 
very good health ! Now, poor Luke Loon, arter his 
wife gin him the dodge (like all other water fowl when 
they are scared out of one harbor light in another), 
made for Snug Cove in Micmac Bay, where there is 
a’most a grand mackerel fishery. At the head of 
the cove there lived one old Marm Bowers, a widow 
woman, with whom Luke went to board. Poor crit- 


tur ! he was very dull and downhearted, for he was 
raily wery fond of the gal: and, besides, when a 
man is desarted that way, it’s a kind of slight put on 
him that nobody likes-” 

“ I guess not,” said Miss Lucy ; “ but he was well 
rid of that horrid wretch.” 

“ People kind of look at him and whisper, and say, 
‘That’s Luke Loon—him that big Tom Bullock cut 
out ! ’ And then sarcy people are apt to throw such 
misfortunes into a man’s face. It ain’t pleasant, I 
don’t suppose. Well, Luke said nothing to any¬ 
body, minded his own business, and was getting on 
well, and laying by money hand over hand, for he 
was a great fisherman, and understood the Yankee 
mode of feeding and enticing mackerel. Everybody 
liked him, and Mother Bowers pitied him, and was 
very kind to him. The old woman had three daugh¬ 
ters ; two on them were nothing to brag on, but the 
other—that is, the youngest—was a doll. O, she 
was a little beauty, you may depend ! She was gen¬ 
erally allowed to be the handsomest gal out of sight 
on the whole coast, far and near, by high and low, 
black or white, rich or poor. But that warn’t all; 
perhaps, there never was one that was so active on 
her pins as she was. She could put her hands on the 
highest fence (that is, anything she could reach), 
and go sideways over it like anything ; or step back 
a few paces, hold up her little petticoats to her knees, 
and clear it like a bird. Stumps, gates, brooks, hil¬ 
locks, nor hollows, never stopped her. She scarcely 
seemed to touch the ground, she was so light of foot. 
When she was a half-grown gal, she used to run 
young men across the field as the crow flies for a 
dollar or a pound of tea agin a kiss, and she kept up 
the practice after she had grown up a young woman ; 
but she raised her price to two dollars, so as not to 
be challenged too often. Many a young man, in 
follering her over a fence, has fell, and sprained his 
ankle, or put his shoulder out, or nearly broke his 
neck ; while she was never known to trip, or to be 
caught and kissed by no one.” 

“Well, well,” said Miss Lucy, “what carryings 
on ! What broughtens up ! What next, I wonder ! ” 

“ Well, Luke, though he warn’t so large, or so tall, 
bony, and strong as Tom Bullock, was a withy, 
wiry, active man—few like him anywhere ; wrest¬ 
ling, running, rowing, jumping, or shinning up rig¬ 
ging , and he thought he’d have a trial with Sally 
Bowers, for a kiss or a forfeit.” 

“ He seems to have got over his troubles very easy, 
I think,” said Miss Lucy, “ to begin racing so soon 
with that forward sarcy gal. Don’t you think so ? ” 

“Tell you what, miss,” he replied, “man was 
never made to live alone, as is shown by his being 
able to talk, which no other animal is, and that is a 
proof he must have a woman to talk to. A man’s 
heart is a cage for love ; and, if one love gives him 
the dodge, there’s the cage, and the perch, and the 
bars, and the water-glass, all so lonely and desolate, 
he must get another love and put into it. And, 









482 


Treasury 

therefore it was natural for Luke to feel all-over-like 
when he looked upon such a little fairy as Sally.” 

“ Pooh ! ” said Miss Lucy. “ Go on ! ” 

‘•‘So,’ says he, ‘mother,’ says he, ‘here’s the 
money : I should like to run Sally; I kind of con- 
sait I can go it as fast as she can, although she is a 
clinker-built craft.’ 

“‘Nonsense, Luke,’ she said ; ‘you are no touch 
to a fore-and-after like Sally. Don’t be foolish ; I 
don’t want your money. Here, take it! You have 
lost enough already, poor fellow, without losing your 
money ! ’ 

“ That kind of grigged Luke, for no one likes to 
have mishaps cast up that way, even in pity. 

“ ‘ What will you bet I don’t catch her ? ’ says 
he. 

“ ‘ I’ll bet you a pound,’ said she. ‘ No, I won’t, 
either, ’cause it’s only a robbing of you ; but, Sally 
shall give you a chance, at any rate, if it’s only to 
take the consait out of you.’ 

“ So she called in her darter. 

“ ‘ Sally,’ says she, ‘ Luke is teasing me to let him 
run a race of kiss or forfeit with you.’ 

“ ‘ Who—you ? ’ said she. 

“ ‘ Yes, me ! ’ said Luke. 

“ ‘ Why, you don’t mean to say you have the vanity 
to run me, do you ? ’ 

“ ‘ I do, though.’ 

“ She made a spring right up an eend, till her 
head touched the ceiling a’most, came down with 
one foot out a good piece afore the other, and one 
arm akimbo ; then, stooping forward, and pointing 
with the other close into his face— 

“‘You!’ she said—‘you! Well, if that don’t 
pass ! I wonder who will challenge me next! Why, 
man alive, I could jump over your head so high you 
couldn’t touch my foot! But, here’s at you, at any 
rate. I’ll go and shoe, and wjil/gobn make you look 
foolish, I know.’ 

“ Well, she took the twenty*.yards’ start which she 
always had, and off they sot, and she beat him all 
holler, and would haul up now and then, turn round, 
and step backward, with short, quick, light steps, 
a-tiptoe, and beckon him with her hand, and say, 
‘ Don’t you hope you may ketch me ? Do I swim 
too fast for you, my young blowing porpoise ? ’ And 
then point her finger at him, and laugh like any¬ 
thing, and round agin, and off like the wind, and 
over a fence like a greyhound. Luke never said a 
word, but kept steadily on, so as to save his wind 
(for it warn’t the first time he*had run foot-races) ; 
and at last he began to gain on her by main strength, 
ziway she flew, when she found that, over stump 
land, wild pasture, windfalls, and everything, turned 
at the goal-tree, and pulled foot for home for dear 
life. Luke reached the tree soon after, and then 
came the tug of the race ; but he had the endurance 
and the wind, and overhauled her as she ascended 
the hill behind the house, and caught her just as she 
was falling. She was regularly beat out, and panted 


of Tales. 

like a hare, and lay in his arms, with her head on 
his shoulder and her eyes shut, almost insensible. 

“ ‘ Sally, dear ! ’ said he ; and he kissed her, but 
she didn’t speak. 

“ ‘ Dear Sally ! Oh, what shall I do ? ’ and he 
kissed her again and again. 

“ ‘ Speak, for Heaven’s sake, dear, or you will 
break my heart! Oh, what an unfortunate man I 
be !’ 

“ At last she kind of woke up. 

“ ‘ Luke,’ said she, ‘ don’t tell mother that you 
caught me, that’s a good soul ! There, now ! ’— 
and she put her arms round his neck and kissed 
him—‘there, now, is your forfeit! I’ve come to, 
now ; let me go : and do you follow, but don’t push 
me too hard, for I’m fairly blown,’ and she took 
over the hill, and he after her at a considerable dis¬ 
tance. 

“ When they got back, said old Mother Bowers— 

“ ‘ Didn’t I tell you so, Luke ! I knowed you 
couldn’t do it: no man ever did it yet! I hope 
ybu feel easier, now your comb is cut. Here’s youf 
forfeit, I don’t want it! But this I will say, you 
have made a great run for it, at any rate—the best 
I ever see any one make yet! ’ 

“ ‘ Who ? ’ said Sally. ‘ Do you mean him ? ’ and 
she sprung up as before, and, coming down the same 
way on her feet, and pointing at him with her fin¬ 
gers, jeering like, said, ‘ Who ?—him !—him !—why 
the clumsy lumokin feller don’t know how even to 
begin to run ! I hope you feel better, sir ? ’ 

“‘Well, I do,’ said Luke, ‘that’s a fact; and I 
should like to run you again, for I have an idea 
next time I could catch you in rail airnest! ’ 

“ ‘ You do, do you ? ’ said she ; ‘ then your “ like ” 
is all you are likely to get, for I never run any one 
twice.’ ” 

“ O my ! ” said Miss Lucy, “what an artful, false 
girl ! Well, I never ! But is that all ? is that what 
you call such a dismal story ? ” 

“ Oh, I wish it was,” said Stephen. “ The other 
is the end, but this is the beginning. I’ll tell you 
the next to-morrow ; it’s getting late now. Don’t 
press me, my little rosebud ; it’s really too sad.” 

“Ah, now, you promised me,” she replied, “and 
it’s so different from anything I ever heard before ! 
Ah, do, that’s a good man ! ” 

“ It’s too long a story, it will take all night.” 

“ I don’t care if it does take all night, I want to 
hear the end of it ! ” 

“ Well, then, I am afraid I must trouble jou again, 
miss,” handing her the empty decanter, ^tfor I’ve 
drank it all before I’ve got to the part that touches 
the heart! ” 

“Ah, Mr. Stephen,” she replied, “I’ll^get it for 
you, though I know you are making ga^ie of me all 
the time ; but if you are, I’ll be upsides with you 
some of these days, see if I don’t!—What an awful 
man to drink you are ! ” she said, as she returned 
with the liquor. “ Here it is : now go on.” 







483 


A Chase for a Wife. 


“ Well, arter the race, Luke felt a kind of affection 
for the young gal, and she for him. And he pro¬ 
posed to the old woman to marry her, but she 
wouldn’t hear to it at no rate. Women don’t much 
care to have a jilted man that way for their darters ; 
cast-off things ain’t like new, and second-hand arti¬ 
cles ain’t prized in a general way ; and besides, the 
old lady was kind of proud of her girl, and thought 
she might make a better match than taking up with 
the likes of him. At last winter came, and things 
were going on in this dissatisfactory kind of way, 
when a thought struck Luke. Sally was a’most a 
beautiful skater. She could go the outside edge, 
cut circles one inside the other, write her name, 
and figures of the year, and execute all sorts of 
things on the ice with her skates ; and Luke proposed 
to run her that way for marriage, or twenty pounds 
forfeit if he didn’t catch her. It was a long time 
before the old woman would consent; but at last, 
seeing that Sally had beat him so easy afoot, she 
knowed, in course, she could outskate him on the ice 
like nothing ; and, therefore, she gave in, on condi¬ 
tion that Luke, if he was beat, should clear out and 
leave the Cove , and, as he couldn’t get no better 
terms, he agreed to it, and the day was fixed and 
arrangements made for the race, and the folks came 
from far and near to see it. Some backed Sally and 
bet on her, and some backed Luke and betted on 
him, but most people wished him to win ; and there 
never was, perhaps, a horse-race, or foot-race, or 
boat-race, or anything excited and interested folks 
like this ‘ Race for a Wife.’ 

“ The Cove was all froze over with beautiful glassy 
ice, and the day was fine and the company assem¬ 
bled, and out came the two racers. Sally was dressed 
in long cloth pantalets, only covered by her skirt as 
far as the knees, so as to admit of a free use of her 
limbs, and a close-fitting body with narrow sleeves, 
and wore a black fur cap on her head. Luke had 
on a pair of seamen’s trousers, belted tight round 
the waist, and a loose striped Guernsey shirt, open 
at the neck, and a knowing little seal-skin cap, worn 
jauntingly a one side. It ain’t often you see such a 
handsome couple, I can tell you. Before Sally left 
the house, her mother called her a one side, and 
said— 

“ ‘ Sally, dear, do your best, now, that’s a good 
gal; if you get beat, people will say you let him do 
it a purpose, and that ain’t womanly. If such a thing 
was to be that you had to marry him, marry him 
conquering and not beaten. It’s a good thing to 
tea<5h a man that the gray mare is the better horse. 
Take the conceit out of him, dear ! ’ 

“ ‘ Never fear, mother,’ said she ; ‘ I’ll lead him a 
dance that goes so fast he won’t know the tune he is 
keeping step to, I know.’ 

“ Well, they walked hand in hand down to the 
Cove, and the folks cheered them again and again 
when they arrived on the ice. After fitting on their 
skates, they slowly skimmed about the Cove, show¬ 


ing off, cutting all sorts of feats, shines, evolutions, 
and didoes, and what not ; when they come together 
again, tightened their straps, shook hands, and took 
their places, twenty yards apart, and, at the sound of 
a conch-shell, off they started, like two streaks of 
lightning. Perhaps it was the most splendid thing 
ever seen in this country. Sally played him off 
beautifully, and would let him all but catch her, then 
stop short, double on him, and leave him ever so far 
behind. Once she ran right round him, so near as 
to be able to lay her little balance-stick across his 
shoulders, whack with all her might. O, what a 
laugh it raised, and what shouts of applause, every 
cutting off or heading of his received, or sudden 
pull up, sharp turn, or knowing dodge of hern, was 
welcomed with ! It was great sport.” 

“ Sport, indeed ! ” said Miss Lucy. “ I never 
heard anything so degrading ; I couldn’t have be¬ 
lieved it possible that a woman would make a show 
of herself that way before men, and in such an onde- 
cent dress, too ! ” 

“ The Cove fairly rung with merriment. At last 
the hour for the race was drawing near its close (for 
it was agreed it should only last an hour), and she 
began to lead him off as far as possible, so as to 
double on him, and make a dash for the shore, and 
was saving her breath and strength for the last rush, 
when, unfortunately, she got unawares into what 
they call blistered ice (that is, a kind of rough and 
oneven freezing of the surface), tripped, and fell 
at full length on her face ; and, as Luke was in full 
pursuit, he couldn’t stop himself in time, and fell 
also right over her. 

“‘ She is mine ! ’ said he ; ‘I have her ! Hurrah, 

I have won !’ ” 

“ O yes ! ” said L’ucy, “ it’s very easy to win when ' 
it’s all arranged beforehand. Do you pretend to tell 
me, after the race in the field, that that wasn’t done 
on purpose ? I don’t think I ever heard tell of a 
more false, bold, artful woman ! ” 

“Oh,” continued Mr. Stephen, “what a cheer of 
praise and triumph that caused ! It rang over the 
ice, and was echoed back by the woods, and was so 
loud and clear you might have heard it clean away 
out to sea, as far as the light-house a’most! ” 

“And this is your dismal story, is it?” said the 
young hostess, with an air of disappointment. 

“ Such a waving of hats and throwing up of fur 
caps, was never seen ; and when people had done 
cheering, and got their heads straight again, and 

looked for the racers, they was gone-” 

“ Gone ! ” said Lucy. “ Where ? ” 

“To heaven, I hope ! ” said Stephen. 

“ Why, you don’t mean to say they were lost, do 
you ? ” 

« Yes, I do ! ” 

“ Drowned ? ” 

“Yes, drowned.” 

“ What, both of them ? ” 

“Yes, both of them.” 


2 





4S4 


Treasury of Tales. 


“What, did they go through the ice? ” 

“ Yes, through the ice. It was an air-hole where 
they fell! ” 

“ O my, how awful! ” 

“ I told you so, miss,” said Stephen, “ but you 
wouldn’t believe me. It was awful, that’s a fact ! ” 

“ Dear me ! ” ejaculated Lucy. “ Only think of 
poor Luke ; he was a misfortunate man, sartainly! 
Were they ever found ? ” 

“Yes, when the ice broke up, the next eastwardly 
gale, they floated ashore, tightly clasped in each 
other’s arms, and were buried in one grave and in 
one coffin. It was the largest funeral ever seen in 
them parts ; all the fishermen from far and near at¬ 
tended, with their wives and darters, marching two 
and two ; the men all dressed in their blue trousers 
and check shirts, and the women in their gray home- 
spun and white aprons. There was hardly a dry 
eye among the whole of them. It was a most affect¬ 
ing scene. 

“ When the service was over, the people subscribed 
a handsome sum on the spot, and had a monument 
put up there. It stands on the right hand of the 
gate as you go into the church-yard at Snug Harbor. 
The school-master cut their names and ages on the 
stone, and also this beautiful inscription, or epitaph, 
or whatever it is called— 

“ ‘ This loving pair went out to skate, 

Broke through the ice and met their fate, 

And now lie buried near this gate ; 

Year, eighteen hundred twenty-eight.’” 

“ Dear me, how very awful ! ” said Miss Lucy. 
“ I don’t think I shall sleep to-night for thinking of 
them ; and, if I do, I know I shall dream of them. 
Still, it’s a pretty story, after all. It’s out of the 
common way, like. What a strange history Luke’s 
is ! First, losing his wife by the fishery-law, then a 
race on foot for the tea or a forfeit, and at last, skat¬ 
ing for a wedding or a grave ! It’s quite a romance 
in real life, isn’t it? But, dear me, it’s one o’clock 
in the morning, as I’m alive ! Mr. Barclay, if you 
will see to the fire, please, before you go to bed, that 
it’s all made safe (for we are great cowards about 
fire here), I believe I will bid you all good¬ 
night.” 

“ It ain’t quite finished yet,” said Stephen. “ There 
was another young lady.” 

“ Who ? ” said Miss Lucy. 

“ A far handsomer and far more sensible gal 
than Sally, one of the best broughten up in the 
whole country, and one that would be a fortin 
to a man that was lucky enough to get her for a 
wife.” 

“ Who was she, and where did she live ? ” inquired 
Lucy, who put down her candle, and awaited the 
reply. 

“To home with her own folks,” said Stephen; 
“ and an excellent, and comfortable, and happy 
home she made it, too. It’s a pity Luke’s wife 


hadn’t seen her to take pattern by her; though 
Luke’s wife warn’t fit to hold a candle to her. 
They hadn’t ought to be mentioned in the same 
day. Nobody that ever see her that didn’t love 
her—old or young, gentle or simple, married or 
single.” 

“ She was no great shakes, then,” said the young 
hostess. “ She must have been a great flirt, if that 
was the case.” 

“ Well, she warn’t, then ; she was as modest, and 
honest, and well-conducted a gal as you ever laid 
your eyes on. I only wish my son, who is to man’s 
estate now, had her, for I should be proud of her 
as a darter-in-law ; and would give them a farm, 
and stock it with a complete fit-out of every¬ 
thing.” 

“ If he’s like his father,” said Lucy, “ may be he’d 
be a hard bargain for all that. Who is your sampler 
that’s set off with such colors, and wants the word 
‘ Richardson ’ worked on it ? ” 

“ But then she has one fault,” continued Stephen. 

“ What’s that ? Perhaps she’s ill-tempered, for 
many beauties are so.” 

“ No, as sweet-tempered a gal as ever you see. 
Guess agin.” 

“ Won’t take your son, may be ? ” 

“ No ; she never seed him, I don’t think ; for, if 
she did, it’s my notion her heart would beat like a 
town-clock ; so loud you could hear it ever so far. 
Guess agin.” 

“ Oh ! I can’t guess if I was to try till to-mor¬ 
row, for I never was a good hand at finding out rid¬ 
dles. What is it ? ” 

“ She is a leetle, jist a leetle, too consaited, and is 
as inquisi/zw as old Marm Eve herself. She says 
she has rules that can’t never be bended nor broken, 
on no account; but yet her curiosity is so great, she 
will break the best regulation she has ; and that is, 
not to open the bar arter twelve o’clock at night 
more than once the same evening to hear a good 
story.” 

“ Ah, now, Mr. Stephen,” said the young lady, 
“ that’s a great shame ! Only to think I should be 
such a goose as to be took in so, and to stand here 
and listen to all that nonsense ! And then being 
made such a goose of to my face, is all the thanks I 
get for my pains of trying to please the like of you ! 
Well I never ! I’ll be even with you yet for that, 
see if I don’t! Good-night.” 

“ One word more, please, miss. Keep to your 
rules, they are all capital ones, and I was only 
joking; but I must add this little short one to 
them. Circumstances alters cases. Good-night, 
dear,” and he got up and opened the door for 
her, and whispered in her ear, “ I am in earnest 
about my son : I am, upon my soul ! I’ll send 
him to see you. Don’t be scorney, now, that’s a 
darling ! ” 

“ Do get away,” she replied, “ and don’t tease me ! 
Gentlemen, I wish you all good-night! ” 




The Knightsbridge Mystery. 


4S5 


THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 

BY CHARLES READE. 

I. 

N Charles the Second’s day the “ Swan ” was 
denounced by the dramatists as a house where 
unfaithful wives and mistresses met their gal¬ 
lants. 

But in the next century, when John Clarke was 
the Freeholder, no special imputation of that sort 
rested on it; it was a country inn with large stables, 
horsed the Brentford coach, and entertained man 
and beast on journeys long or short. It had also 
permanent visitors, especially in summer ; for it was 
near London, and yet a rural retreat; meadows on 
each side, Hyde Park at back, Knightsbridge Green 
in front. 

Among the permanent lodgers was Mr. Gardiner, 
a substantial man ; and Captain Cowen, a retired 
officer of moderate means, had lately taken two 
rooms for himself and his son. Mr. Gardiner often 
joined the company in the public room, but the 
Cowens kept to themselves upstairs. 

This was soon noticed and resented, in that age of 
few books and free converse. Some said, “ Oh, we 
are not good enough for him ! ” others inquired what 
a half-pay Captain had to give himself airs about. 
Candor interposed and supplied the climax : “ Nay, 
my masters, the Captain may be in hiding from 
duns, or from the runners : now I think on’t, the 
York mail was robbed scarce a s’ennight before his 
Worship came a hiding here.” 

But the landlady’s tongue ran the other way. Her 
weight was sixteen stone, her sentiments were her 
interests, and her tongue her tomahawk. “ ’Tis pity,” 
said she, one day, “ some folk can’t keep their tongues 
from blackening of their betters. The Captain is a 
civil spoken gentleman—Lord send there were more 
of them in these parts !—as takes his hat off to me 
whenever he meets me, and pays his reckoning 
weekly. If he has a mind to be private, what busi¬ 
ness is that of yours, or yours ? But curs must bark 
at their betters.” 

Detraction, thus roughly quelled for certain 
seconds, revived at intervals whenever Dame Cust’s 
broad back was turned. It was mildly encountered 
one evening by Gardiner. “ Nay, good sirs,” said he, 
“you mistake the worthy Captain. To have fought 
at Blenheim and Malplaquet, no man*hath less 
vanity. ’Tis for his s<?n he holds aloof. He guards 
the youth like a mother, and will not have him to 
hear our tap-room jests. He worships the boy—a 
sullen lout, sirs ; but paternal love is blind. He told 
me once he had loved his wife dearly, and lost her 
young, and this was all he had of her. ‘And,’ said 
he, ‘ I’d spill blood like water for him, my own the 
first.’ ‘ Then, sir,’ says I, ‘ I fear he will give you a 
sore heart, one day.’ ‘And welcome,’ says my Cap¬ 
tain, and his face like iron.” 

Somebody remarked that no man keeps out of 


company who is good company ; but Mr. Gardiner 
parried that dogma. “ When young master is abed, 
my neighbor does sometimes invite me to share a 
bottle ; and a sprightlier companion I would not de¬ 
sire. Such stories of battles, and duels, and love 
intrigues! ” 

“ Now there’s an old fox for you,” said one, ap¬ 
provingly. It reconciled him to the Captain’s decency 
to find that it was only hypocrisy. 

“ I like not—a man—who wears—a mask,” hic¬ 
coughed a hitherto silent personage, revealing his 
clandestine drunkenness and unsuspected wisdom at 
one blow. 

These various theories were still fermenting in the 
bosom of the “ Swan,” when one day there rode up 
to the door a gorgeous officer, hot from the minister’s 
levee, in scarlet and gold, with an order like a star¬ 
fish glittering on his breast. His servant, a private 
soldier, rode behind him, and, slipping hastily from 
his saddle, held his master’s horse while he dis¬ 
mounted. Just then Captain Cowen came out for 
his afternoon walk. He started, and cried out, 
“ Colonel Barrington ! ” 

“ Ay, brother,” cried the other, and instantly the 
two officers embraced, and even kissed each other, 
for that feminine custom had not yet retired across 
the Channel; and these were soldiers who had fought 
and bled side by side, and nursed each other in turn; 
and your true soldier does not nurse by halves; his 
vigilance and tenderness are an example to women, 
and he rustleth not. 

Captain Cowen invited Colonel Barrington to his 
room, and that warrior marched down the passage 
after him, single file, with long brass spurs and sabre 
clinking at his heels ; and the establishment ducked 
and smiled, and respected Captain Cowen for the 
reason we admire the moon. 

Seated in Cowen’s room, the new-comer said, 
heartily : “ Well, Ned, I come not empty-handed. 
Here is thy pension at last; ” and handed him a 
parchment with a seal like a poached egg. 

Cowen changed color, and thanked him with an 
emotion he rarely betrayed, and gloated over the 
precious document. His cast-iron features relaxed, 
and he said : “ It comes in the nick of time, for now 
I can send my dear Jack to College.” 

This led somehow to an exposure of his affairs. 
He had just a year, derived from the sale of 

his commission, which he had invested, at fifteen per 
cent., with a well-known mercantile house in the City; 
“ So now,” said he, “ I shall divide it all in three ; 
Jack will want two parts to live at Oxford, and I can 
do well enough here on one.” The rest of the con¬ 
versation does not matter, so I dismiss it and Colonel 
Barrington for the time. A few days afterward Jack 
went to College, and Captain Cowen reduced his 
expenses, and dined at the shilling ordinary, and in¬ 
deed took all his moderate repasts in public. 

Instead of the severe and reserved character he 
had worn while his son was with him, he now shone 




486 


Treasury of Tales. 


out a boon companion, and sometimes kept the table 
in a roar with his marvellous mimicries of all the 
characters, male or female, that lived in the inn or 
frequented it, and sometimes held them breathless 
with adventures, dangers, intrigues, in which a lead¬ 
ing part had been played by himself or his friends. 

He became quite a popular character, except with 
one or two envious bodies, whom he eclipsed ; they 
revenged themselves by saying it was all braggado¬ 
cio : his battles had been fought over a bottle and by 
the fireside. 

The district east and west of Knightsbridge had 
long been infested with footpads ; they robbed pas¬ 
sengers in the country lanes, which then abounded, 
and sometimes on the King’s highway, from which 
those lanes offered an easy escape. 

One moonlight night Captain Cowen was return¬ 
ing home alone from an entertainment at Fulham, 
when suddenly the air seemed to fill with a woman’s 
screams and cries. They issued from a lane on his 
right hand. He whipped out his sword and dashed 
down the lane. It took a sudden turn, and in a mo¬ 
ment he came upon three footpads, robbing and 
maltreating an old gentleman and his wife. The old 
man’s sword lay at a distance, struck from his feeble 
hand ; the woman’s tongue proved the better weapon, 
for at least it brought an ally. 

The nearest robber, seeing the Captain come at 
him with his drawn sword glittering in the moonshine, 
fired hastily, and grazed his cheek, and was skewered 
like a frog the next moment; his cry of agony 
mingled with two shouts of dismay, and the other 
footpads fled ; but, even as they turned, Captain 
Cowen’s nimble blade entered the shoulder of one, 
and pierced the fleshy part. He escaped, however, 
but howling and bleeding. 

Captain Cowen handed over the lady and gentle¬ 
man to the people who flocked to the place, now the 
work was done, and the disabled robber to the guar¬ 
dians of the public peace, who arrived last of all. 
He himself withdrew apart and wiped his sword 
very carefully and minutely with a white pocket- 
handkerchief, and then retired. 

He was so far from parading his exploit that he 
went round by the park and let himself into the 
“Swan” with his private key, and was going quietly 
to bed, when the chamber-maid met him, and up 
flew her arms, with cries of dismay. “ Oh, Captain ! 
Captain ! Look at you—smothered in blood ! I shall 
faint.” 

“Tush ! Silly wench ! ” said Captain Cowen. “I 
am not hurt.” 

“ Not hurt, sir ? And bleeding like a pig ! Your 
cheek—your poor cheek ! ” 

Captain Cowen put up his hand, and found that 
blood was really welling from his cheek and ear. 

He looked grave fqr a moment, then assured her 
it was but a scratch, and offered to convince her of 
that. “ Bring me some lukewarm water, and thou shalt 
be my doctor. But, Barbara, prithee publish it not.’ 


Next morning an officer of justice inquired after 
him at the “ Swan,” and demanded his attendance at 
Bow Street, at two that afternoon, to give evidence 
against the footpads. This was the very thing he 
wished to avoid ; but there was no evading the sum¬ 
mons. 

The officer was invited into the bar by the land¬ 
lady, and sang the gallant Captain’s exploit, with his 
own variations. The inn began to ring with Cow¬ 
en’s praises. Indeed, there was now but one de¬ 
tractor left—the hostler, Daniel Cox, a drunken fellow 
of sinister aspect, who had for some time stared and 
lowered at Captain Cowen, and muttered mysterious 
things, doubts as to his being a real Captain, etc., 
etc. Which incoherent murmurs of a muddle-headed 
drunkard were not treated as oracular by any 
human creature, though the stable-boy once went so 
far as to say, “ I sometimes almost thinks as how our 
Dan do know summut ; only he don’t rightly know 
what ’tis, along o’ being always muddled in liquor.” 

Cowen, who seemed to notice little, but noticed 
everything, had observed the lowering looks of this 
fellow, and felt he had an enemy : it even made him 
a little uneasy, though he was too proud and self- 
possessed to show it. 

With this exception, then, everybody greeted him 
with hearty compliments, and he was cheered out of 
the inn, marching to Bow Street. 

Daniel Cox, who—as accidents will happen—was 
sober that morning, saw him out and then put on his 
own coat. 

“ Take thou charge of the stable, Sam,” said he. 

“ Why, where be’st going, at this time o’ day ? ” 

“ I be going to Bow Street,” said Daniel, dog¬ 
gedly. 

At Bow Street Captain Cowen was received with 
great respect and a seat given him by the sitting 
magistrate while some minor cases were disposed 
of. 

In due course the highway robbery was called 
and proved by the parties, who, unluckily for the ac¬ 
cused, had been actually robbed before Cowen inter¬ 
fered. 

Then the oath was tendered to Cowen : he stood 
up by the magistrate’s side and deposed, with mili¬ 
tary brevity and exactness, to the facts I have re¬ 
lated, but refused to swear to the identity of the 
individual culprit, who stood pale and trembling at 
the dock ., 

The attorney for the Crowif, after pressing in vain, 
said, “ Quite right, Captain Cowen ; a witness can¬ 
not be too scrupulous.” 

He then called an officer who had found the rob¬ 
ber leaning against a railing fainting from loss of 
blood, scarce a furlong from the scene of the rob¬ 
bery, and wounded in the shoulder. That let in 
Captain Cowen’s evidence, and the culprit was com¬ 
mitted for trial, and soon after peached upon his 
only comrade at large. The other lay in the hospi¬ 
tal at Newgate. 




487 


The Knightsbridge Mystery. 


The magistrate complimented Captain Cowen on 
his conduct and his evidence, and he went away uni¬ 
versally admired. Yet he was not elated, nor indeed 
content. Sitting by the magistrate’s side, after he 
had given his evidence, he happened to look all 
around the Court, and in a distant corner he saw the 
enormous mottled nose and sinister eyes of Daniel 
Cox glaring at 'him with a strange but puzzled ex¬ 
pression. 

Cowen had learned to read faces, and he said to 
himself: “ What is there in that ruffian’s mind 

about me ? Did he know me years ago ? I cannot 
remember him. Curse the beast—one would almost 
—think—he is cudgelling his drunken memory. I’ll 
keep an eye on you." 

He went home thoughtful and discomposed, be¬ 
cause this drunkard glowered at him so. The recep¬ 
tion he met with at the “ Swan ” effaced the impres¬ 
sion. He was received with acclamations, and now 
that publicity was forced on him, he accepted it, 
and revelled in popularity. 

About this time he received a letter from his son, 
inclosing a notice from the College tutor, speaking 
highly of his ability, good conduct, devotion to study. 

This made the father swell with loving pride. 

Jack hinted modestly that there were unavoidable 
expenses, and. his funds were dwindling. He in¬ 
closed an account that showed how the money went. 

The father wrote back and bade him be easy ; he 
should have every farthing required, and speedily, 
“For,” said he, “my half-year’s interest is due 
now.” 

Two days after, he had a letter from his man of 
business begging him to call. He went with alacrity, 
making sure his money was waiting for him, as 
usual. 

His lawyer received him very gravely, and begged 
him to be seated. He then broke to him some ap¬ 
palling news. The great house of Brown, Moiyneux 
& Co. had suspended payments at noon the day be¬ 
fore, and were not expected to pay a shilling in the 
pound. Captain Cowen’s little fortune was gone, all 
but his pension of jg&o a year. 

He sat like a man turned to stone. Then he 
clasped his hands with agony, and uttered two words, 
no more—“ My son ! ” 

He rose and left the place like one in a dream. 
He got down to Knightsbridge, he hardly knew 
how. At the very door of the inn he fell down in a 
fit. The people of the inn were round him in a 
moment, and restoratives freely supplied. His sturdy 
nature soon revived, but, with the moral and physi¬ 
cal shock, his lips were slightly distorted over his 
clinched teeth. His face, too, was ashy pale. 

When he came to himself, the first face he noticed 
was that of Daniel Cox, eying him, not with pity, but 
with puzzled curiosity. Cowen shuddered and closed 
his own eyes to avoid this blighting glare. Then, 
without opening them, he muttered : “ What has be¬ 
fallen me ? I feel no wound.” 


“ Laws forbid, sir,” said the landlady, leaning over 
him. “Your honor did but swoon for once, to show 
you was born of a woman, and not made of naught 
but steel. Here, you gaping loons and sluts, help 
the Captain to his room amongst ye, and then go 
about your business.” 

This order was promptly executed, so far as assist¬ 
ing Captain Cowen to rise ; but he was no sooner 
on his feet than he waved them all from him haugh¬ 
tily, and said : “ Let me be. It is the mind ; it is the 
mind ; ” and he smote his forehead in despair, for 
now it all came back on him. 

Then he rushed into the inn and locked himself 
into his room. Female curiosity buzzed about the 
doors, but was not admitted until he had recovered 
his fortitude, and formed a bitter resolution to de¬ 
fend himself and his son against all mankind. 

At last there came a timid tap, and a mellow voice 
said : “ It is only me, Captain. Prithee let me in.” 

He opened to her, and there was Barbara with a 
large tray and a snow-white cloth. She spread a 
table deftly, and uncovered a roast capon, and un¬ 
corked a bottle of white port, talking all the time. 
“ The mistress says you must eat a bit, and drink 
this good wine, for her sake. Indeed, sir, ’twill do 
you good after your swoon.” With many such en¬ 
couraging words, she got him to sit down and eat, 
and then filled his glass and put it to his lips. He 
could not eat much, but he drank the white port—a 
wine much prized, and purer than the purple vintage 
of our day. 

At last came Barbara’s post-diet. “ But, alack ! 
to think of your fainting dead away ! Oh, Captain, 
what is the trouble ? ” 

The tear was in Barbara’s eye, though she was the 
emissary of Dame Cust’s curiosity, and all curiosity 
herself. 

Captain Cowen, w r ho had been expecting this 
question for some time, replied, doggedly, “ I have 
lost the best friend I had in the world.” 

“ Dear heart! ” said Barbara, and a big tear of 
sympathy, that had been gathering ever since she 
entered the room, rolled down her cheeks. 

She put up a corner of her apron to her eyes. 
“ Alas, poor soul ! ” said she. “ Ay, I do know how 
hard it is to love and lose : but bethink you, sir, ’tis 
the lot of man. Our own turn must come. And 
you have your son left to thank God for, and a warm 
friend or two in this place, tho’f they be but hum¬ 
ble.” 

“ Ay, good wench,” said the soldier, his iron nat¬ 
ure touched for a moment by her goodness and sim¬ 
plicity, “and none I value more than thee. But 
leave me awhile.” 

The young woman’s honest cheeks reddened at 
the praise of such a man. “ Your will’s my pleasure, 
sir,” said she, and retired, leaving the capon and the 
wine. 

Any little compunction he might have at refusing 
his confidence to this humble friend did not trouble 




488 


Treasury of Tales. 


him long. He looked on women as leaky vessels ; 
and he had firmly resolved not to make his situation 
worse by telling the base world that he was poor. 
Many a hard rub had put a fine point on this man of 
steel. 

He glozed the matter, too, in his own mind. “ I 
told her no lie. I have lost my best friend, for I’ve 
lost my money.” 

From that day Captain Cowen visited the tap-room 
no more, and indeed seldom went out by daylight. 
He was all alone now, for Mr. Gardiner was gone to 
Wiltshire to collect his rents. In his solitary chamber 
Cowen ruminated his loss and the villainy of man¬ 
kind, and his busy brain resolved scheme after 
scheme to repair the impending ruin of his son’s 
prospects. It was there the iron entered his soul. 
The example of the very footpads he had baffled 
occurred to him in his more desperate moments, but 
he fought the temptation down : and in due course 
one of them was transported, and one hung ; the 
'other languished in Newgate. 

By-and-by he began to be mysteriously busy, 
and the door always locked. No clew was ever 
found to his labors but bits of melted wax in the 
fender and a tuft or two of gray hair, and it was 
never discovered in Knightsbridge that he often 
begged in the City at dusk, in a disguise so perfect 
that a frequenter of the “ Swan ” once gave him a 
groat. Thus did he levy his tax upon the stony 
place that had undone him. 

Instead of taking his afternoon walk as heretofore, 
he would sit disconsolate on the seat of a staircase 
window that looked into the yard, and so take the 
air and sun : and it was owing to this new habit he 
overheard, one day, a dialogue, in which the foggy 
voice of the hostler predominated at first. He was 
running down Captain Cowen to a pot-boy. The 
pot-boy stood up for him. That annoyed Cox. He 
spoke louder and louder the more he was opposed, 
till at last he bawled out: “ I tell ye I’ve seen him 

a-sitting by the judge, and I’ve seen him in the 
dock.” 

At these words Captain Cowen recoiled, though he 
was already out of sight, and his eye glittered like a 
basilisk’s. 

But immediately a new voice broke upon the 
scene, a woman’s. “ Thou foul-mouthed knave. Is 
it for thee to slander men of worship, and give the 
inn a bad name ? Remember I have but to lift my 
finger to hang thee, so drive me not to’t. Begone to 
thy horses this moment; thou art not fit to be among 
Christians. Begone, I say, or it shall be the worse 
fbr thee ; ” and she drove him across the yard, and 
followed him up with a current of invectives eloquent 
even at a distance, though the words were no longer 
distinct : and who should this be but the house-maid, 
Barbara Lamb, so gentle, mellow, and melodious be¬ 
fore the gentlefolk, and especially her hero, Captain 
Cowen ! 


As for Daniel Cox, he cowered, writhed, and wrig¬ 
gled away before her, and slipped into the stable. 

Captain Cowen was now soured by trouble, and 
this persistent enmity of that fellow roused at last a 
fixed and deadly hatred in his mind, all the more in¬ 
tense that fear mingled with it. 

He sounded Barbara ; asked her what nonsense 
that ruffian had been talking, and what he had done 
that she could hang him for. But Barbara would not 
say a malicious word against a fellow-servant in 
cold blood. “ I can keep a secret,” said she. “ If 
he keeps his tongue off you, I’ll Keep mine.” 

“ So be it,” said Cowen. “ Then I warn you I am 
sick of his insolence ; and drunkards must be taught 
not to make enemies of sober men nor fools of wise 
men.” He said this so bitterly that, to soothe him,, 
she begged him not trouble about the ravings of a 
sot. “ Dear heart,” said she, “ nobody heeds Dan 
Cox.” 

Some days afterward she told him that Dan had 
been drinking harder than ever, and wouldn’t troub¬ 
le honest folk long, for he had the delusions that 
go before a drunkard’s end : why, he had told the 
stable-boy he had seen a vision of himself climb oven 
the garden wall, and enter the house by the back 
door. “ The poor wretch says he knew himself by 
his bottle nose and his cow-skin waistcoat; and to be 
sure, there is no such nose in the parish, thank 
Heaven for’t, and not many such waistcoats.” She 
laughed heartily, but Cowen’s lip curled in a veno¬ 
mous sneer. He said : “ More likely ’twas the knave 
himself. Look to your spoons, if such a face as that 
walks by night.” Barbara turned grave directly. 
He eyed her askant, and saw the random shot had 
gone home. 

Captain Cowen now often slept in the City, alleg¬ 
ing business. 

Mr. Gardiner wrote from Salisbury, ordering his 
room to be ready and his sheets well aired. 

One afternoon he returned with a bag and a small 
valise, prodigiously heavy. He had a fire lighted, 
though it was a fine autumn, for he was chilled with 
his journey, and invited Captain Cowen to sup w T ith 
him. The latter consented, but begged it might be 
an early supper, as he must sleep in the City. 

“ I am sorry for that,” said Gardiner. “ I have a 
hundred and eighty guineas there in that bag, and a 
man could get into my room from yours.” 

“’Not if you lock the middle door,” said Cowen. 
“ But I can leave you the key of my outer door, for 
that matter.” 

This offer was accepted, but still Mr. Gardiner felt 
uneasy. There had been several robberies at inns, 
and it was a rainy, gusty night. He was depressed 
and ill at ease. Then Captain Cowen offered him 
his pistols, and helped him load them, two bullets in 
each. He also went and fetched him a bottle of the 
best port, and after drinking one glass with him, hur¬ 
ried away, and left his key with him for further 
security. 






The Knightsbridge Mystery. 


489 


Mr. Gardiner, .left to himself, made up a great fire 
and drank a glass or two of the wine ; it seemed 
remarkably heady, and raised his spirits. After all, 
it was only for one night; to-morrcw he would de¬ 
posit his gold in the bank. He began to unpack his 
things, and put his night-dress to the fire. But by- 
and-by he felt so drowsy that he did but take his 
coat off, put his pistols under the pillow, and lay 
down on the bed, and fell fast asleep. 

That night Barbara Lamb awoke tw r ice, thinking 
each time she heard doors open and shut on the floor 
below her. But it was a gusty night, and she con¬ 
cluded it was most likely the wind. Still a residue 
of uneasiness made her rise at five instead of six, 
and she lighted her tinder, and came down with a 
rush-light. She found Captain Cowen’s door wide 
open. It had .been locked w’hen she went to bed: 
That alarmed her greatly. She looked in. A glance 
was enough. She cried, “ Thieves ! thieves ! ” and 
in a moment uttered scream upon scream. 

In an incredibly short time pale and eager faces of 
men and women filled the passage. 

Cowen’s room, being open, was entered first. On 
the floor lay, what Barbara had seen at a glance, his 
portmanteau rifled, and the clothes scattered about. 
The door of communication w r as ajar ; they opened 
it, and an appalling sight met their eyes : Mr. Gar¬ 
diner was lying in a pool of blood, and moaning 
feebly. There was little hope of saving him. No 
human body could long survive such a loss of the 
vital fluid. But it so happened there was a country 
surgeon in the house ; he stanched the wounds— 
there were three—and somebody or other had the 
sense to beg the victim to make a statement. He 
was unable at first; but, under powerful stimulants, 
revived at last, and showed a strong wish to aid 
justice in avenging him. By this time they had got a 
magistrate to attend, and he put his ear to the dying 
man’s lips ; but others heard, so hushed was the 
room and so keen the awe and curiosity of each 
panting heart. 

“ I had gold in my portmanteau, and was afraid. 
I drank a bottle of wine with Captain Cowen, and 
he left me. He lent me his key and his pistols. I 
locked both doors. I felt very sleepy, and lay down. 
When I woke, a man was leaning over my portman¬ 
teau. His back was toward me. I took a pistol, and 
aimed steadily. It missed fire. The man turned 
and sprang on me. I had caught up a knife, one we 
had for supper. I stabbed him with all my force. 
He wrested it from me, and I felt piercing blows. 
I am slain. Ay, I am slain.” 

“ But the man, sir. Did you not see his face at 
all ? ” 

“ Not till he fell on me. But then, very plainly. 
The moon shone.” 

“ Pray describe him.” 

“ Broken hat.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Hairy waistcoat.” 


“Yes.” 

“ Enormous nose.” 

■ “ Do you know him ? ” 

“Ay. The hostler, Cox.” 

There was a groan of horror and a cry for ven¬ 
geance. 

“ Silence,” said the magistrate. “ Mr. Gardiner, 
you are a dying man. Words may kill. Be careful. 
Have you any doubts ? ” 

“ About what ? ” 

“ That the villain was Daniel Cox.” 

“ None whatever.” 

At these words the men and women, who were 
glaring with pale faces and all their senses strained 
at the dying man and his faint yet terrible denunci¬ 
ation, broke into two bands ; some remained rooted 
to the place, the rest hurried, with cries of vengeance, 
in search of Daniel Cox. They were met in the yard 
by two constables, and rushed first to the stables, 
not that they hoped to find him there. Of course 
he had absconded with his booty. 

The stable door was ajar. They tore it open. 

The gray dawn revealed Cox fast asleep on the 
straw in the first empty stall, and his bottle in the 
manger. His clothes were bloody, and the man was 
drunk. They pulled him, cursed him, struck him, 
and would have torn him in pieces, but the constables 
interfered, set him up against the rail, like timber, 
and searched his bosom, and found—a wound ; then 
turned all his pockets inside out, amidst great ex¬ 
pectation, and found—three halfpence and the key 
of the stable door. 

II. 

They ransacked the straw, and all the premises; 
found—nothing. 

Then, to make him sober and get something out 
of him, they pumped upon his head till he was very 
nearly choked. However, it told on him. He gasped 
for breath awhile, and rolled his eyes, and then 
coolly asked them had they found the villain. 

They shook their fists at him. “ Ay, we have 
found the villain, red-handed.” 

“ I mean him as prowls about these parts in my 
waistcoat, and drove his knife into me last night— 
wonder ’a didn’t kill me out of hand. Have ye found 
him amongst ye ? ” 

This question met with a volley of jeers and exe¬ 
crations, and the constables pinioned him, and bun¬ 
dled him off in a cart to Bow Street, to wait exami¬ 
nation. 

Meantime two Bow Street runners came down with 
a warrant, and made a careful examination of the 
premises. The two keys were on the table. Mr. 
Gardiner’s outer door was locked. There was no 
money either in his portmanteau or Captain Cowen’s. 
Both pistols were found loaded, but no priming in 
the pan of the one that lay on the bed ; the other 
was primed, but the bullets were above the powder. 

Bradbury, one of the runners, took particular 
notice of all. 




490 


Treasury of Tales. 


Outside, blood was traced from the stable to the 
garden wall, and under this wall, in the grass, a 
bloody knife was found belonging to the “ Swan ” Inn. 
There was one knife less in Mr. Gardiner’s room 
than had been carried up to his supper. 

Mr. Gardiner lingered till noon, but never spoke 
again. 

The news spread swiftly, and Captain Cowen came 
home in the afternoon, very pale and shocked. 

He had heard of a robbery and murder at the 
“ Swan,” and came to know more. The landlady 
told him all that had transpired, and that the villain 
Cox was in prison. 

Cowen listened thoughtfully, and said : “Cox ! No 
doubt he is a knave : but murder !—I should never 
have suspected him of that.” 

The landlady pooh-poohed his doubts. “ Why, sir, 
the poor gentleman knew him, and wounded him in 
self-defence, and the rogue was found a-bleeding 
from that very wound, and my knife, as done the 
murder, not a stone’s-throw from him as done it, 
which it was that Dan Cox, and he’ll swing for’t, 
please God.” Then, changing her tone, she said, 
solemnly, “You’ll come and see him, sir? ” 

“ Yes,” said Cowen, resolutely, with scarce a mo¬ 
ment’s hesitation. 

The landlady led the way, and took the keys out 
of her pocket and opened Cowen’s door. “We keep 
all locked,” said she, half apologetically ; “ the mag¬ 
istrate bade us ; and everything as we found it— 
God help us! There—look at your portmanteau. 
I wish you may not have been robbed as well.” 

“ No matter,” said he. 

“But it matters to me” said she, “for the credit 
of the house.” Then she gave him the key of the 
inner door, and waved her hand toward it, and sat 
down and began to cry. 

Cowen went in and saw the appalling sight. He 
returned quickly, looking like a ghost, and muttered, 
“This is a terrible business.” 

“ It is a bad business for me and all,” said she. 
“ He have robbed you too, I’ll go bail.” 

Captain Cowen examined his trunk carefully. 
“ Nothing to speak of,” said he. “ I’ve lost eight 
guineas and my gold watch.” 

“There !—there !—there ! ” cried the landlady. 

“ What does that matter, dame ? He has lost his 
life.” 

“ Ay, poor soul. But ’twon’t bring him back, you 
being robbed and all. Was ever such an unfortunate 
woman ? Murder and robbery in my house ! Trav¬ 
ellers will shun it like a pest-house. And the new 
landlord he only wanted a good excuse to take it 
down altogether.” 

This was followed by more sobbing and crying. 
Cowen took her down-stairs into the bar, and com¬ 
forted her. They had a glass of spirits together, and 
he encouraged the flow of her egotism, till at last 
she fully persuaded herself it was her calamity that one 
man was robbed and another murdered in her house. 


Cowen, always a favorite, quite \von her heart by 
falling into this view of the matter, and when he told 
her he must go back to the City again, for he had 
important business, and besides had no money left, 
either in his pockets or his rifled valise, she encour¬ 
aged him to go, and said, kindly, indeed it was no 
place for him now ; it was very good of him to come 
back at all: but both apartments should be scoured 
and made decent in a very few days ; and a new 
carpet down in Mr. Gardiner’s room. 

So Cowen went back to the City, and left this 
notable woman to mop up her murder. 

At Bow Street next morning, in answer to the evi¬ 
dence of his guilt, Cox told a tale which the magis¬ 
trate said was even more ridiculous than most of the 
stories uneducated criminals get up on such occa¬ 
sions ; with this single comment he committed Cox 
for trial. 

Everybody was of the magistrate’s opinion, except 
a single Bow Street runner, the same who had already 
examined the premises. This man suspected Cox, 
but had one qualm of doubt, founded on the place 
where he had discovered the knife, and the circum¬ 
stance of the blood being traced from that place to 
the stable, and not from the inn to the stable, and 
on a remark Cox had made to him in the cart. “ I 
don’t belong to the house. I ha’n’t got no keys to 
go in and out o’ nights. And if I took a hatful of 
gold, I’d be off with it into another country—wouldn’t 
you1 Him as took the gentleman’s money, he knew 
where ’twas, and he have got it : I didn’t, and I 
ha’n’t.” 

Bradbury came down to the “ Swan,” and asked 
the landlady a question or two ; she gave him short 
answers. He then told her that he wished to examine 
the wine that had come down from Mr. Gardiner’s 
room. 

The landlady looked him in the face, and said it 
had been drunk by the servants, or thrown away long 
ago. 

“ I have my doubts of that,” said he. 

“And welcome,” said she. 

Then he wished to examine the key-holes. “ No,” 
said she. “ There has been prying enough into my 
house.” 

Said he, angrily: “You are obstructing justice. 
It is very suspicious.” 

“ It is you that is suspicious, and a mischief-maker 
into the bargain,” said she. “ How do I know what 
you might put into my wine and my key-holes, and 
say you found it ? You are well known, you Bow Street 
runners, for your hanky-panky tricks. Ha vz you got 
a search-warrant, to throw more discredit upon my 
house ? No ? Then pack : and learn the law before 
you teach it me.” 

Bradbury retired, bitterly indignant, and his in¬ 
dignation strengthened his faint doubt of Cox’s guilt. 

He set a friend to watch the “ Swan,” and he him¬ 
self gave his mind to the whole case, and visited 
Cox in Newgate three times before his trial. 




The Kniglitsbridge Mystery. 


491 


The next novelty was that legal assistance was 
provided for Cox by a person who expressed com¬ 
passion for his poverty and inability to defend him¬ 
self, guilty or not guilty ; and that benevolent per¬ 
son was—Captain Cowen. 

In due course Daniel Cox was arraigned at the bar 
of the Old Bailey for robbery and murder. 

The deposition of the murdered man was put in 
by the Crown, and the witnesses sworn who heard 
it, and Captain Cowen was called to support a por¬ 
tion of it. He swore that he supped with the de¬ 
ceased, and loaded one pistol for him, while Mr. 
Gardiner loaded the other ; lent him the key of his 
own door for further security, and himself slept in 
the City. 

The judge asked him where, and he said, “13 
Farringdon Street.” 

It was elicited from him that he had provided 
counsel for the prisoner. 

His evidence was very short, and to the point. It 
did not directly touch the accused, and the defend¬ 
ant’s counsel, in spite of his client’s eager desire, de¬ 
clined to cross-examine Captain Cowen. He thought 
a hostile examination of so respectable a witness, 
who brought nothing home to the accused, would 
only raise more indignation against his client. 

The prosecution was strengthened by the reluct¬ 
ant evidence of Barbara Lamb. She deposed that 
three years ago Cox had been detected by her steal¬ 
ing money from a gentleman’s table in the “ Swan ” 
Inn, and she gave the details. 

The judge asked her whether this was at night. 

“ No, my Lord ; at about four of the clock. He 
is never in the house at night. The mistress can’t 
abide him.” 

“ Has he any key of the house ? ” 

“ Oh, dear no, my Lord.” 

The rest of the evidence for the Crown is virtually 
before the reader. 

For the defence it was proved that the man was 
found drunk, with no money nor keys upon him, and 
that the knife was found under the wall, and the 
blood was traceable from the wall to the stable. 
Bradbury, who proved this, tried to get in about the 
wine, but this was stopped as irrelevant. “ There is 
only one person under suspicion,” said the judge, 
rather sternly. 

As counsel were not allowed in that day to make 
speeches to the jury, but only to examine and cross- 
examine, and discuss points of law, Daniel Cox had 
to speak on his own defence. 

“ My Lord,” said he, “ it was my double done it.” 

“Your what?” asked my Lord, a little peevishly. 

“ My double. There’s a rogue prowls about the 
* Swan ’ at nights, which you couldn’t tell him from 
me. [Laughter.] You needn’t to laugh me to the 
gallows. I tell ye he have got a nose like mine.” 
[Laughter.] 

Clerk of Arraigns. Keep silence in the court, on 
pain of imprisonment. 


“ And he have got a waistcoat the very spit of 
mine, and a tumble-down hat such as I do wear. I 
saw him go by and let hisself into the ‘ Swan ’ with a 
key, and I told Sam Pott next morning.” 

Judge. Who is Sam Pott ? 

Culprit. Why, my stable-boy, to be sure. 

Judge. Is he in court ? 

Culprit. I don’t know. Ay, there he is. 

Judge. Then you’d better call him. 

Culprit. ( shouting .) Hy ! Sam ! 

Sam. Hpre be I. 

[Loud laughter .) 

The judge explained, calmly, that to call a witness 
meant to put him in the box and swear him, and that 
although it was irregular, yet he should allow Pott 
to be sworn, if it would do the prisoner any good. 

Prisoner’s counsel said he had no wish to swear 
Mr. Pott. 

“ Well, Mr. Gurney,” said the judge, “ I don’t 
think he can do you any harm.” Meaning in so des¬ 
perate a case. 

Thereupon Sam Pott was sworn, and deposed that 
Cox had told him about this double. 

“ When ? ” 

“ Often and often.” 

“ Before the murder ? ” 

“ Long afore that.” 

Counsel for the Crown. Did you ever see this 
double ? 

“ Not I.” 

Counsel. I thought not. 

Daniel Cox went on to say that on the night of 
the murder he was up with a sick horse, and he saw 
his double let himself out of the inn the back way, 
and then turn round and close the door softly : so 
he slipped out to meet him. But the double saw 
him, and made for the garden wall. He ran up and 
caught him with one leg over the wall, and seized a 
black bag he was carrying off; the figure dropped 
it, and he heard a lot of money chink : that there¬ 
upon he cried, “ Thieves ! ” and seized the man ; 
but immediately received a blow, and lost his senses 
for a time. When he came to, the man and the bag 
were both gone, and he felt so sick that he staggered 
to the stable and drank a pint of neat brandy, and he 
remembered no more till they pumped on him and 
told him he had robbed and murdered a gentleman 
inside the “ Swan ” Inn. “ What they can’t tell me,” 
said Daniel, beginning to shout, “is how I could 
know who has got money, and who ha’n’t, inside the 
* Swan ’ Inn. I keeps the stables, not the inn : and 
where be my keys to open and shut the ‘ Swan ’ ? I 
never had none. And where’s the gentleman’s 
money ? ’Twas somebody in the inn as done it, for 
to have the money, and when you find the money, 
you’ll find the man.” 

The prosecuting counsel ridiculed this defence, and 
inter alia asked the jury whether they thought it was 
a double the witness Lamb had caught robbing in 
the inn three years ago. 





49 2 


Treasury of Tales . 


The judge summed up very closely, giving the 
evidence of every witness. The jury saw a murder 
at an inn ; an accused, who had already robbed in 
that inn, and was denounced as his murderer by the 
victim. The verdict seemed to them to be Cox, or 
impunity. They all slept at inns. A double they 
had never seen ; undetected accomplices they had 
all heard of. They waited twenty minutes, and 
brought in their verdict—Guilty. 

The judge put on his black cap and condemned 
Daniel Cox to be hanged by the neck till he was dead. 

III. 

After the trial was over, and the condemned man 
led back to prison to await his execution, Bradbury 
went straight to 13 Farringdon Street, and inquired 
for Captain Cowen. 

“ No such name here,” said the good woman of the 
house. 

“ But you keep lodgers?” 

“ Nay, we keep but one, and he is no cdptain; he 
is a city clerk.” 

“ Well, madam, it is not idle curiosity, I assure 
you ; but was not the lodger before him Captain 
Cowen ?” 

“ Laws, no. It was a parson. Your rakehelly cap¬ 
tains wouldn’t suit the like of us. ’Twas a reverend 
clerk ; a grave old gentleman. He wasn’t very well 
to do I think : his cassock was worn ; but he paid 
his way.” 

“ Keep late hours ? ” 

“ Not when he was in town ; but he had a coun¬ 
try cure.” 

“ Then you have let him in after midnight ?” 

“ Nay, I keep no such hours. I lent him a pass¬ 
key. He came in and out from the country when 
he chose. I would have you to know he was an 
old man, and a sober man, and an honest man ; I’d 
wager my life on that. And excuse me, sir, but who 
be you, that do catechise me so about my lodgers?” 

“ I am an officer, madam.” 

The simple woman turned pale and clasped her 
hands. “ An officer ! ” she cried. “ Alack ! what 
have I done now ? ” 

“ Why, nothing, madam,” said the wily Bradbury. 
“ An officer’s business is to protect such as you, not 
to trouble you, for all the world. There, now, I’ll 
tell you where the shoe pinches. This Captain 
Cowen has just sworn in a court of justice that he 
slept here on the 15th of last October.” 

“ He never did, then. Our good parson had no ac¬ 
quaintances in the town. Not a soul ever visited him.” 

“ Mother,” said a young girl, peeping in, “ I think 
he knew somebody of that very name. He did ask 
me once to post a letter for him, and it was to some 
/nan of worship, and the name was Cowen, yes— 
Cowen ’twas. I’m sure of it. By the same token, 
he never gave me another letter, and that made me 
pay the more attention.” 

“ Jane, you are too curious,” said the mother. 


“ And I am very much obliged to you, my little 
maid,” said the officer, “and also to you, madam,” 
and so took his leave. 

One evening, all of a sudden, Captain Cowen or¬ 
dered a prime horse at the “Swan,” strapped his 
valise on before him, and rode out of the yard post¬ 
haste : he went without drawing bridle to Clapham, 
and then looked round him, and seeing no other 
horseman near, trotted gently round into the bor¬ 
ough, then into the City, and slept at an inn in 
Holborn. He had bespoken a particular room be¬ 
forehand—a little room he frequented. He entered 
it with an air of anxiety. But this soon vanished 
after he had examined the floor carefully. His 
horse was ordered at five o’clock next morning. 
He took a glass of strong waters at the door to 
fortify his stomach, but breakfasted at Uxbridge 
and fed his good horse. He dined at Beaconsfield, 
baited at Thame, and supped with his son at Ox¬ 
ford ; next day paid all the young man’s debts, and 
spent a week with him. 

His conduct was strange : boisterously gay and 
sullenly despondent by turns. During the week 
came an unexpected visitor, General Sir Robert 
Barrington. This officer was going out to America 
to fill an important office. He had something in 
view for young Cowen, and came to judge quietly 
of his capacity. But he did not say anything at that 
time, for fear of exciting hopes he might possibly 
disappoint. 

However, he was much taken with the young 
man. Oxford had polished him. His modest reti¬ 
cence, until invited to speak, recommended him to 
older men, especially as his answers were judicious 
when invited to give his opinion. The tutors also 
spoke very highly of him. 

“ You may well love that boy,” said General Bar¬ 
rington to the father. 

“ God bless you for praising him ! ” said the other. 
“Ay, I love him too well.” 

Soon after the general left, Cowen changed some 
gold for notes, and took his departure for London, 
having first sent word of his return. He meant to 
start after breakfast and make one day of it; but 
he lingered with his son, and did not cross Magda¬ 
len Bridge till one o’clock. 

This time he rode through Dorchester, Benson, 
and Henley, and as it grew dark, resolved to sleep 
at Maidenhead. 

Just after Hurley Bottom, at four cross-roads, 
three highwaymen spurred on him from right and 
left. “ Your money or your life ! ” 

He whipped a pistol out of his holster and pulled 
at the nearest head in a moment. 

The pistol missed fire. The next moment a blow 
from the butt-end of a horse-pistol dazed him, and 
he was dragged off his horse and his valise emptied 
in a minute. 

Before they had done with him, however, there was 







The Knightsbridge Mystery. 


493 


a clatter of hoofs, and the robbers sprang to their 
nags and galloped away for the bare life as a troop 
of yeomanry rode up. The thing was so common 
the new-comers read the situation at a glance, and 
some of the best mounted gave chase ; the others 
attended to Captain Cowen, caugh this horse, strapped 
on his valise, and took him with them into Maid¬ 
enhead, his head aching, his heart sickening and 
raging by turns. All his gold gone, nothing left but 
a few £ i notes that he had sewed into the lining of 
his coat. 

He reached the “ Swan ” next day in a state of 
sullen despair. “A curse is on me,” he said. “ My 
pistol miss fire : my gold gone.” 

He was welcomed warmly. He stared with sur¬ 
prise. Barbara led the way to his old room, and 
opened it. He started back. “ Not there,” he said 
with a shudder. 

“ Alack ! Captain, we have kept it for you. Sure 
you are not afear’d ? ” 

“ No,” said he, doggedly—“no hope, no fear.” 

She stared, but said nothing. 

He had hardly got into the room when, click, a 
key was turned in the door of communication. “A 
traveler there ! ” said he. Then, bitterly, “ Things 
are soon forgotten in an inn.” 

“ Not by me,” said Barbara, solemnly. “ But you 
know our dame, she can’t let money go by her. ’Tis 
our best room, mostly, and nobody would use it 
that knows the place. He is a stranger. He is from 
the wars ; will have it he is English, but talks for¬ 
eign. He is civil enough when he is sober, but when 
he has got a drop he does maunder away to be sure, 
and sings such songs I never.” 

“ How long has he been here ? ” asked Cowen. 

“ Five days, and the mistress hopes he will stay as 
many more, just to break the spell.” 

“ He can stay or go,” said Cowen. “ I am in no 
humor for company. I have been robbed, girl.” 

“ You robbed, sir ? Not openly, I am sure.” 

“Openly—but by numbers—three of them. I 
should soon have sped one, but my pistol snapped 
fire just like his. There, leave me, girl; fate is 
against me, and a curse upon me. Bubbled out of 
my fortune in the city, robbed of my gold upon the 
road. To be honest is to be a fool.” 

He flung himself on the bed with a groan of an¬ 
guish, and the ready tears ran down soft Barbara’s 
cheeks. She had tact, however, in her humble way, 
and did not prattle to a strong man in a moment of 
wild distress. She just turned and cast a lingering 
glance of pity on him, and went to fetch him food 
and wine. She had often seen an unhappy man the 
better for eating and drinking. 

When she was gone, he cursed himself for his 
weakness in letting her know his misfortunes. They 
would be all over the house soon. “ Why, that fel¬ 
low next door must have heard me bawl them out. 
I have lost my head,” said he, “ and I never needed 
it more.” 


Barbara returned with the cold powdered beef and 
carrots, and a bottle of wine she had paid for herself. 
She found him sullen but composed. He made her 
solemnly promise not to mention his losses. She 
consented readily, and said, “ You know I can hold 
my tongue.” 

When he had eaten and drunk and felt stronger, 
he resolved to put a question to her. “ How about 
that poor fellow ? ” 

She looked puzzled a moment, then turned pale, 
and said, solemnly ; “’Tis for this day week, I hear. 
’Twas to be last week, but the king did respite him 
for a fortnight.” 

“ Ah ! indeed ! Do you know why ? ” 

“ No, indeed. In his place, I’d rather have been 
put out of the way at once : for they will surely hang 
him.” 

Now in our day the respite is very rare ; a crimi¬ 
nal is hanged or reprieved. But at the period of our 
story men were often respited for short or long peri¬ 
ods, yet suffered at last. One poor wretch was res¬ 
pited for two years, yet executed. This respite, 
therefore, was nothing unusual, and Cowen, though 
he looked thoughtful, had no downright suspi¬ 
cion of anything so serious to himself as really 
lay beneath the surface of this not unusual occur¬ 
rence. 

I shall, however, let the reader know more about 
it. The judge in reporting the case notified to the 
proper authority that he desired his Majesty to know 
he was not entirely at ease about the verdict. There 
was a lacuna in the evidence against this prisoner. 
He stated the flaw in a very few words. But he did 
not suggest any remedy. 

Now the public clamored for the man’s execution, 
that travellers might be safe. The King’s advisers 
thought that if the judge had serious doubts, it was 
his business to tell the jury so. The order for ex¬ 
ecution issued. 

Three days after this the judge received a letter 
from Bradbury, which I give verbatim. 

The King v. Cox. 

“My Lord —Forgive my writing to you in a case of 
blood. There is no other way. Daniel Cox was not de¬ 
fended. Counsel went against his wish, and would not 
throw suspicion on any other. That made it Cox or no¬ 
body. But there was a man in the inn whose conduct was 
suspicious. 

“ He furnished the wine that made the victim sleepy— 
and I must tell you the landlady would not let me see the 
remnant of the wine. She did everything to baffle me 
and defeat justice—he loaded two pistols so that neither 
could go off. He has got a pass-key, and goes in and 
out of the ‘ Swan’ at all hours. He provided counsel for 
Daniel Cox. That could only be through compunction. 

“ He swore in court that he slept that night at 13 Far- 
ringdon Street. Your Lordship will find it on your notes. 
For ’twas you put the question, and methinks Heaven in¬ 
spired you. An hour after the trial I was at 13 Farring- 
don Street. No Cowen and no Captain had ever lodged 
there nor slept there. Present lodger, a city clerk ; lodger 




494 


Treasury of Tales. 


at date of murder, an old clergyman that said he had 
a country cure, and got the simple body to trust him with 
a pass-key: so he came in and out at all hours of the 
night. This man was no clerk, but, as I believe, the 
cracksman that did the job at the ‘Swan.’ 

“ My lord, there is always two in a job of this sort—the 
professional man and the confederate. Cowen was the 
confederate, hocussed the wine, loaded the pistols, and 
lent his pass-key to the cracksman. The cracksman 
opened the other door with his tools, unless Cowen made 
him duplicate keys. Neither of them intended violence, 
or they would have used their own weapon. The wine 
Was drugged expressly to make that needless. The cracks¬ 
man, instead of a black mask put on a calf-skin waistcoat 
and a bottle nose, and that passed muster for Cox by 
moonlight; it puzzled Cox by moonlight, and deceived 
Gardiner by moonlight. 

“ For the love of God get me a respite for the innocent 
man, and I will undertake to bring the crime home to the 
cracksman and to his confederate Cowen.” 

Bradbury signed this with his name and quality. 

The judge was not sorry to see the doubt his own 
wariness had raised so powerfully confirmed. He 
sent this missive on to the minister, with the remark 
that he had received a letter which ought not to have 
been sent to him, but to those in whose hands the 
prisoner’s fate rested. He thought it his duty, how¬ 
ever, to transcribe from his notes the question he 
had put to Captain Cowen, and his reply that he had 
slept at 13 Farringdon Street on the night of the 
murder, and also the substance of the prisoner’s de¬ 
fence, with the remark that, as stated by that unedu¬ 
cated person, it had appeared ridiculous; but that 
after studying this Bow Street officer’s statements, 
and assuming them to be in the main correct, it did 
not appear ridiculous, but only remarkable, and it 
reconciled all the undisputed facts, whereas that Cox 
was the murderer was and ever must remain irrecon¬ 
cilable with the position of the knife and the track 
of the blood. 

Bradbury’s letter and the above comment found 
their way to the King, and he granted what was 
asked—a respite. 

Bradbury and his fellows went to work to find the 
old clergyman, alias cracksman. But he had melted 
away without a trace, and they got no other clew. 
But during Cowen’s absence they got a traveller, i.e., 
a disguised agent, into the inn, who found relics of 
wax in the key-holes of Cowen’s outer door and of 
the door of communication. 

Bradbury sent this information in two letters—one 
to the judge, and one to the minister. 

But this did not advance him much. He had 
long been sure that Cowen was in it. It was the 
professional hand, the actual robber and murderer, 
he wanted. 

The days succeeded one another : nothing was 
done. He lamented, too late, he had not applied 
for a reprieve, or even a pardon. He deplored his 
own presumption in assuming that he could unravel 
such a mystery entirely. His busy brain schemed 
night and day; he lost his sleep, and even his 


appetite. At last, in sheer despair, he proposed to 
himself a new solution, and acted upon it in the 
dark and with consummate subtlety ; for he said to 
himself : “ I am in deeper water than I thought. 
Lord, how they skim a case at the Old Bailey ! 
They take a pound for a puddle, and go to fathom 
it with a forefinger.” 

Captain Cowen sank into a settled gloom ; but he 
no longer courted solitude ; it gave him the horrors. 
He preferred to be in company, though he no longer 
shone in it. He made acquaintance with his neigh¬ 
bor, and rather liked him. The man had been in 
the Commissariat Department, and seemed half sur¬ 
prised at the honor a captain did him in conversing 
with him. But he was well versed in all the inci¬ 
dents of the late wars, and Cowen was glad to go 
with him into the past; for the present was dead, 
and the future horrible. 

This Mr. Cutler, so deferential when sober, was 
inclined to be more familiar when in his cups and 
that generally ended in his singing and talking to 
himself in his own room in the absurdest way. He 
never went out without a black leather case strapped 
across his back like a dispatch-box. When joked 
and asked as to the contents, he used to say, “ Pa¬ 
pers, papers,” curtly. 

One evening, being rather the worse for liquor, 
he dropped it, and there was a metallic sound. This 
was immediately commented on by the wags of the 
company. 

“ That fell heavy, for paper,” said one. 

“ And there was a ring,” said another. 

“ Come, unload thy pack, comrade, and show us 
thy papers.” 

Cutler was sobered in a moment, and looked 
scared. Cowen observed this, and quietly left the 
room. He went up-stairs to his own room, and, 
mounting on a chair, he found a thin place in the 
partition and made an eyelet-hole. 

That very night he made use of this with good 
effect. Cutler came up to bed, singing and whist¬ 
ling, but presently threw down something heavy, 
and was silent. Cowen spied, and saw him kneel 
down, draw from his bosom a key suspended round 
his neck by a ribbon, and open the dispatch-box. 
There were papers in it, but only to deaden the 
sound of a great many new guineas that glittered 
in the light of the candle, and seemed to fire, and 
fill the receptacle. 

Cutler looked furtively round, plunged his hands 
in them, took them out by handfuls, admired them, 
kissed them, and seemed to worship them, locked 
them up again, and put the black case under his 
pillow. 

While they were glaring in the light, Cowen’s eyes 
flashed with unholy fire. He clutched his hands at 
them where he stood, but they were inaccessible. 
He sat down despondent, and cursed the injustice 
of fate. Bubbled out of money in the City ; robbed 




The Knightsbridge Mystery. 


495 


on the road : but when another had money, it was 
safe : he left his keys in the locks of both doors, and 
his gold never quitted him. 

Not long after this discovery he got a letter from 
his son, telling him that the college bill for battels, 
or commons, had come in, and he was unable to pay 
it; he begged his father to disburse it, or he should 
lose credit. 

This tormented the unhappy father, and the prox¬ 
imity of gold tantalized him, so that he bought a 
phial of laudanum and secreted it about his person. 

“ Better die,” said he, “ and leave my boy to Bar¬ 
rington. Such a legacy from his dead comrade will 
be sacred, and he has the world at his feet.” 

He even ordered a bottle of red port, and kept it 
by him to swill the laudanum in, and so get drunk 
and die. 

But when it came to the point, he faltered. 

Meantime the day drew near for the execution of 
Daniel Cox : Bradbury had undertaken too much. 
His cracksman seemed, to the King’s advisers, as 
shadowy as the double of Daniel Cox. 

The evening before that fatal day Cowen came to 
a wild resolution. He would go to Tyburn at noon, 
which was the hour fixed, and would die under that 
man’s gibbet. So was this powerful mind unhinged. 

This desperate idea was uppermost in his mind 
when he went up to his bedroom. 

But he resisted. No, he would never play the 
coward while there was a chance left on the cards. 
While there is life there is hope. He seized the 
bottle, uncorked it, and tossed off a glass. It was 
potent, and tingled through his veins, and warmed 
his heart. 

He set the bottle down before him. He filled 
another glass. But before he put it to his lips jocund 
noises were heard coming up the stairs, and noisy, 
drunken voices, and two boon companions of his 
neighbor Cutler, who had a double-bedded room op¬ 
posite him, parted with him for the night. He was 
not drunk enough, it seems, for he kept demanding 
t’other bottle. His friends, however, were of a dif¬ 
ferent opinion ; they bundled him into his room, and 
locked him in from the other side ; and shortly after 
burst into their own room, and were more garrulous 
than articulate. 

Cutler, thus disposed of, kept saying, and shouting, 
and whining, that he must have t’other bottle. In 
short, any one at a distance would have thought he 
was announcing sixteen different propositions, so 
various were the accents of anger, grief, expostula¬ 
tion, deprecation, supplication, imprecation, and 
whining tenderness in which he declared he must 
have “t’other bo’l.” 

At last he' came bump against the door of com¬ 
munication. “ Neighbor,” said he, “your wuship, I 
mean, great man of war.” 

« Well, sir ? ” 

“ Let’s have t’other bo’l.” 

Cowen’s eyes flashed. He took out his phial of 


laudanum, and emptied about a fifth part of it into 
the bottle. 

Cutler whined at the door, “ Do open the door, 
your wuship, and let’s have t’other (hie).” 

“ Why, the key is on your side.” 

A feeble-minded laugh at the discovery, a fumbling 
with the key, and the door opened, and Cutler stood in 
the doorway, with his cravat disgracefully loose, and 
his visage wreathed in foolish smiles. His eyes 
goggled ; he pointed with a mixture of surprise and 
low cunning at the table : “ Why, there is t’other bo’l: 
let’s have’m.” 

“ Nay,” said Cowen, “ I drain no bottles at this 
time. One glass suffices me. I drink your health.” 
He raised his glass. 

Cutler grabbed the bottle, and said, brutally, “ And 
I’ll drink yours,” and shut the door with a slam, 
but was too intent on his prize to lock it. 

Cowen sat and listened. 

He heard the. wine gurgle, and the drunkard 
draw a long breath of delight. 

Then there was a pause ; then a snatch of song, 
rather melodious, and more articulate than Mr. Cut¬ 
ler’s recent attempts at discourse. 

Then another gurgle, and another loud, “Ah! ” 

Then a vocal attempt which broke down by de¬ 
grees. 

Then a snore. 

Then a somnolent remark*—“All right.” 

Then a staggering on to his feet. Then a sway¬ 
ing to and fro, and a subsiding against the door. 

Then by-and-by a little reel at the bed, and a fall 
flat on the floor. 

Then stertorous breathing. 

Cowen sat still at the key-hole some time, then 
took off his boots and softly mounted his chair, and 
applied his eye to the peep-hole. 

Cutler was lying on his stomach between the table 
and the bed. 

Cowen came to the door on tiptoe and turned the 
handle gently ; the door yielded. 

He lost nerve for the first time in his life. What 
horrible shame, should the man come to his senses 
and see him ! 

He stepped back into his own room, ripped up his 
portmanteau, and took out, from between the leather 
and the lining, a disguise and a mask. He put 
them on. 

Then he took his loaded cane : for he thought to 
himself, “ No more stabbing in that room,” and he 
crept through the door like a cat. 

The man lay breathing stertorously, and his lips 
blowing out at every exhalation like lifeless lips 
urged by a strong wind, so that Cowen began to fear, 
not that he might wake, but that he might die. 

It flashed across him he should have to leave 
England. 

What he came to do seemed now wonderfully easy : 
he took the key by its ribbon carefully off the sleep¬ 
er’s neck, unlocked the dispatch-box, took off his 




496 Treasury 

hat, put the gold into it, locked the dispatch-box, re¬ 
placed the key, took up his hatful of money, and 
retired slowly on tiptoe as he came. 

He had but deposited his stick and the booty on 
the bed, when the sham drunkard pinned him from 
behind, and uttered a shrill whistle. With a fierce 
snarl Cowen whirled his captor round like a feather, 
and dashed with him against the post of his own 
door, stunning the man so that he relaxed his hold, 
and Cowen whirled him round again, and kicked him 
in the stomach so felly that he was doubled up out 
of the way, and contributed nothing more to the 
struggle except his last meal. At this very moment 
two Bow Street runners rushed madly upon Cowen 
through the door of communication. He met one in 
full career with a blow so tremendous that it sounded 
through the house, and drove him all across the room 
against the window, where he fell down senseless ; 
the other he struck rather short, and though the blood 
spurted and the man staggered, he was on him again 
in a moment, and pinned him. Cowen, a master of 
pugilism, got his head under his left shoulder, and 
pommelled him cruelly ; but the fellow managed to 
hold on, till a powerful foot kicked in the door at a 
blow, and Bradbury himself sprang on Captain Cowen 
with all the fury of a tiger; he seized him by the 
throat from behind, and throttled him, and set his 
knee to his back ; the other, though mauled and 
bleeding, whipped out a short rope, and pinioned him 
in a turn of the hand. Then all stood panting but 
the disabled men, and once more the passage and the 
room were filled with pale faces and panting bosoms. 

Lights flashed on the scene, and instantly loud 
screams from the landlady and her maids, and as 
they screamed they pointed with trembling fingers. 

And well they might. There—caught red-handed 
in an act of robbery and violence, a few steps from 
the place of the mysterious murder, stood the stately 
figure of Captain Cowen and the mottled face and 
bottle nose of Daniel Cox, condemned to die in just 
twelve hours’ time. 

IV. 

“ Ay, scream, ye fools,” roared Bradbury, “ that 
couldn’t see a church by daylight! ” Then, shaking 
his fist at Cowen : “ Thou villain ! ’Tisn’t one man 
you have murdered, ’tis two. But please God I’ll 
save one of them yet, and hang you in his place. 
Way, there ! not a moment to lose.” 

In another minute they were all in the yard, and a 
hackney-coach sent for. 

Captain Cowen said to Bradbury, “ This thing on 
my face is choking me.” 

“Oh, better that you had been choked—at Ty¬ 
burn and all.” 

“Hang me. Don’t pillory me. I’ve served my 
country.” 

Bradbury removed the wax mask. He said after¬ 
ward he had no power to refuse the villain, he was 
so grand and gentle. 


of Tales. 

“ Thank you, sir. Now what can I do for you ? 
Save Daniel Cox ? ” 

“Ay, do that and I’ll forgive you.” 

“ Give me a sheet of paper.” 

Bradbury, impressed by the man’s tone of sincerity, 
took him into the bar, and getting all his men round 
him, placed paper and ink before him. 

He addressed to General Barrington, in attend¬ 
ance on his Majesty, these : 

“General: See his Majesty betimes, tell him from me 
that Daniel Cox, condemned to die at noon, is innocent, 
and get him a reprieve. Oh, Barrington, come to your 
lost comrade. The bearer will tell you where I am. I 
can not. Edward Cowen.” 

“ Send a man you can trust to Windsor with that, 
and take me to my most welcome death.” 

A trusty officer was dispatched to Windsor, and in 
about an hour Cowen was lodged in Newgate. • 

All that night Bradbury labored to save the man 
that was condemned to die. He knocked up the 
sheriff of Middlesex, and told him all. 

“ Don’t come to me,” said the sheriff; “ go to the 
minister.” 

He rode to the minister’s house. The minister 
was up. His wife gave a ball—windows blazing, 
shadows dancing—music—lights. Night turned into 
day. Bradbury knocked. The door flew open, and 
revealed a line of bedizened footmen, dotted at in¬ 
tervals up the stairs. 

“ I must see my Lord. Life or death. I’m an 
officer from Bow Street.” 

“ You can’t see my Lord. He is entertaining the 
Proosian Ambassador and his sweet.” 

“ I must see him, or an innocent man will die to¬ 
morrow. Tell him so. Here’s a guinea.” 

“ Is there ? Step aside here.” 

He waited in torments till the message went 
through the gamut of lackeys, and got, more or less 
mutilated, to the minister. 

He detached a buffer, who proposed to Mr. Brad¬ 
bury to call at the Do-little office in Westminster 
next morning. 

“ No,” said Bradbury, “ I don’t leave the house till 
I see him. Innocent blood shall not be spilled for 
want of a word in time.” 

The buffer retired, and in came a duffer, who said 
the occasion was not convenient. 

“ Ay, but it is,” said Bradbury, “ and if my Lord 
is not here in five minutes, I’ll go up-stairs and tell 
my tale before them all, and see if they are all hair¬ 
dressers’ dummies, without heart, or conscience, or 
sense.” ' ^ 

In five minutes in came a gentleman, with an 
order on his breast, and said : “You are a Bow Street 
officer?” 

“ Yes, my Lord.” 

“ Name ! ” «, 

« Bradbury.” 

“ You say the man condemned to die to-morrow is 
innocent ?” 





The Knightsbridge Mystery. 


497 


“Yes, my Lord.” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“Just taken the real culprit.” 

“ When is the other to suffer ? ” 

“ Twelve to-morrow.” 

“ Seems short time. Humph ! Will you be good 
enough to take a line to the sheriff ? Formal mes¬ 
sage to-morrow.” 

The actual message ran : 

“ Delay execution of Cox till we hear from Wind¬ 
sor. Bearer will give reasons.” 

With this Bradbury hurried away, not to the sheriff 
but the prison ; and infected the jailer and the chap¬ 
lain and all the turnkeys with pity for the condemned, 
and the spirit of delay. 

Bradbury breakfasted, and washed his face, and 
off to the sheriff. Sheriff was gone out. Bradbury 
hunted him from pillar to post, and could find him 
nowhere. He was at last obliged to go and wait for 
him at Newgate. 

He arrived at the stroke of twelve to superintend 
the execution. Bradbury put the minister’s note 
into his hand. 

“ This is no use,” said he. “ I want an order from 
his Majesty, or the Privy Council at least.” 

“ Not to delay,” suggested the chaplain. “ You 
have all the day for it.” 

“All the day ! I can’t be all the day hanging a 
single man. My time is precious, gentlemen.” 
Then, his bark being worse than his bite, he said, 
“ I shall come again at four o’clock, and then, if 
there is no news from Windsor, the law must take its 
course.” 

He never came again, though, for, even as he 
turned his back to retire, there was a faint cry from 
the farthest part of the crowd, a paper raised on a 
hussar’s lance, and, as the mob fell back on every 
side, a royal aide-de-camp rode up, followed closely 
by the mounted runner, and delivered to the sheriff 
a reprieve under the sign-manual of his Majesty, 
George the First. 

At 2 p.m. of the same day General Sir Robert Bar¬ 
rington reached Newgate, and saw Captain Cowen 
in private. That unhappy man fell on his knees 
and made a confession. 

Barrington was horrified, and turned as cold as ice 
to him. He stood erect as a statue. “A soldier—to 
rob ! ” said he. “ Murder was bad enough—but to 
rob ! ” 

Cowen, with his head and hands all hanging down, 
could only say, faintly : “ I have been robbed and 
ruined, and it was for my boy. Ah me ! what will 
become of him ? I have lost my soul for him, and 
now he will be ruined and disgraced—by me, who 
would have died for him.” The strong man shook 
with agony, and his head and hands almost touched 
the ground. 

Sir Robert Barrington looked at him and pon¬ 
dered. 


“No,” said he, relenting a little, “that is the one 
thing I can do for you. I had made up my mind to 
take your son to Canada as my secretary, and I will 
take him. But he must change his name. I sail 
next Thursday.” 

The broken man stared wildly ; then started up 
and blessed him ; and from that moment the wild 
hope entered his breast that he might keep his son 
unstained by his crime, and even ignorant of it. 

Barrington said that was impossible ; but yielded 
to the father’s prayers, and consented to act as if it 
was possible. He would send a messenger to Ox¬ 
ford, with money and instructions to bring the young 
man up and put him on board the ship at Gravesend. 

This difficult scheme once conceived, there was 
not a moment to be lost. Barrington sent down a 
mounted messenger to Oxford, with money and in¬ 
structions. 

Cowen sent for Bradbury, and asked him when he 
was to appear at Bow Street. 

“To-morrow, I suppose.” 

“ Do me a favor. Get all your witnesses : make 
the case complete, and show me only once to the 
public before I am tried.” 

“ Well, Captain,” said Bradbury, “ you were square 
with me about poor Cox. I don’t see as it matters 
much to you : but I’ll not say you nay.” He saw 
the solicitor for the Crown, and asked a few days to 
collect all his evidence. The functionary named 
Friday. 

This was conveyed next day to Cowen, and put 
him in a fever; it gave him a chance of keeping his 
son ignorant, but no certainty. Ships were eternally 
detained at Gravesend, waiting for a wind : there 
were no steam-tugs then to draw them into blue 
water. Even going down the Channel letters boaided 
them, if the wind slacked. He walked his room to 
and fro, like a caged tiger, day and night. 

Wednesday evening Barrington came with the 
news that his son was at the “ Star ” in Cornhill. 

“I have got him to bed,” said he, “ and, Lord for¬ 
give me, I have let him think he will see you before 
we go down to Gravesend to-morrow.” 

“ Then let me see him,” said the miserable father. 
“ He shall know naught from me.” 

They applied to the jailer, and urged that he could 
be a prisoner all the time, surrounded by constables 
in disguise. No ; the jailer would not risk his place 
and an indictment. Bradbury was sent for, and made 
light of the responsibility. “ I brought him here,” 
said he, “ and I will take him to the ‘ Star,’ I and my 
fellows. Indeed, he will give us no trouble this time. 
Why, that would blow the gaff, and make the young 
gentleman fly to the whole thing.” 

“ It can only be done by authority,” was the jail¬ 
er’s reply. 

“ Then by authority it shall be done,” said Sir 
Robert. “ Mr. Bradbury, have three men here with 
a coach at one o’clock, and a regiment, if you like, 
to watch the ‘ Star.’ ” 







498 Treasury 

Punctually at one came Barrington with an au¬ 
thority. It was a request from the Queen. The 
jailer took it respectfully. It was an authority not 
worth a button ; but he knew he could not lose his 
place, with this writing to brandish at need. 

The father and son dined with the general at the 
“ Star.” Bradbury and one of his fellows waited as 
private servants ; other officers, in plain clothes, 
watched back and front. 

At three o’clock father and son parted—the son 
with many tears, the father with dry eyes, but a voice 
that trembled as he blessed him. 

Young Cowen, now Morris, went down to Graves¬ 
end with his chief ; the criminal back to Newgate, 
respectfully bowed from the door of the “ Star” by 
landlord and waiters. 

At first he was comparatively calm, but as the 
night advanced became restless, and by-and-by began 
to pace his cell again like a caged lion. 

At twenty minutes past eleven a turnkey brought 
him a line ; a horseman had galloped in with it from 
Gravesend. 

“ A fair wind—we weigh anchor at the full tide. 
It is a merchant vessel, and the captain under my 
orders to keep off shore and take no messages. 
Farewell. Turn to the God you have forgotten. 
He alone can pardon you.” 

On receiving this note, Cowen betook him to his 
knees. 

In this attitude the jailer found him when he went 
his round. 

He waited till the captain rose, and then let him 
know that an able lawyer was in waiting, instructed 
to defend him at Bow Street next morning. The 
truth is, the females of the “ Swan ” had clubbed 
money for this purpose. 

Cowen declined to see him. “ I thank you, sir,” 
said he. “ I will defend myself.” 

He said, however, he had a little favor to ask. “ I 
have been,” said he, “ of late much agitated and fa¬ 
tigued, and a sore trial awaits me in the morning. A 
few hours of unbroken sleep would be a boon to me.” 

“ The turnkeys must come in to see you are all 
right.” 

“ It is their duty : but I will lie in sight of the 
door if they will be good enough not to wake me.” 

“ There can be no objection to that, Captain, and 
I am glad to see you calmer.” 

“ Thank you ; never calmer in my life.” 

He got his pillow, set two chairs, and composed 
himself to sleep. He put the candle on the table, 
that the turnkeys might peep through the door and 
see him. 

Once or twice they peeped in very softly, and saw 
him sleeping in the full light of the candle, to mod¬ 
erate which, apparently, he had thrown a white 
handkerchief over his face. 


of Tales. 

At nine in the morning they brought him his break¬ 
fast, as he must be at Bow Street between ten and 
eleven. 

When they came so near him it struck them he lay 
too still. 

They took off the handkerchief. 

He had been dead some hours. 

Yes, there, calm, grave, and noble, incapable, as it 
seemed, either of the passions that had destroyed 
him or the tender affection which redeemed yet in¬ 
spired his crimes, lay the corpse of Edward Cowen. 

Thus miserably perished a man in whom were 
many elements of greatness. 

He left what little money he had to Bradbury, in 
a note imploring him to keep particulars out of the 
journals, for the son’s sake; and such was the influ¬ 
ence on Bradbury of the scene at the “ Star,” the 
man’s dead face, and his dying words, that, though 
public detail was his interest, nothing transpired but 
that the gentleman who had been arrested on sus¬ 
picion of being concerned in the murder at the 
“ Swan ” Inn had committed suicide : to which was 
added by another hand : “ Cox, however, has the 
King’s pardon, and the affair still remains shrouded 
with mystery.” 

Cox was permitted to see the body of Cowen, and, 
whether the features had gone back to youth, or his 
own brain, long sobered in earnest, had enlightened 
his memory, recognized him as a man he had seen 
committed for horse-stealing at Ipswich, when he 
himself was the mayor’s groom : but some girl lent 
the accused a file, and he cut his way out of the 
cage. 

Cox’s calamity was his greatest blessing. He went 
into Newgate scarcely knowing there was a God ; he 
came out thoroughly enlightened in that respect by 
the teaching of the chaplain and the death of Cowen. 
He went in a drunkard ; the noose that dangled over 
his head so long terrified him into life-long sobriety 
—for he laid all the blame on liquor—and he came 
out as bitter a foe to drink as drink had been to him. 

His case excited sympathy : a considerable sum 
was subscribed to set him up in trade. He became 
a horse-dealer on a small scale : but he was really a 
most excellent judge of horses, and, being sober, en¬ 
larged his business ; horsed a coach or two ; attended 
fairs, and eventually made a fortune by dealing in 
cavalry horses under government contracts. 

As his money increased, his nose diminished, and 
when he died, old and regretted, only a pink tinge 
revealed the habits of his earlier life. 

Mrs. Martha Cust and Barbara Lamb were no 
longer sure ; but they doubted to their dying day 
the innocence of the ugly fellow, and the guilt of 
the handsome, civil-spoken gentleman. 

But they converted nobody to their opinion ; for 
they gave their reasons. 






Le Tombeau Blanc. 


499 



LE TOMBEAU BLANC 

BY JOHN DIMITRY. 

I. 

T HERE was no doubt of it. Fernand Torres 
had the freshest, pinkest complexion of any 
man in that great city of the Crescent, where¬ 
in those two natural enemies, Trade and Music, for 
three-quarters of a century, have worked together in 
the pleasantest of unions. 

This Fernand was a man—and his type is not met 
too often—whom men could respect without envy, 
and women love without humiliation. For the men, 
he had the muscles of Milo and the graces of Juan 
Giron. It was he who had set the city agog, after 
a foolish wager, by tooling a six-in-hand pony-trap 
along the “ Shell Road.” It was he who had ridden 
his own “ Lightning,” in a famous race won by that 
more famous horse—the proudest victory recorded 
in the chronicles of the old “ Ridge.” It was he 
who had struggled for a brave five minutes with the 
rushing waters of the Father-stream and brought 
out all dripping but safe, all pale but heroic, a cer¬ 
tain Mademoiselle de Beaumanoir. For the rest, 
he was a pronounced dandy, affected the fragrant 
Viuditas of Ambalema, opened the freest of purses, 
had the readiest ear for needy friends, and the 
scantiest memory of favors granted. In short he 
was the half of a modern Admirable Crichton, one 
who would have ridden shoulder to shoulder with 
the marvellous Scotchman at the tilting matches of 
the Louvre, although he might not have cared par¬ 
ticularly to claim brotherhood with him in his bout 
with the wise heads of the University of Paris. 

“ A devilish fine fellow,” cried the club men ; “ but, 
by Jove ! too much of a prig. Why doesn’t Fernand 
drink and gamble like the rest of us ? ” 

“ Isn’t he handsome ? ” sighed the society girls, “ so 
strong, so noble-looking, so rich ; but, dear me ! just 
a little too good. Why doesn't he flirt like the rest 
of them ? ” 

To speak the truth, Fernand’s comrades were not 
without cause for complaint. He was—in his inmost 
nature—something more than they were allowed to 
know : a quite other creature than the courtly man 
known to society, the stately framer of compliments 
to fashionable beauties, the bYeathful swimmer who 


could cheat even the Mississippi of its prey, and the 
bold rider who, on the Metairie, could win heavy 
stakes and laughingly decline to receive them. Some¬ 
body asked lightly, of Fernand’s friend, Pere Rou- 
quette, what he thought of him. 

“ Ce cher Fernand,” quietly replied Chahta-Ima,* 
while he pressed back with both hands his long black 
curls, “ is a veritable modern Saint Christopher. He 
has broad shoulders, you say? Eh bien! so had 
Saint Christopher.” 

This nut was the very next day presented to So¬ 
ciety, which at once tried its teeth on it. “ Saint 
Christopher’s shoulders were broad,” exclaimed 
Society; “ bon! but what has that to do with Fer¬ 
nand ? ” 

Puzzle or no puzzle, there was one point, I wish 
to make plain, on which everybody agreed. Fer¬ 
nand’s complexion was simply perfect. “A surface 
white as snow touched with the blush of the arbu¬ 
tus,” was what a dainty admirer, evidently feminine, 
had called it. To say the truth, there were some in 
the circle who were rather envious of that pink blush¬ 
ing in the snow. 

Who was Fernand, after all ? He was a campa - 
gnard , not a city man. He was the heir, as he had 
been the only child, of a wealthy planter, whose 
magnificent plantation spread a mile or more along 
the low banks of Bayou Lafourche in Louisiana. 
A grave old citizen remembered well that, some¬ 
where about the ’30s, Torres pere had taken ref¬ 
uge in this free country from the vengeance of a 
volcanic government in New Granada. That he 
was rich was proved by his purchase, cash down, of 
a splendid estate, house, lands, slaves, and by his 
subsequent style of living. He recollected perfectly 
that the wife, a beautiful woman crowned with piety, 
died in a few years (he had forgotten how many), 
and of what disease he had no clear idea. 

“ As to Camille, he died in 1855,” said the grave 
old citizen, exhaling, meditatively, the smoke of his 
cigarette. 

Of the son, he had known nothing until his ap¬ 
pearance in the city. What, between those dates, 


* “Chahta-Ima” (Choctaw-Leader) is a name given by the 
Indians to Pere Adrien Rouquette, the poet-priest of Louisiana, 
and their apostle. 






























































500 


Treasury of Tales. 


had really become of him ? That was soon dis¬ 
played by the youth himself on several open pages 
before an eager society, which turned all its eye¬ 
glasses upon them. He had gone to Heidelberg, 
had not come out ill in its student quarrels, had re¬ 
turned after an extended tour to receive his dying 
father’s blessing, and had come to pass the winter in 
New Orleans, which, in the two languages of the 
Mother State, is known as the “City” and “la 
ville .” 

About himself there was no mystery—not the 
smallest. But could the same be said of an old 
Indian woman, who was his constant companion— 
who had stood by him in student quarrels at Heidel¬ 
berg—who would not be left behind during his tour 
in the East—who insisted on keeping clean his 
rooms in Paris, London, New York—and who was 
now doing the same service in his quiet chambers on 
Royal Street ? 

Some had chanced to meet Confianza, as she was 
named—a tall, lean woman, who sehead was persist¬ 
ently muffled in a mantilla—a woman who, though 
unbent with the years that had crowned that head 
with the glory of old age, had a strong-set, many- 
wrinkled face—a woman with a swarthy skin and a 
wistful look that seemed to tell of inward wrestlings 
—a woman, in a word, cursed by one absorbing 
thought. 

Here the open page of Fernand’s story came to 
an end. But there was another page—a tender, 
timid page, which no one could read save Fernand, 
Confianza, and a certain fair young girl who lived 
in his own parish. 

A flutter of interest, as sudden as it was tempo¬ 
rary, had, some time before, centred in this very 
young lady, Mile. Blanche de Beaumanoir, because, 
as already told, she had, while crossing the ferry to 
Algiers, lost her balance and fallen overboard in 
mid-stream. Her preserver, Fernand himself, was 
thrown forward, at this supreme moment, into the 
broad glare that falls upon all gallant saviours of 
endangered beauty. 

He did not take over-kindly to the glare. No 
more did Mile. Blanche, who, however, had never 
shone more brightly than when friends trooped 
around her to congratulate her. At last congratu¬ 
lations ceased perforce. Mile. Blanche, it was given 
out, had returned to her country home. No one 
noticed it—yet such was the fact—that after this 
incident, Fernand’s visits to his plantation were 
more frequent, and more prolonged, than before. 

Fortunately there was no icy rigueur of Creole 
domestic life to block the happiness of these two. It 
had melted before the priceless services of the suitor. 
I do not say that the good people on Bayou La¬ 
fourche did not suspect this happy idyl dropping its 
roses among them. To the proverbial walls with ears 
must be added the proverbial servants with tongues. 
Gossip flew on free wing around the neighborhood 
of La Quinta de Bolivar, as Torres pere had named 


his southern home, or La Quinte, as the popular ig¬ 
norance had corrupted it. But it never reached the 
city. 

It was in the spring-time. The magnolia grandi- 
flora was slowly baring her white bosom to the 
eager sun, while the myrtle tossed him, in odorous 
coquetry, her plumed crest; the mystic oleander, 
telling of desert-founts and dark-haired Arabian 
girls, was opening its rosy petals ; and, when the sun 
had left his loves lamenting to seek an unknown 
couch beyond the cypriere , a great, heavy, pervading 
perfume, coming from under the wings of the night, 
told of the nearness of the jasmine. But above all 
these scents there stole over the railings on low^ 
broad balconies fronting the bayou, and in the cau- 
series high and low, the gentle odor of orange blos¬ 
soms—blossoms that were not real, but were the 
gracious prophecies of coming happy hours, a sacred 
altar, and a holy ring. 

II. 

One star-lit night in April, the moon rose clear, 
full, queenly. She threw the forest into gloom, but 
touched with silver the broad-spreading fields in front 
of it. And as the waters of the bayou caught upon 
their dark and frowning bosom her radiance, they 
broke into rippling laughter and flowed in smiles 
gulfward. 

Beaumanoir itself was all brilliant with light, which 
blazed through the open door and windows. M. de 
Beaumanoir had this evening, through a soiree, made 
a formal announcement of the engagement of Fer¬ 
nand and Blanche. The spacious rooms were 
crowded. At every door and window the slaves, 
with open mouths but tender hearts, were watch¬ 
ing that mysterious process which was to usher 
Matnselle into the dignity of Madame. The vast 
grounds were filled with a motley crowd, because 
the poorer neighbors and slaves alike had come 
to catch that light of joy which, like marriage in 
the Mother Church, comes but once in a life¬ 
time. The veranda was here and there lit by 
colored lanterns. Through the raised windows was 
to be caught the flitting of the dancers ; and the 
sound of laughter and music made the outer crowd, 
under the trees of the avenue, turn round and round 
in many a fantastic twirl unknown to the guests. 

While eyes and ears among the open-mouthed 
servants at the doors and windows, among the unin¬ 
vited guests in the gardens and on the grounds, are 
fully occupied, two figures leave the brilliant parlors 
to take the air. 

“ Mais, v'la M'sieu Fernand ,” cries a voice. “ Yes,” 
echoes another. “ M’sieu Fernand and Matnselle 
Blanche ! ” 

The lookers-on were right. It was Fernand and 
Blanche who had appeared on the veranda. The 
conversation was as brief as, judging from signs, it 
must have been tender. To the horror of gossips 
female, and to the chihckles and nudgings of veteran 





Le Tonibeaii Blanc. 


501 


gossips male, the watchers without saw a sudden lift¬ 
ing of Mile. Blanche’s face and a bend of M’sieu 
Fernand’s. And there was not one of the unseen ob¬ 
servers who would not have said that there had been 
a kiss given and taken on the broad veranda of 
Beaumanoir, under the blessing of the full moon. 

A light form was seen gliding back to the parlors, 
Fernand remaining behind. One old gossip under 
the trees thus commented : “ Ticns, you see M’sieu 
Fernand. He stay to tank d & boti Dieu. Oui-da! 
metis il a bon raison” 

But something else was presently visible ; for at 
a bound Fernand had left his place and was fighting 
fire—fire that seemed to envelop a woman. A-Jap¬ 
anese lantern hung in the doorway had caught fire, 
burnt the cord that upheld it, and had fallen upon 
the light Spanish wrap worn by Blanche. It was 
but a moment for Fernand to grasp the filmy lace 
fastened by a pin, to tear it burning from his darling’s 
form, and with his hands and feet to crush out the 
leaping flames. All told, he had not been sixty 
seconds at it. But the guests in alarm were now 
crowding the veranda. Mile. Blanche had come out 
of it well. Her white neck was slightly blistered. 
By good fortune her face—that lovely face—had 
escaped uninjured. And as to Fernand, only his 
clothes had suffered. 

“ See,” he cried, holding out the brave hands 
which had fought the flames and conquered them, 
“see, friends, my hands are not even scorched.” 

Each guest judged the miracle from his own point 
of view. 

“ It takes Fernand to be lucky,” called out his ac¬ 
quaintances. 

“Monsieur Torres is surely protected by God,” 
echoed Mile. Blanche. 

“ The most amazing thing I ever heard in my 
life,” shouted that old hero General Victoire. 
“ Sacrd bleu ! What would I not have given to have 
had that Fernand at Chalmette; and thou, too, 
Beaumanoir, wouldst thou not ? Fire enough behind 
the barricades there for any salamander, eh, mon 
brave V' And the veteran chuckled while he took a 
huge pinch of Perique fin. 

“ There is something abnormal in this,” was Dr. 
Tousage’s professional comment whispered to him¬ 
self. 

Once again Fernand’s cheery voice was heard. 
Exhibiting wristband and coat-sleeve all charred, 
leaving the strong muscular arm mocking at the 
trial by fire, he exclaimed, laughingly : 

“ I am off. It is early. A little past nine o’clock. 
La Quinte is a bare half-mile away. A sharp gallop 
and it will be but a short ten minutes to change my 
clothes and return. Don’t wait for me. Let the 
dance go on. An revoir, mesdames.” 

And with the light limbs of young manhood he 
was away. He reined his horse where he saw a 
light in a room—a light that told of the faithful 
watch of his old nurse. Crazy with joy he burst 


upon her. Why not ? He looked upon his last ad¬ 
venture as the crown of his love. Surely, it was he 
who had been destined from creation to be Blanche’s 
saviour. He was full of that proud happiness which 
is born of danger encountered for one beloved. 
What true lover would not rejoice if, twice, his love 
had owed her life to him ? 

“ Here, Confianza, another coat and a clean shirt! 
I have been fighting fire.” 

“ Fightin’ de fire ?” 

“Yes ; see what it has done.” 

He laughed as he showed his coat and shirt, both 
burned and well-nigh sleeveless. The old woman 
had no eyes for these. She had crept close to him 
and was caressing his hands nervously—furtively al¬ 
most, as it seemed. 

“ An’ de poor hands—dey must hurt you, no ? ” 

“ They ? not at all. Why, now I come to think 
of it, that is the most astonishing part of it all. Old 
General Victoire was right. I am a real salaman¬ 
der.” 

“ Hijo mio, que estd diciendome?” broke forth from 
the old Indian in her native tongue, as she leaped 
to her feet, all trembling. 

She stood as might some Priestess of the Sun, de¬ 
voted unto death, when the head of royal Atahualpa 
deluged with its sacred blood the holy Peanan 
Stone ! 

Fernand was struck by the old woman’s look. 
Once before had he seen it—once when a round, 
dull white mark had come upon his forehead, stayed 
for a month, and then, fought by science, had left 
the tiniest of scars. That was when he was a stu¬ 
dent at Heidelberg, and holding his own in the 
fighting-gardens of Zur Hirschgasse. Once after¬ 
ward, it had appeared—this time on his broad breast 
—but he had said nothing of it to Confianza. 

“ Don’t be crazy, dear old nurse. Look at my 
hands. Touch them for yourself, there is nothing 
wrong about them. I said that I fought the fire ; I 
was wrong. I only played with it. Come kiss your 
boy, and after that, a clean shirt and another coat! ” 

She threw her withered arms around Fernand’s 
neck. She pressed her lips to his mouth—one look¬ 
ing on might well think with a touch of sublime de¬ 
fiance. She kissed his two hands—those hands that 
were so strong and had been so brave. Then she 
sat on the floor near him, still holding them within 
her own. She tried to smile ; but it was not a smile 
that would have done one good to see. 

“ Fernand,” she said gently, “ tu remember of dat 
book which tu papa to you gave, when tu has not 
more of quince ahos ? ” 

“ Yes, yes, I have read it a dozen times or more. 
But what has that to do with my going out ? Don’t 
you know Blanche is waiting for me ? ” 

The old woman seemed not to hear him. 

“No forget what a book dat was—dose poor peo¬ 
ples ? ” 

She felt the hands on which her tears were now 




502 


Treasury of Tales. 


streaming growing cold. They did not tremble, 
but the chill of the grave had fallen upon them. 
Still he said nothing, but shivered as though the 
cold had really struck him on that balmy April night 
smiling among its roses and gardenias. 

“ Der’ was something ’bout de fire. Dose who sick 
no can burn ’esef, no can feel ’notin’— oh! hijomio — 
have calm ! ” she pleaded, and he rose to his feet, 
murmuring : 

“ My God !—not this—not this ! ” 

He staggered as he rose and swayed like some 
tall tree touched by the tempest’s wrath. He under¬ 
stood now his doom too well ; but he threw off the 
weakness as he began to pace the room, first slowly, 
then rapidly. The pink did not leave his cheeks ; 
but his eyes glittered piteously, yet half defiantly, 
like those of a noble animal caught in a trap un¬ 
aware. The old woman, still seated on the floor, was 
reciting her rosary. There were words that came 
unbidden to the sacred beads, words of a personal 
application that, through tears, tell of human pity 
and better still, of human trust in the Divine pity : 
“ May God have mercy upon my boy ! May God 
have mercy ? ” And from the man treading the 
floor came, in lugubrious response, the wail of that 
sorrowful Sister of Human Prayer ; that Sister, hag¬ 
gard, hopeless, tearless, who knows no invocation to 
Divine Justice, save to call it to judgment: 

My God ! what have I done to deserve this ? ” 

Suddenly in his rapid strides, Fernand halted be¬ 
fore the table, on which a lamp was burning. Seiz¬ 
ing the lamp, he deliberately circled the heated 
chimney with his right hand. Then he clasped it 
with his left hand. Removing the chimney, he kept 
one hand steadily in the flame. After that the other. 

“You are right, Confianza,” he said coldly, “I 
must not go back to Mile. Blanche.” 

“ Que Dios tenga piedad de mi hijo !” [May God 
have mercy on my boy] rose again from the praying 
woman. She knew her boy well. Whosoever might 
be deceived by his calmness, it was not she who 
had nursed him—oh, no, not she ! 

“The fire-test is satisfactory,” continued Fernand, 
in a tone that appalled her. “ There can be no illu¬ 
sion here. The leper’s skin can burn, but the burn 
leaves no mark ; nor can pain be felt. My hands 
should have been burned ; I feel no pain : it is clear, 
then, I am a leper ! ” 

“ Que Dios tenga piedad de mi hijo ! Por Dios ! 
Por su Santissima Madre! Por todos los Santos y 
Santas del cielo!” [May God have mercy on my 
boy ! For Christ’s sake ! For His holy Mother’s 
sake ! For the sake of all the saints and angels of 
Heaven !] wailed once more from the floor, like a 
prayer for a parting soul. It was unheard by Fer¬ 
nand. A bitter smile passed over his lips as he 
said : 

“ But come ! Blanche must not be forgotten. She 
must learn this charming finale to our hopes and our 
loves.” 


Paper, pen and ink were before him. Not paus¬ 
ing to cull phrases, much less to think, he wrote a 
note and put it into an envelope which he sealed. 
Ringing a bell, a black presented himself. 

“ Baptiste, take this letter at once to Mile. Blanche. 
Place it in her own hands. You need not report.” 

After Baptiste had left, Fernand said : 

“ My good Confianza, I wish to be alone. Leave 
me now. To-morrow, by eight o’clock, let Dr. 
Tousage be here.” 

He did not leave the chair through the long black 
night. He was alone—alone with the sorrowful 
Sister of Human Prayer. He made no movement, 
he breathed no sigh, he murmured no word through 
all the hours but fell like a death-bell upon the heart 
of the figure crouched, like a faithful dog, on the 
other side of his chamber door. 

And so the bright sun found them. 

III. 

Baptiste’s master had told him that he need not 
report the result of his visit to Mile. Blanche. But 
long before noon the next day, Fernand, had he 
chosen, might have heard his story from a hundred 
tongues. There was not a guest at Beaumanoir, 
over night, that had not borne it away, through the 
darkness and gardenia-scented air, a fearful but 
delicious burden. There was not a passenger on the 
boat which had left that morning, who was not carry¬ 
ing Fernand’s name, and blasted love, a morsel of 
the juiciest for the delectation of the great city. His 
tragic story, too, was in the mouths, and had touched 
the hearts, and had filled the eyes, of rude but sym¬ 
pathetic workers a-field in the early summer sun¬ 
shine ; and there was a dew that had not fallen from 
the sky upon many a plough-handle and many an axe- 
helve. For there was not a slave at Beaumanoir or 
La Quinte that had not prayed to hear the joyful mar¬ 
riage-bells which would bring the two plantations 
under the same master and mistress. 

Then, too, there were—unhappily, not far off—men 
and women whom all avoided ; men and women 
hobbling on crutches, crawling aground, moaning on 
pestiferous beds, who, selfish by nature, had for once 
been brought together, not in cynicism but pity. To 
them the gossip was not sweet. It was bitter, as 
bitter, as abhorrent, as their own flesh. Fernand 
had been their truest friend and most fearless neigh¬ 
bor. “ Lui, un lepreux l Mon Dieu ! if he has got it 
from us , we are accursed indeed,” old Pere Caran- 
cro had said, and with blurred eyes and shaking 
hands, all had concurred. 

After all, what had happened at Beaumanoir? 

Obedient to his master, Baptiste had sought Mile. 
Blanche privately. He had found her seated with two 
friends, Mile. Diane de Monplaisir and Mile. Marie 
Bonsecour, in a small room giving on the veranda 
and opening into the parlor through a curtained 
door. Baptiste, on presenting the note, had simply 
said : 







Le Tombeau Blanc. 


503 


“ Mamselle Blanche, M’sieu Fernand he tell me 
to give dis to you.” 

Mile. Blanche had opened the note eagerly. It 
could not have been long, nor could its contents 
have been over-pleasant. So afterward affirmed 
Mile. Diane, who added that Blanche had turned 
pale, “ mais oui, pale comme la mort," had uttered a 
faint moan, and, in attempting to rise from her 
chair, had fallen back insensible. What had be¬ 
come of the note itself ? Mile. Diane had kept her 
black marmoset eyes fixed upon that. She declared 
dramatically that Mile. Blanche had thrown it 
haughtily away after reading it. Mile. Marie, how¬ 
ever, did nor agree with her. She said that the 
note, if it had fallen at all, had not fallen until 
Blanche became unconscious. 

Bad news fills the air like electricity. It was 
scarce a moment before the curtained doors were 
torn aside, and a crowd of well-bred, though curious 
guests, came streaming into the room. At their 
head was the father. He was about approaching 
his daughter, but, hearing from a mob of angels in 
white organdie and tulle that she had recovered 
consciousness, he was turning aside when he felt his 
arm touched gently. It was Mile. Diane who had 
touched him. She pointed silently to a letter on 
the floor. M. de Beaumanoir picked it up. It was 
strange. He was in a white heat of anger, cer¬ 
tainly : but on reading it, he did not look so much 
angry as puzzled. 

“ What can this be ? ” he muttered. “ Vraiment , 
un mauvais farceur is this Fernand. But come, my 
friends,” he called out, in a loud voice, to the crowd 
of guests who had already thronged the room. 
“ Mademoiselle ma fille is in good hands. This note 
is from M. Torres. She has been somewhat excited 
by that, and is naturally nervous. The whole affair 
is a riddle to me. Perhaps, some among you may 
read it for me.” 

The crowd surged back, still curious-eyed, but 
clearly more anxious than when it had torn away 
the curtained door. 

M. de Beaumanoir had stationed himself by the 
mantel on which blazed, with their double score of 
waxen lights, the great golden candelabras that had 
descended, son to son, from that doughty knight 
Sieur Raoul de Beaumanoir, who had died with 
Bayard hard by the bloody waters of the Sesia. I 
do not know how it was, but the fair women in 
gauze, and the white cravatted men seemed to be a 
court ; Blanche forced to be the plaintiff; Fernand, 
the defendant ; and the owner of the mansion the 
advocate of the—mystery. For mystery in that 
note there must be, so whispered, one to the other, 
those flurried beauties that circled, in broadening 
folds, around the mantel, and, as they whispered, 
turned just a little pale. 

For his part, M. de Beaumanoir, a trifle puzzled 
and unmistakably stirred, seemed nowise anxious. 
He re-opened the note impetuously. 


No date, no address, no signature. Nothing save 
these words : 

“ Do not misjudge me ; but I must not go back to¬ 
night. You have seen the last of me. Oh ! my God ! 
to think that / have seen the last of you ! I do not know 
wherein we have offended Heaven ; but God is angry 
with us. I am what they call— I am—I dare not write 
what loathsome creature I have become to myself since 
a half hour. Read II Chronicles, chap. xxvi.,v. 20. That 
verse speaks for me who cannot. Read it, and you 
will know why I have hasted to go out from what to me 
was not a Sanctuary of the Father, but, higher still, His 
Paradise.” 

Nervously removing his spectacles, M. de Beau¬ 
manoir turned interrogatively to the brilliant com¬ 
pany. 

“ Eh bien ! ” said a pert and petted beauty ; u c'est 
une question de la Bible. Let us see the Bible.” 

Mademoiselle uttered the voice of Society. 

“ Yes, yes ; where is the Bible ? ” cried all. 

A youth of tender moustache, and with the reddest 
of roses granted him by the grace of Mile. Diane, had, 
at that lady’s nod, already sought the great Douay 
Bible, which rested upon a side-table, immediately 
under a sword crossed with its scabbard upon the 
wall. Without a word he put the book into the 
hands of M. de Beaumanoir. The gray old man, 
moustached like a veteran of Chalmette, opened the 
Holy Book gingerly, as though he did not know, gal¬ 
lant gentleman and &x-sabreur that he was, its quiet 
pages quite so well as the temper of his sabre. He 
had seen the volume certainly, but only accidentally, 
so to speak, as he might be leaning over it to read 
for the thousandth time the inscription : “ Tribute to 
— hem! —by admiring company— hum! — patriotic 
services — ha! — January 8, 1815.” Written in 
French, bound in Russia, heavily edged with gold 
and published in Paris, the Sacred Word, while being 
little noticed by the master, had brought comfort to 
the late Madame de Beaumanoir, as it was, without 
his knowledge, the daily guide of his daughter. 

The company drew nearer to the father. From the 
press of loveliness, as might a dainty Bourbon rose 
from a basket of flowers, stepped Mile. Diane de 
Monplaisir. It was she who crept close to the side 
of M. de Beaumanoir, and with her jewelled fingers 
turned the leaves till her index finger rested upon 
the chapter and the verse which were to reveal the 
mystery devouring her. With a stately old-fashioned 
bow, though with no suspicion of the tragic story in 
v. 20, the old man read these words slowly aloud: 

“ And Azariah, the chief priest,and all the priests, 
looked upon him, and , behold, he was leprous, and they 
thrust him out from thence; yea, HIMSELF hasted to go 
out , because the Lord had smitten him .” 

At these words, so passionless yet so vivid, so 
filled with fire yet so death-cold, a great hush fell 
upon the company. It was as though a breeze laden 
with the poisonous breath of poppies had passed 





504 


Treasury 

through the room. Psychologists tell us that a single 
thought may work in madness upon a crowd, a 
thought springing not from a visible danger, but 
from the spur of a hidden terror. Of such must 
have been the feeling which swept like a cyclone 
over the joyful throng that had been drinking in ex¬ 
citement under the golden lights to the sound of 
voluptuous music. A thought of flight, certain, no 
matter how or whither, only that it should be that 
very instant, out of the house, out of the grounds, 
out into the open road, shining yellow-white under 
the full moon—anywhere, anywhere beyond the evil 
spirit that had seized upon the princely hospitality 
of Beaumanoir, and was even then draping, by a 
mystic and awful hand, its laughing walls in 
mourning. 

In the sauve quipeut of an army, pride is thrown 
aside with the knapsack. In the sauve qui peut of 
society, it is courtesy that is dropped with the slip¬ 
pers. 

One by one the courtly company, with its color 
and its glitter and its laughter, left the salon. One 
by one, without even a nod to their old host who 
stood more dazed than indignant on his threshold, 
they streamed, with burnous and nubias, and what not, 
snatched pell-mell on the way, down the broad steps 
of the front veranda, and into the gravelled walk, 
where w'ere the carriages of the ladies and the horses 
of their escorts. For once, one may fancy, there was 
none of that idle talk—none of those soft whispers, 
those empty phrases, those vaporous compliments 
given with an air and received with a blush—that 
make up the unwritten literature of carriage-windows. 
A mighty fear shook all, and the colored coachmen 
were told in sharp tones altogether new to those 
fatted favorites, to drive fast and stop at nothing. 
Through the noble avenue of live oaks, famous 
throughout that section, through the Arcadian scene, 
under Chinese lanterns, by rustic groups at their 
simple pleasures, the carriages thundered, and the 
riders rushed by plying whip and spur. 

Among the last that reached her carriage was 
Mile. Diane de Monplaisir. She was in no sense ex¬ 
cited—that young lady was too poised for that, but 
it had suited her to play with the fears of her friends. 
Her garments had rustled with the rest down the 
steps, but on leaving the salon she had been particu¬ 
larly careful respectfully to courtesy before her host, 
as he stood erect at his post like a forgotten sentinel. 
Having given this lesson of social tact, she thought 
herself justified in raising her voice to a decorously 
high pitch, and saying, in the shape of a problem 
presented to her escorts : “ Ma foi , Messieurs , is not 
this a pretty comedy with which M. Torres has 
favored us ?” 

Trained though they were in the young lady’s im¬ 
perious service, none of these gallants answered. 
The call was too sudden, and the danger altogether 
too pressing for that. 

It had not struck eleven o’clock before the man¬ 


of Tales . 

sion, still blazing with the lights of a joyous be¬ 
trothal, was left to the ghosts destined to haunt its 
walls so long as they shall stand. Of the hundred 
who had frou-froued that evening up the carpeted 
steps, who had opened very promising flirtations of 
their own, w'ho had envied Blanche while they cov¬ 
eted Fernand, not one remained save Dr. Tousage 
and Mile. Marie Bonsecour. It was not long after 
that hour that the Doctor himself, having seen that 
Blanche was recovered and in gentle hands, took 
leave of the old man, who sat crushed and broken 
under the wasting lights of the great golden cande- 
labras. A she descended the steps, Dr. Tousage said 
to himself : “ I must refer to my abnormal cases. 
It was what I suspected. There was something 
extraordinary in his insensibility to fire. I shall see 
Fernand to-morrow.” 

For that matter, Dr. Tousage, had he chosen, 
might have suspected years and years before. He 
had known Fernand’s mother. He had attended 
her in her last illness, and had seen with surprise the 
ante-mortal pallor give place to a post-mortal rosi¬ 
ness. The case had been something beyond his 
experience. He had contented himself with classing 
among his “ Abnormal Cases” this woman who had 
looked as blooming in her coffin as she had done in 
her boudoir, and whose roses in death were like the 
gorgeous blossom plucked from the twin sister of 
Rappicini’s daughter. 

The good doctor had taken no account, however, 
of the fact that La Quinte, fronting broad on the 
Bayou, and spreading deep in smiling fields of sugar¬ 
cane, back to the great funereal cypri'ere , bordered 
perilously on EWorld ostracized by the world, between 
which and it there rises a wall broader, deeper, 
higher, more deadly repellant, than ever Chinese fear 
raised against Tartar aggression. A world not popu¬ 
lous, save in wrecked hopes, harrowing dreams, and 
mournful shadows. A world of agonized hearts, of 
putrid ulcers, of flesh dropping from rotting bones, 
of Selfishness holding a Spartan throne with Horror, 
of the Divine likeness distorted, year by year, till the 
very semblance of man, born in His gracious image, 
comes to be blotted out. A world, the men and 
women in which are players in a life-tragedy, to 
which “ Hamlet ” is a comedy and the “ Duchess of 
Malfi ” a melodrama. 

A terrible world this—in short a world of Lepers. 

In the Parish of Lafourche, along Bayou Lafourche, 
there are lepers as poisonous as Naaman and as in¬ 
curable as Uzziah. It is an old story barely touched 
here, not even surfaced. It is a curse which law¬ 
makers, in these later days, are called upon to rub 
out or to wall around. Practically, there has always 
been a walling around this curse—this blot—whatso¬ 
ever one may choose to call it—practically, because 
the neighbors of these unhappy people have lost the 
sentiment of neighborliness. The feeling against 
them is as old as the first human deformity, and as 
bitter as the first human prejudice. What has hap- 





Le Tonibeau Blanc. 


505 


pened to races before them offending the eye of 
civilization has become their fate. Civilization frowns 
upon her accursed races, her lepers, her Cagots, her 
Marrons, her Colliberts, her Chuetas. She prescribes 
for them certain metes and limits, and says to them, 
“ Oh ! God-Abandoned, pass not beyond these at 
your peril.” 

The doctors prop up with their science this feeling. 
They agree that a peculiar disease is confined to a 
certain class of the population living along Bayou 
Lafourche ; declare that disease to be leprosy, and 
pronounce it cureless. On their side, the sufferers 
protest vehemently in denial. No one takes their 
word, while they themselves, when compelled to 
wander from their fields, creep with furtive look and 
stealthy step. Like lepers everywhere, those of 
Bayou Lafourche are the Lemuridae of mankind. 
After all, what destroys their caseis the single fact 
which separates them absolutely from their fellows : 
If once attacked these people never get well Science 
is not always consistent; but ages ago she pro¬ 
nounced a judgment against herself which still 
stands. She admitted then, as she admits now, that 
she is powerless to heal a leper. It needs a Christ to 
say : “ Be thou clean, and the leprosy is cleansed.” 

The life of these lepers, if a tragedy, has a plot 
of sorrow simple enough. There are not many of 
them. They may now count between twenty-five 
and fifty families, principally poor, all of whom raise 
their homes of corruption on Bayou Lafourche. 
They are not bunched together in one settlement, 
but stretch out along the stream a distance of 
thirty or forty miles, scenting, at one end, the soft 
saccharine smell of growing cane, and at the other 
the sharp saline odor of a mighty gulf. Their 
awful malady is an inheritance with them ; their 
sufferings are acute ; their disfigurement becomes, 
in time, complete ; but their deaths, though from the 
same disease, do not create an epidemic. 

What the Caqueurs were to Bretagne, and the 
Vaqueros to the Asturias, these lepers are to Bayou 
Lafourche. Many-sided are the rumors about them ; 
but a wide-spreading, far-reaching tongue adds that 
there are among them some who are rich in this 
world’s goods, and yet are forced to take this world’s 
refuse. 

No one knew all this better than Dr. Tousage. 
He had been prominent among those brave physi¬ 
cians who strive to be healers. But, as it happened, 
he was not thinking of Leper-Land while riding 
slowly towards La Quinte. Honest Baptiste was in 
wait. There was a mystery about his p'tit maitre — 
so much Baptiste knew. Confianza’s eyes were filled 
with tears, and they dumbfounded the simple slave. 
Traditions of any kind, save the peaceful, oftentimes 
tender gossip of La Quinte, where two generations 
of kindly masters had made the furrows of labor 
almost as full of roses as the “path of dalliance,” 
had never turned Baptiste’s brain into a race track ; 
so, on the Doctor’s arrival, his eyes were full of a 


terror inviting inquiry, but above all sympathy. The 
Doctor was pre-occupied, he gave neither. 

“Where is your master, Baptiste?” was all he 
said. 

“ M’sieu Fernand, he ees in la bibliotec,” replied 
Baptiste, with a certain awe crossing his terror at 
right angles. Baptiste fervently believed that the 
ghost of his old master walked that particular room 
at midnight. And for that matter it would have 
been hard to find any slave within five leagues who 
did not agree with Baptiste. 

“ He is there, is he ? Then I know the way very 
well.” 

Dr. Tousage found Fernand in a small, well-lighted 
room, divided from the great wide parlors, sombre 
even at that early hour, by a falling lace curtain. 
The sunbeams of the morning streamed through 
the windows, glinting tenderly the backs of books 
of great thinkers loved by Don Camilo and cherished 
for association’s sake by his son. It was a chamber 
rich in windows as it was brilliant in light—a cham¬ 
ber for the strong, not for the weak. 

“ Sapristi! ” said the Doctor to himself, “open 
windows are a sign of joy. The case is not so hope¬ 
less, after all.” 

The good Doctor was wrong for once. Fernand 
had lost hope ; or, rather, despair had pushed hope 
from its place, and there brooded. The young man 
was seated by a table on which were laid two books. 
One was a copy of the Bible. The other Maundrel’s 
work on the Syrian leprosy, a very old book, and as 
rare as it is old. Rising as his old friend entered, 
for the first time in his life he did not offer his 
hand. 

“ Be pleased to take a seat, Doctor.” 

“ Eh bien! Fernand, what is all this? You, a 
Hercules, and sick ? ” 

The attempt at ease, if intended to deceive, was a 
failure. 

The young man faced his visitor. 

“ Stop, Doctor. This is no time for comedy. I 
am still a Hercules, if brawn and muscle and twenty- 
five years can make one. But there is a plague 
about me more deadly to bear than Dejanira’s 
robe.” 

“ And that plague is-? ” 

“ Leprosy ! ” 

“ Have you convinced yourself of that ?” 

“ Perfectly ; and you also, you need not deny it. 
I have not studied that kindly face so long without 
being able to read it.” 

“ To speak frankly, I am not surprised. But does 
the disease really exist ? It is because I wish to 
assure myself on this point that I have come. Think 
over my question quietly.” 

“ Look at this, Doctor. Tins may help you to a 
conclusion.” 

While saying this he was throwing open his shirt, 
revealing a small white-reddish sore slowly eating 
into his brawny chest. 





5°6 


Treasury of 7 'ales. 


“ I have never been, as you know, Doctor, much of 
what you call a thinking man. At any rate, I have 
taken this to be the mysterious ‘ date-mark,’ which, 
at some time in his life, pursues and brands each 
traveller to Bagdad. It first broke out while I was 
in Paris, some months ago. My old nurse knows 
nothing of it. I accepted it gayly enough. I argued 
something in this way. I had not forgotten Bag¬ 
dad—why should Bagdad forget me ? ” 

While he was speaking, the physician had been 
examining the ulcer. He grew more thoughtful as 
he looked. 

“ Has this increased in size since it first appeared ? ” 

“Yes, but very little.” 

“ Any pain ? ”* 

“ No, I cannot say that it has pained me, but it 
has annoyed me considerably. Remember that un¬ 
til last night, whenever I thought of it, it was solely 
in connection with Bagdad. With my physique, 
what else could give it birth ? But that is over now. 
It is not the date-mark. What, then, is it ? ” 

Dr. Tousage knew his young friend’s courage. 
He did for him what he would not have done for a 
weaker soul. He took refuge in that truth, which 
is more often a kindness shown by this world’s heal¬ 
ers than they are given credit for. 

“ This,” he replied slowly, “ represents a leprosy 
already developed.” 

“ And the Salamanderism of last night ? ” 

“ Was a strong, although a wholly accidental proof 
of its existence.” 

“ Accidental, you think it ? I look upon it rather 
as providential,” retorted Fernand, while adding : 
“ You regard my case as hopeless, then ? ” 

“ Absolutely, though the danger is not immediate.” 

“ In other words, clier Docteur , one must pay for 
being Hercules. A long life, and each knotted 
muscle prolonging the torture which it doubles, that 
is the story, eh ? ” said the young man bitterly, as he 
touched a bell on the table. 

In response, the old Indian nurse appeared and 
stood, quietly waiting, near the door. 

“ Look, and then listen, Doctor,” said Fernand, 
as he pointed with his finger to her. “ This old 
woman—you know her ?—has fairly haunted me 
through life. She was the one to receive me at 
my birth. She tended me through my babyhood. 
She protected my boyhood. When my mother died, 
she became mother and nurse in one. She watched 
me in my plays. She interfered in my disputes. 
She made me the laughing-stock of my schoolmates 
until I fought them into respect. As I grew older, 
1 saw that in her lov,e there was a large leaven of 
anxiety. She showed it during my years at Heidel¬ 
berg. She grew thin and more despondent during 
our stay in the East. She hovered around me in 
Paris. The Quartier Latin, at a very feverish time, 
could raise no barricade against her. Mabille had 
no terrors for her. I found her everywhere on 
watch, and always with her eyes fixed wistfully on 


myself. It was then I took to thinking of her as a 
woman cursed with a single thought that had bor¬ 
rowed the intensity of a mania. It is not three 
months since I began to believe that that single 
thought might be for me. Last night I knew that I 
was right. It was she who prevented my returning 
to Beaumanoir. Such devotion is rare. I say again, 
look at her, Doctor.” 

Wondering a little, Science scanned Devotion. 

The woman was well worth looking at in her 
brown-skinned, white-haired, brave, honest, faithful 
old age. A prophetess of evil had she always been; 
but not of the order of Cassandra. She had fore¬ 
seen. She had not chosen to foretell. 

Fernand resumed in a reckless manner, as though 
he had something to do that hurt him, and of which 
he wished to be rid. 

“ Would you believe after this, Doctor, when I am 
beaten down to the earth, that she refuses to speak ? 
She talks to me in the jargon of my childhood. Last 
night she reminded me of a book containing the 
story of a leper. That is her way of telling me that 
I am one. There lies the book on the table. Have 
you ever read it ? Old Maundrel held a wise pen in 
his hand. He reports the case of a man in Syria, 
who knew himself to be leprous by having passed 
unscorched through flames. Confianza remembered 
the story, but I wish to know why she recalled it. 
Nurse, here is the Doctor. He is a friend, and a 
true one. In his presence, tell me why you have 
feared for me through all these years.” 

The old Indian remained silent. Her tongue was 
bound by a pledge that it could not break. The dead 
in their graves forge chains indissoluble. 

“But I can tell you, Fernand,” said the Doctor 
gravely, “what Confianza under oath dares not.” 

“You ! And what—what can you tell ? ” 

“ Your mother died a leper ! ” 

IV. 

The small world about La Quinte had soon a 
tidbit to roll around its tongue more to its taste than 
even that delicious morsel from Beaumanoir. Work¬ 
men, it heard, were busy building a cottage under 
the ancient live-oak that was old when Iberville’s 
ships sailed through the waters of Manchac, and moss- 
crowned when simple Acadiens from the Northern 
ice, camping under it, broke out in wild enthusiasm 
over its knotted knees and spreading boughs, while 
their children plucked the giant by his frosty beard, 
and shouted gleefully as they crowned themselves 
with the mossy theft. The same oak had, for gen¬ 
erations, been the pride of the country round. They 
called it lovingly le Pere Chene , the Father-Oak. 
Superstition had added a special charm to its head, 
grown gray in the circling rings of a thousand years. 
Lovers’ vows, pledged under it, for once ceased to 
be false, and a happy marriage never failed, it was 
fervently believed, to follow the kisses for which the 
old tree had for ages stood sponsor. To build a 






Le Tombeau Blanc. 


507 


cottage under the Plre Chine , therefore, was a 
violent shock given to the love, the pride, the 
superstition of the entire neighborhood. But what 
could love, pride, or superstition say ? The tree itself 
was private property : the old graybeard stood on 
land belonging to La Quinte. It was quite clear, 
therefore, that the owner had ordered the erection 
of the cottage, and that he had a right to do so. 

Mile, de Monplaisir spoke the voice of a critical 
circle. 

“ Ma foi , cest bien noble de la part de M. Torres. 
He wishes to be near his kin.” 

There was always a sting in the honey vouchsafed 
by this young lady to her friends. The sting in this 
particular honey was that Leper-Land began within 
half a league below the lower terminus of La 
Quinte. 

A low-roofed, broad-verandaed cottage soon 
nestled under the protecting branches of the old 
tree. The roof once reached, farm wagons, filled 
with furniture, stirred up the white dust of the 
Bayou highway. Then came carts filled with books. 
The cottage itself was only a three days’ wonder, after 
all. Something came afterward, that was to prove 
a plethoric, full-mouthed, nine days’ talk. After the 
last cart had deposited its burden, the workmen re¬ 
appeared. They came in crowds. In an amazingly 
short time, a great whitewashed brick wall rose high 
enough to look down upon the cottage, which it had 
been built to screen. It loomed up full thirty feet in 
the air, stretching in a square on all sides of the 
giant oak, whose head, turbaned in mosses, could be 
seen behind it from the road and from boats passing 
swiftly on the Bayou. There was nothing cheerful 
in this strange pile. In the sunlight it looked like 
a prison ; in the moonlight, like a grave-yard. The 
Panteon of Bogoti is not more ghost-like. 

The wall being finished, but one entrance was left 
to the interior. This was at the lower end, to the 
rear, where a strong oak door, iron-bound, challenged 
the way. On the side of that door was a turn- 
window in the wall, through which could be passed 
such articles as might be needed for the dweller 
within. Close to that window and outside of the 
wall was a small hut. It was the home of Confianza 
—martyr to the child of her love in his weakness, as 
she had been faithful to him in his young strength 
under the skies of Damascus and on the shining 
shores of the Mediterranean. 

And what did society, that part of it which whis¬ 
pers its wisdom behind summer fans, think of all this ? 
It only sighed prettily, and itched the more to know 
all. Fernand’s story was an exciting one so far, but 
society is never wholly satisfied unless it sees the 
green curtain fall on a tragedy on which it has seen 
it rise. For the rest, it had been told that he re¬ 
mained shut up in his rooms and had been seen by 
no one but the doctor and Confianza. It clamored, 
however, for the end. Somehow, this did not come 
to it so soon as expected. It was very long after 


society had retired, so to speak, from the boxes, and 
the lights had been put out, that it heard that Fer¬ 
nand, on the very night of the day when the strong 
oak door was hung on its hinges, had passed through 
it alone. Little by little it came out that, for that 
particular night, an order had been given to all the 
slaves of La Quinte, somewhat in the fashion of that 
borne by the herald at Coventry, 

“-a thousand summers back.” 

The old Indian had taken the message through 
the house and the quarters. “ The master is going,” 
she said, “ to leave La Quinte to-night for his new 
home. He is very sick and very unhappy. He knows 
that his people love him, and he begs them all to 
go to their cabins early to-night, and not to leave 
them.” 

In the old story of Coventry it was a “ shameless 
noon ” that, from its hundred towers, clanged the 
triumph of a peerless sacrifice. In the new one, it 
was a pitying midnight which, from its hundred 
shadows, shrouded the sacrifice of a noble life. La 
Quinte, fertile as she was in sons and daughters, had 
not bred a “ Peeping Tom ” among them all; and 
by nine o’clock there was not one of her children 
who was not abed. 

Fernand had died to the world. So the world, 
true to its traditions, avenged itself by calling his re¬ 
treat Le Tombeau Blanc , a ghoulish fancy, which 
had received its inspiration from a remark accredited 
to Mme. Diane Dragon {ne'e Monplaisir), while daintily 
sipping her orgeat, that, “ since M. Torres has chosen 
to bury himself alive, his home is well called The 
White Tomb.” For the rest, society had no time for 
a tragic tale already old. Autumn had laughed with 
Summer over the richness of their common harvest. 
Winter, which had passed in storm over the parish, 
had found time—there is a deal of unrecorded kindly 
blood in these stern old seasons—to press a parting 
kiss upon Spring’s virgin lips, and to whisper : “ Be 
good, my daughter, and spare not thy sweetest blos¬ 
soms.” It scarcely seemed cause for wonder, then, 
that society should have forgotten the hermit as com¬ 
pletely as though he lay, indeed, stretched cold and 
dreamless in his last bed. 

As to the leper’s actual condition, even the old 
Indian knew but little. He had locked the gate be¬ 
hind him and kept the key with him in his cottage. 
The turn-window remained the only medium of com¬ 
munication between them. Before burying himself, 
Fernand had said to her: “ You know that I am very 
sick, what is worse, I am hopeless. My life may be 
short or long. Whether long or short, I am forced 
to suffer. I wish to die, but it is my duty to live. 
Cook my meals and put them twice a day in the turn- 
window. I shall call for them at eight o’clock in the 
morning; then again at four in the afternoon.” That 
was all which had passed between the two. It 
seemed a sorry exhibit enough, this gratitude 
smothered in the fumes of a gastronomic edict. But 






5°8 


Treasury of Tales. 


the true old woman took it all to herself, and that 
night, with her worn rosary in hand, she broke into 
an extra plea of Paternosters and Ave Marias. 

In the meantime, and in his bitter solitude, shud¬ 
dering and sick at heart, Fernand would turn from 
his mournful future to the compensation which must 
be his so long as his skilful hands could win music 
from the strings of his Cremona. This instrument 
was a gift to him, when a lad, from Duffeyte, that 
brilliant tenor whose sweet notes had entranced 
Creoledom somewhere in the ’40s. His power over 
his gift was not unworthy of the donor. His soul 
was alive with music as a heated forge is with flame. 
Compositions of the great masters weighted his 
music-rack ; blit memories of Verdi and Donizetti, 
and melodies of Liszt and Strauss were with him, 
and through the chords of his Cremona, with an al¬ 
most human sympathy, spoke tenderly and consol¬ 
ingly to the leper’s heart. The cool and quiet of 
midnight were wont to fall like a dream of peace 
upon his tortured soul. He had cried with The- 
mistocles, “ Give me the art of oblivion ! ” But the 
unpitying sun was not his friend. Its torrid glare 
already revealed that fatal whiteness which separat¬ 
ed him from his fellows. He felt that, for him, the 
moonlight was better than the sunlight ; and the 
night’s black mantle friendlier than the day’s blazing 
shield. In his isolation, he learned, too, to acknowl¬ 
edge a comradeship, during the short spring and 
long summer months, with the whippoorwill, that sad 
brown bird of the cypriere, which, shunning the 
haunts of happier men, had been won by the mystic 
shadows and unbroken silence within the wall, and 
had come to grieve with him through moonlit nights, 
coyly hidden but fearless, among the leaves of the 
ancient oak. 

For in the meantime, Dr. Tousage’s judgment had 
been verified. 

Fernand’s leprosy was already developed when he 
fought the flames at Beaumanoir. But when Spring 
came, in memory of her agreement with Father Win¬ 
ter to drop blossoms on the trees and to fill the black 
earth with flowers, the second stage was already 
reached. It was to the credit of the Doctor’s sincere 
friendship that not a whisper of this was breathed 
beyond the old woman’s hut. But the fight was held 
within the wall and under P'ere Chene, all the while. 
The old physician’s visits were for a time regular. 
Then, all at once, his knock ceased to be heard at 
the oak door. Something had taken place between 
the two—a quarrel, everybody said. Oh, no! not that; 
only a bit of truth from Science told in a broken 
voice, and with great tears streaming down from 
under the gold spectacles of the leech: 

“ I can no longer hope to do you good, Fernand, 
and I may possibly injure others by my visits. The 
physician does not belong to himself. Your disease, 
always incurable, has within the last six months be¬ 
come practically contagious. God bless you, my 
son, and give you courage to bear unto the end.” 


This was, for Fernand, a dismissal that had long 
been foreseen. There was death in his heart already, 
and all that he asked was that he might indeed, cease 
to live, and be at rest forever. But of what he suf¬ 
fered, and of the storm that, raging in him, broke out 
in bitter rain, all this the great wall hid, as a new 
and sadder secret, among the branches of its mon¬ 
ster oak. 

When Dr. Tousage left him, Fernand was fighting 
with the second stage of his disease. The arbutus¬ 
like pink of his complexion had faded out. He had 
become a “ leper white as snow.” He saw before 
him a Calvary on whose via dolorosa he could hope 
to meet no Cyrenian to bear his cross. He found 
himself thinking of a time when the white skin would 
change into a coarse yellow ; when deep into its sur¬ 
face a growth of tubercles would fatten in ulcerous 
corruption ; when the hand that had grown so warm 
in love might lose the use of its shapely,fingers ; and 
when even the face hallowed by the first and last kiss 
of Blanche, might, if seen in its awful disfigurement, 
come to frighten timid women in mother’s labor. He 
knew himself to be like another Vivenzio in the castle 
of Tolfi. His own life, in its decaying physical form, 
measured for him as surely the year-posts to death 
as the lessening windows of his iron shroud had for 
the Italian. 

Behind his wall, perhaps in a bitter spirit, perhaps 
in resignation, he had gauged the world and believed 
it wanting in remembrance. But he was not forgot¬ 
ten. Old Confianza, at his window, sat day and 
night, as silently and faithfully watching as Mordecai 
at the Persian’s gate. And there were others. In 
those dark hours, dear to him, there v/ere passers-by 
along the bayou road. They were men and women 
who had learned to make that road a Mecca, because 
they had loved the kindly man now forced to live a 
pariah. 

The road seemed haunted with ghosts. 

For, as the darkness fell upon bayou and swamp r 
shadows would come stepping softly out of it to 
mass a moment in fearful silence in front of Le Tom- 
bean Blancj to point\out, each to his neighbor, the 
great ghostly wall, and to raise their black hands in 
whispered blessing over it; and then, as their creep- 
ing-off would drop into a half-trot, they would break 
out into a wild hymn, which, beginning soft and 
tremulous, would grow into loudness,, drowning the 
whippoorwill’s plaint and filling the woods with the 
presence of an uncultured but mighty miserere. 

Following these ghosts, but avoiding always to 
meet them, would come others. These would creep 
from the forest depths lower down, stand for a 
longer time than the rest, staring at the wall ; would 
raise their hands, too, in silent benediction, and, in 
their turn, retire as noiselessly as the shadows that 
they were. Lepers in body, the souls of these ghosts 
were clean. For out of the agony that was Selfish¬ 
ness, had bloomed the flower that was Gratitude. 

But, after a time, these loving ghosts left the 





Le Tombeau Blanc. 


509 


bayou road to its loneliness. Then a ghost, gaunt 
and tall, assuming a woman’s shape, would step out 
into the road and stand, looking up with patient sad¬ 
ness. This shape would appear so suddenly after 
the lepers’ flitting that it was clear it had been lying 
in wait. 

Then a special phantom , also a woman, with strange 
black robes floating around her, would glide quickly 
in front of the wall, stop, clasp its hands wildly with 
face up-turned toward it, as though in supplication ; 
lower its head, with hands still clasped, into the 
dust of the road, to pray and weep, and weep and 
pray again. 

After a while, the first ghost would draw near, 
gently touch the shoulder of the kneeling figure, 
and, together, both phantoms would become lost in 
the deeper shadows of Confianza’s hut. 

Of all these ghosts Fernand knew nothing. 

Fernand was a prisoner for life. But the world 
outside had not, for him or his wall, ceased to move. 
Action had clutched the scabbard from Argument, 
and with its right hand drawn the blade. Of the 
war that had drenched the land in blood, he had 
heard but once. Men in blue and men in gray had 
marched past his wall, awed at its height, marvelling 
at its quaintness, wondering at its use. Then, learn¬ 
ing its tragic story, the brave men had turned, some¬ 
how, a free and easy route-step into something sus¬ 
piciously like a double-quick. Confianza herself was 
mute. A curt order for silence, given by Fernand 
in the beginning of his malady, had been loyally 
obeyed by the old Indian ; and by long prohibition, 
no copy of the Picayune had come to tell him that 
Mars, sword in hand, was sweeping over fields of 
sugar, corn, and cotton. One day—the date thereof 
is fixed in the war annals, not in these pages—a 
single boom was heard under the branches of le Pere 
Chene. Faintly but distinctly, the boom soon came 
to Fernand’s ear—fast, furious, continuous. Evi¬ 
dently, a distant cannonade. He could not hear the 
wild yell, nor the great answering shout that kept 
time to its martial challenge. But Battle has a voice 
of its own, and that spoke irpthe heavy guns of La- 
badieville. 

“ What is that, Confianza ? ” came hoarsely shouted 
from the turn-window. 

“ Son las tropas , Seiior.” 

“ Troops! men playing at soldiers, you mean.” 

“ Oh, no, hijo mio. Dey de troops of the Nort 
and de Sout. Dey fight demselves togeder. Ya 
ees old la guerra.” 

Then, with ears alert and eyes distended, she 
raised herself to listen—listening not to the guns, 
but to a cry that wailed through the silence—a cry 
harsh, sinister, discordant, horrible—a cry that was 
the roar of a wild beast hunted to death in the jungle. 

“ My God ! My God ! why cannot I find death 
among the fighters yonder ? ” 

This was an episode—not the least ghastly among 
the episodes of that sorrowful time. 


Years had passed since then. The leper seemed 
to have forgotten the day when he had heard from 
within Le Tombeau Blanc the guns of Labadieville. 
After all, it was time that he should do so. Already, 
he thought of himself as a creature like Moore’s 
“ bloodless ghost,” speculating bitterly on the day, 
sure to dawn, when chained to his bed, he would 
come to sit by his 

“— own pale corpse, watching it.” 

Bear in mind that it was through all these years 
from that night at Beaumanoir, through peaceful 
times, through quiet harvests, through gathering 
clouds, through deep thunderings, through lightning 
bursting from those clouds, through a great war, 
through a noble effort, through a mighty liberation, 
through a peace that was not a calm and a calm that 
became peace, that Fernand had changed from the 
figure of a perfect manhood to what he then was. 
On the whole his dread disease had been merciful to 
him. The muscles, once firm as Samson’s, had long 
since betrayed their strength into eating ulcers. But 
Gangrene—Death’s grimmest lieutenant — still re¬ 
frained from striking. It hovered with its scythe 
over the feet, filled with a growth of pustules. It 
threatened those hands once so strong, so soft, 
as instinct with music as with daring ; but ten 
fingers still remained to be counted between them. 
His voice had become rauque and broken ; but the 
hair, beard and eye-brows although prematurely 
white, had not yet dropped from their follicles. His 
features were enlarged, had turned to ghastly gro¬ 
tesqueness, but so far they had escaped the teredo¬ 
like borings of leprosy. With all this, he felt him¬ 
self growing weaker day by day. He had ceased to 
use Dr. Tousage’s medicines, left at intervals on his 
window. He could have no faith whatsoever in the 
physician who had none in himself, and who had told 
him frankly : “ Palliatives, not remedies, Fernand, 
these are all I can promise you.” But even these 
were now beyond his reach,—the good old Doctoi 
had written his last prescription. 

Little by little, Fernand yielded his consolations. 
A fine dust, settling around the strings of Duffeyte’s 
Cremona, had clogged their melody. Of the wild- 
beast-like, circular paths around and about the Tom¬ 
beau no sign remained. The grass had grown thick 
over them as well as over that which, night after 
night, had so long been his road in the old days, to 
the lowest rung of a ladder by which he had reached 
the summit of the great solemn wall, and where, con¬ 
demned like Moses on Pisgah’s height, he would di¬ 
rect yearning glances “ westward and northward, and 
southward and eastward,” toward the black waters 
of the bayou swirling by in the darkness, and the 
shadowy outlines of fertile fields, once his own, and 
of dark forests which had been his hunting ground 
as boy and man. 

* * * * * * 

There is now but one path in the Tombeau Blanc. 






Treasury of Tales. 


510 

It was the leper’s first as it will be his last path—the 
walk which leads from the cottage to the turn win¬ 
dow, which holds, each morning and afternoon, his 
food and drink. 

There are two parts fairly mixed in our humanity 
when in extremity. One is animal : the other spirit¬ 
ual. The two cannot live apart, so long as the body 
itself holds together. Fernand feels this keenly. He 
seeks his food as a beast, maimed in the fierce wars 
of its kind, might crawl to seek it—by habit. But 
unlike the beast, his spirit, which stands for his pleas¬ 
ures, is confined to his cottage, or, in fair sunny 
weather, to his seat under the Father Oak. He can 
no longer find solace in his Cremona. He can no 
longer see to read. He can only—think, think, 
think ! He totters, while he keeps back the groans, 
as he now makes the daily trips for food. He re¬ 
members how, years, years ago, he had firmly planted 
his feet on that well-beaten path, hopeless then, but 
self-poised. Now, he can only creep painfully along 
it, stopping at intervals to gasp, taking a half-hour 
where once the half-minute had sufficed. Then, he 
had clutched his food with the appetite which young 
manhood gives, even when it knows itself doomed to 
lingering disease. Now, he puts his hand up for it 
with loathing, and turns aside with a shudder when 
he draws it down. 

That terrible path ! This is what he now most 
fears. His hands are not of the strongest for tfie 
carrying of food, none of the safest for bearing a full 
pitcher. For over their swollen surface the skin has 
thickened and stretched tight and hard like a drum’s 
head. His fingers are gradually turning within like 
a harpy’s claws. He is far from sure of them. One 
day he doubts whether they will be able to take the 
food without dropping it. The next day he fears 
that they cannot carry drink without spilling it. The 
sorrowful truth is that he is growing afraid of him¬ 
self. He trembles as he looks down at his pustuled 
feet, now always bare. At times he holds before his 
eyes in the sunlight his two yellow swollen hands 
with their curved fingers. Then, indeed, he breaks 
out into sudden despair ; he bows his head upon 
those fingers, blotting out the tell-tale sun, while 
through them trickle the scalding scanty tears which 
lepers weep. 

He knows that he is now far in the last stage of 
his disease ; that the end of all this must be impo¬ 
tence. The certainty of his fate haunts him like a 
spectre. He has marked with a ? that unknown day, 
soon to come, when he will be too weak to leave 
his room. One way or other, he feels that that day, 
when it does come, must break the self-will which 
has grown almost marble under the Pere Chene. The 
Church has taught him that suicide is a crime. 
Though in a tomb, whence he can neither see the 
blaze of altar-candles, nor hear the chimes in steeple- 
bells, he believes it from his soul to be one. He is 
utterly alone in these days. Even Nature, the tried 
ally of solitary man, has neglected, if it have not al¬ 


together forgotten him. For years, that wizard of 
the forest, the mocking-bird, has cheered him with 
its “ lyric bursts ” of unmatched melody. But true 
to its own instincts, it has set up its throne in the 
thickets around Confianza’s hut. Outside of, not 
within, the gloomy wall is where the singer chooses 
to reign ; and there it reigns, day and night, content 
if it only knows that the leper within gains from its 
wondrous notes a single hope. Fernand does not 
doubt his consoler, I think ; or, if he do, his is only 
the faint shadow of a fainter doubt. Both were bred 
in the land of the orange and the sugar-cane. In 
the man’s philosophy, born of his old nurse’s lulla¬ 
bies, a certain sorcery attaches to this wondrous bird 
of wondrous song. As he listens in his agony to its 
joyous bursts, he so bound, it so free, he murmurs 
half unconsciously in the wild words of an old Creole 
hymn of Nature, caught breathing from her by Pere 
Rouquette : 

“ Ah ! mokeur, ah ! mokeur shanteur, 

Ah ! ah ! to gagnin giab dan kor ! 

To gagnin tro 1’espri, mokeur ! 

M£, shanty : m’a koutd ankor ! ” * 

Thus, in its own fashion, is the gray maestro faith¬ 
ful to him. But not so his old shy comrade, the 
whippoorwill, which has long since left the tree 
that, in its depths, it haunted, and the master whom, 
in its coyness, it had seemed to love. The cypri'ere 
has sent none other of its songsters; and even the 
little twittering birds that doat on freedom and space 
and glitter and company, avoid the mournful Father 
Oak as though he were a plague. Or, perhaps, these 
tiny creatures have finer senses than man, and know 
of the plague, that sits and ponders, a breathing 
corpse, under the grand old tree. 

Here it is that Fernand passes hours in figuring 
over and over again what will come of the inevitable 
invasion. Confianza must, of course, be admitted. 
And Blanche ? Oh! would that she could—but how 
foolish all this is none knows so well as he. He 
would not let his darling in, no ! not were she even 
to knock at the gate and ask that; it be opened unto 
her. Nor can Blanche—but I had forgotten, there 
is no longer a Blanche. 

There is a Scear Ange'liqiie who once bore her 
name—a fair and sinless woman dedicated to God, 
of whom her black-robed sisters speak with love and 
pride. Nothing of all this passes into the Tombeau 
Blanc. Fernand has not forgotten Blanche, but he 
has no knowledge of Scenr Angdique. He is ever 
intent upon the old problems that vex his waning 
life. The great iron-bound door, so long closed, 
must soon turn upon its rusty hinges. Who will dare 
pass the gate? Who will, having once passed it, 
dare advance to confront the odor of the charnel- 


* Ah ! mocking bird. Ah ! mocking songster, 
Ah ! thou hast the devil in thy heart ! 

Thou hast too much wit, mocking bird ! 

But sing on : I must listen : once more ! 





Snowed Up. 


house which fills the square, and which seems to 
have blasted the green old age of le Pere Chene ? 
Who? 

The world ? No ! 

His old Doctor ? No ! 

His former slaves ? No ! 

Delegates from Leper-Land ? Yes ! 

Forgetfulness forbids the first; death the second ; 
superstition and “exodus” the third; brotherhood 
admits the last. 

At this prospect, leper as he is, he shudders. 

These fancies fill his dark hours. He keeps his 
failing eyes fastened wearily upon his narrow do¬ 
main. The grass is growing thick and green over 
all the paths which he once circled in his madness. 
It is with eager longing he awaits the day when it 
shall spring up as thick and green around and over 
his last walk. 

“ It took years to cover those,” he murmurs, 
hoarsely. “ My God ! how many weeks will it be 
before this last one is covered ? ” 


December 25, 187-. A letter just received from 
my friend, the Mayor of Thibodaux, contains this 
simple announcement: 

"Death, the Consoler, has at last come to Fernand." 


SNOWED UP. 

1 . 

RANK MORLEY, a young man of six-and- 
twenty, was one of the heads of a great old 
firm of claret merchants, for more than a hun¬ 
dred years established in London and Bordeaux. 
His father had sent him to France to learn his busi¬ 
ness when he was quite a lad, in consequence of 
which his manners were excellent ; and he spoke 
like a Frenchman, with a slight accent of the South, 
hardly strong enough to mark him as provincial. 
For the last three years, since his father’s death, he 
had lived at Bordeaux and managed that end of the 
business entirely, his partners, who were oldish men, 
living in London. 

Frank was clever, steady, hard-working, and thor¬ 
oughly awake to his own interests. He meant to be 
a very rich man, to retire at forty, and not to marry 
till then. In spite of living abroad so much, he was 
unmistakably English, both in looks and ways ; but 
this did not prove a hindrance to his popularity 
among the French. He was well known at Bor¬ 
deaux, and a great favorite there, admired for his 
liberality, his physical strength, his fearless openness 
of speech and manner. He never suspected, prob¬ 
ably, that some of his young French friends laughed 
at him, and called him jeering names behind his 
back—the only real satisfaction they could have, 
poor fellows, in their intercourse with such a provok¬ 
ing mass of advantages. 


5 11 

But Frank had one friend who really cared for him, 
though he borrowed money from Frank like the 
others. It was a true mutual liking that had drawn 
them together—the jolly, auburn-haired Frank Mor- 
ley, and the black, sallow, melancholy Albert de 
Saint-Flor. Albert was as loyal to his friend Frank 
as to Henri Cinq himself. He knew all Frank’s plans, 
and admired them. The idea of putting off one’s 
marriage till one was forty met with his special ap¬ 
proval after he had sounded Frank on the possibility 
of a marriage with his own only sister. This, it 
seemed, was far too high an honor for Frank to as¬ 
pire to. It was necessary that he should marry an 
Englishwoman—of his own rank in life, he modestly 
added, being quite aware that the Saint-Flor family 
would look upon him as a mere bourgeois. Also he 
knew in his own mind that Mademoiselle de Saint- 
Flor was no longer young—how old he did not 
know ; but older than her brother, who was five and 
twenty—and Albert had several times assured him, 
thinking it probably a recommendation, that they 
were the image of each other. He spoke so posi¬ 
tively, and yet with such good-humored compli¬ 
ments, that Albert saw the idea was a hopeless one. 
But he did not swerve from his friendship with the 
obstinate Morley. 

In the month of December, 1879, early in that long 
painful winter, Frank chose to go to Paris on busi¬ 
ness, and Albert eagerly consented to go with him. 
They started on a snowy day ; and while they were 
yet some way south of Tours, at about five in the 
afternoon, the earth being wrapped in snow and the 
sky black and heavy with more, their train ran into a 
deep drift on the line, and it was soon too clear to 
the passengers that many hours of the night, at 
least, would be spent where they were. After the 
first shock, most of them bore this prospect with the 
resignation of French people. But the one English¬ 
man in the train, hanging himself out of the carriage- 
window, shouted to the nearest official, who answered 
by begging monsieur to sit down and be patient. 

“ Patient be hanged ! ” said Frank, or something 
equivalent in French. “I am not going to sit here 
and be frozen, or stifled, which is more likely. Look 
here, what do you call the nearest station ? ” 

“ Maupas ! ” shouted the official from the dis¬ 
tance, as he plunged through the snow. 

“ Maupas ! Why, Saint-Flor, that’s your place ! ” 
said Frank, quite angrily, to his friend, who jumped 
up in a state of tremendous excitement. 

He had thought they must be at least eight 
leagues short of Maupas. But even now they were 
some distance from the chateau, which lay a mile 
beyond the station. Nothing would give him greater 
delight than to introduce his dear friend there, but 
it seemed to him a simple impossibility. 

“ A simple necessity,” said Frank, laughing. 
“ Look at it in that light, and come along.” 

Albert shrugged his shoulders, but his eyes shone 
with proud pleasure at the daring of his friend. 







512 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ My dear Frank,” he said, “ I am ready to follow 
you to the world’s end.” 

“ As the door won’t open, we will begin by 
getting out of the window,” said Frank. “ The 
best way at first will be along the roofs of the car¬ 
riages.” 

“ Go, go on. I follow you, mon brave! ” 

An hour or two later these weary travellers stum¬ 
bled up to the great iron-studded door of the Chateau 
de Maupas. Albert had lost his way once or twice, 
but at last the glimmer from the snow showed him, 
the dark line of firs through which a rough narrow 
road approached the house. He was melancholy : 
this unexpected coming home did not seem to give 
him any pleasure. Frank, who knew that the Saint- 
Flors were poor and old-fashioned, did not himself 
expect a very hearty welcome, either from monsieur, 
madame, or mademoiselle. About that, however, he 
cared very little. All he wanted was supper and a 
bed, flattering himself that he would get on to Paris 
the next day. 

A shabby man-servant received their wet great¬ 
coats in the hall, which was high and large, and 
dimly lighted by a hanging lantern. 

“ Get my room ready, Francois, and one for mon, 
sieur, do you hear ? ” said Albert. “ What time is 
it ? Have they finished dinner ? ” 

“ I was taking in the bouilli ,” answered Franqois, 
sepulchrally. 

“ Good ; then we are in time. I have the appe¬ 
tite of a wolf—and you, Morley ? ” 

“And I too,” said Frank. “ But, my dear fellow, 
we can’t dine in these boots.” 

“ No, no, come along to my room.” 

They were certainly a pair of disreputable objects, 
covered with snow, which was melting slowly on their 
hair, their mustaches, in fact, all over them. There 
were pools of water where they stood on the stone 
floor of the hall. Suddenly a bell rang sharply in 
some d'stant room. 

“It is Monsieur le Baron for the bouilli” muttered 
Francois, and he shuffled off. 

“ Let us make haste,” said Albert ; and he was 
leading the way up-stairs, having just reached the 
first step, when a lady’s voice made Frank start 
violently. It sounded so sweet and strange in the 
desolate gloomy old house, where there seemed to 
be no welcome and no warmth. 

“ Do I hear Albert’s voice ? ” said the lady. 

She had suddenly appeared in a low-arched door¬ 
way, which framed her in like a picture. Frank, who 
was the nearest, made her a low bow. She curtsied 
with extreme politeness; but Frank was sure that 
there was the faintest quiver of amusement about 
her mouth, and felt miserably conscious of being an 
absurd object. It was a new thing for him not to be 
quite satisfied with his own appearance. 

“ Ah, there you are, ma belle ! ” exclaimed Albert, 
and he marched up to the lady. “ I dare not even 
allow myself to kiss your hand. May I present my 


friend, Monsieur Morley, to my sister, Mademoiselle 
de Saint-Flor ? ” 

“ I am charmed to see you, monsieur,” said the 
lady, smiling on Frank with a grave sweetness which 
reassured him. “ But how did you bring yourself 
and your friend into this sad plight, my poor brother ? 
Tell me, then—you have walked in this frightful 
weather all the way from Bordeaux ? ” 

“ No, indeed ; only from the railway. But I will 
explain presently,” said Albert. “ Excuse us a 
moment, dearest. Beg my father and mother to 
pardon this sudden intrusion, and to give us some¬ 
thing to eat.” 

“ But certainly, poor travellers ! Make haste, 
then. Ah, let me see—I will send old Marie to you 
with dry clothes.” 

Albert tore up-stairs followed by his friend, whose 
brain was in a strange commotion. Twenty railway 
accidents would have been less exciting than this 
encounter with Mademoiselle de Saint-Flor, whose 
pitying glance and smile, half pensive, half amused, 
seemed a revelation of something.so completely new 
and charming. He thought he had never seen so 
picturesque a figure. She was rather tall, and very 
thin ; pale, in fact, completely colorless ; but there 
was nothing painful or unhealthy in the look of her 
creamy skin. It was simply beautiful. Her face 
was delicate, full of expression, and very French. 
Her hair was almost black. She was dressed in a 
thick, soft, white stuff, with black ribbons ; the only 
color she had was in her eyes, which were those truly 
violet eyes possessed by one woman in a million. 

As he hastily prepared himself to appear before 
this angel at dinner, Frank shouted to Albert, who 
was in an adjoining room with the door open: 

“ I thought you told me that you and mademoiselle 
your sister were like each other ?” 

“ My dear friend, our features are precisely the 
same.” 

“ Then you are a much handsomer fellow than I . 
took you for,” said Frank, half to himself, but Albert 
was listening. 

“ Aha, you are always so droll ! You find her 
handsome, then, my sister ? ” 

“ She is perfectly beautiful,” said Frank, in a lower 
voice still. 

There was a suppreseed irritation about the tone 
of these remarks which gave Albert a certain mali¬ 
cious pleasure. He laughed to himself as he stood 
before the chimney-glass brushing up his black 
hair. 

II. 

Monsieur le Baron and Madame le Baronne de 
Saint-Flor were by no means such agreeable people 
as their son and daughter. They were stiff with an 
old-fashioned provincial stiffness. The Baron had 
been in the navy, had gray whiskers and a red ribbon 
in his button-hole. Madame was a dark, grave, little 
woman with an important manner. They were both 
inclined to look on an Englishman as their natural 





Snowed Up. 


513 


enemy, and on this special one as a thing of inferior 
creation. With no title, not even in the army or 
navy, a merchant actually—but that must be some 
mistake, the Baronne was sure. Her son, with all 
his modern ideas, would never have brought as guest 
to Chateau Maupas a person who made his living by 
buying and selling. 

Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Flor made these 
remarks to each other privately. If they had known 
the length to which Albert’s ideas had gone, led by 
common sense and affection for his friend, perhaps 
they would hardly have behaved to Frank with even 
outward courtesy. But in that they were faultless : 
they both treated him with ceremonious politeness. 

Somehow—Frank hardly knew how it happened— 
he found himself staying on, day after day, at the 
chateau. He had his excuses. The roads were 
blocked with snow ; the newspapers brought terrible 
accounts of the state of Paris, buried in snow so 
that all work was stopped, and the poor were starv¬ 
ing. Madame de Saint-Flor insisted that her son 
should not risk his life on the railway in such 
weather, and was obliged to express polite anxiety 
about her guest too. Frank knew it was all non¬ 
sense ; that under ordinary circumstances mountains 
of snow would not have kept him in a dismal old 
place like this, with nothing to do but smoke and 
stare at the ancient tomes in the library, appear at 
meals when the bell clanged, listen to the eternal 
prosings of Monsieur le Baron, read the “ Union,” 
with its one-sided politics, hand madame her coffee 
after dinner. His active limbs could not be exercised 
by strolling backward and forward along the swept 
path to the stables, where two fat old horses stood 
eating their heads off. He felt inclined to suggest 
a game of “ Going to Jerusalam,” as he had seen it 
played by a number of lively people in a great 
house in the North one wet day. The long corridors 
of the chateau would have done well for such a 
game ; but he looked at his four companions, and 
did not suggest it. 

After all he did not really want any amusement. 
He was “deeply interested ”—that was the way he put 
it to himself—in Mademoiselle de Saint-Flor, and was 
wondering how he could hint to' Albert that it was 
all humbug about waiting till he was forty, and 
marrying a countrywoman of his own. Of course 
he had very little talk with her, and their acquaint¬ 
ance did not seem to advance much. The sweet, 
welcoming manner, the sympathetic smiles of the 
first evening, seemed to be her highest mark. In 
her mother’s presence she scarcely ever went so far, 
and she and Frank were never alone together. Now 
and then their eyes met, and though it was only for 
an instant, Frank felt a strong, deep excitement, a 
longing to make her look at him again. 

By-and-by, when he was satisfied that she in her 
strange way was the most beautiful woman he had 
ever seen, it dawned on him that her usual expres¬ 
sion was intensely sad ; that when her mouth and 


eyes were quiet, and her face bent over the tapestry 
she worked at for hours together, she looked as if 
she could never smile again. Frank thought about 
her day and night. He trembled at every sign of a 
thaw, and the white flakes as they steadily descended 
were more precious to him than showers of gold. 
Madame de Saint-Flor came into the dining-room 
one morning and found him standing at the window 
whistling cheerfully, as he stared out into a thick 
snow-storm. 

“ You are most unfortunate, monsieur,” she said. 
“ Instead of improving, the weather seems to grow 
worse. I sympathize most truly with both you and 
Albert.” 

“ You are very good, madame,” said Frank, smil¬ 
ing. “ I assure you that I never was more happy 
and contented. If it had not been for this obliging 
snow, I might never have known Albert’s relations.” 

“ You make the bad weather pass very pleasantly 
for us,” said the Baronne graciously. “ We too are 
glad to know our son’s best friend.” 

She could not resist the conviction that this mer¬ 
chant was like a gentleman, though it half provoked 
her that he should take their hospitality for granted 
in this sort of way. 

At breakfast that day the talk happened to turn 
on architecture, and Monsieur de Saint-Flor assured 
Frank that the house which sheltered him at that 
instant was a pure specimen of Francois Premier. 
The outer walls and fortifications had of course been 
pulled down ; there had formerly been eight corner 
towers, of which only one remained, the old disused 
colombier. But the three pavilions of the house 
itself, with the galleries connecting them, stood pre¬ 
cisely as the sixteenth century had left them. Mon¬ 
sieur de Saint-Flor told his companions that he was 
proud of their very dilapidation, and would never 
consent to their being restored. He remarked that 
restoration was the tomb of history. Frank, who 
had often heard Albert speak of the old chateau in 
a very different strain, was irreverent enough to 
wonder whether a good balance at his banker’s 
would not alter M. le Baron’s opinion. He discov¬ 
ered, however, that Marguerite—this was her lovely 
name, by which the bold Englishman already called 
her in his dreams—had a very affectionate admira¬ 
tion for the old place ; she looked up and smiled, 
and joined in the conversation quite eagerly. 

After breakfast Albert walked down with his father 
to the village, half a mile off, to settle some business 
at the Mairie. Frank, after wandering all round the 
chateau, even under the rugged walls of the south 
front, where there was a patch of ground railed off 
and planted with shrubs, and where he saw some¬ 
thing that startled him a good deal, made his way 
back to the salon windows, where he looked in and 
saw Marguerite sitting over her tapestry. The wild 
old place with its long history, its owners with their 
stiff old-fashioned ways, the stern winter that blocked 
it in, the dead silence, only broken by the fall of a 






5*4 


Treasury of Tales. 


mass of snow from some over-laden tree, and now a 
real mystery to account, as it were, for all this sug¬ 
gestiveness—these were certainly strange surround¬ 
ings for a matter-of-fact young Saxon. Marguerite 
herself was like an enchanted lady, so silent and 
lovely, and always dressed in white and black, like a 
nun, or a creature with some sad history. It was a 
privilege to find her alone, and he hurried into the 
room, where she welcomed him with a smile. He 
stood and watched her needle as it passed in and 
out among the colored arabesques she was working. 

“ Have you been examining our architecture, 
monsieur ? ” she said. “ I saw you wandering round 
the house.” 

“Yes, mademoiselle. And I saw something that 
puzzled me ; perhaps you can explain it ? ” 

Marguerite dropped her needle, leaned back, and 
fixed her eyes on him ; the deep, wondering sadness 
in them appalled the young man. 

“ Do not distress yourself,” he said, coloring. “ It 
is too curious of me to notice it, perhaps.” 

“What is it ? I should like you to tell me.” 

“ Well, I was under the window of the south pa¬ 
vilion, where the garden is railed off, you know. 
The windows are barred, but one of them was open, 
and an old lady was standing at it. Her hair was 
white. She had nothing on her head, I was afraid 
she would catch cold. She looked at me, and waved 
her hand through the bars. I took off my hat, and 
she called out suddenly, ‘ Take care what you are 
doing, monsieur ! ’ and then she turned away and I 
saw no more of her. Mademoiselle, perhaps I had 
no business in that part of the garden ? ” 

“ No, no, you had not,” repeated Marguerite 
hastily. 

“ No one told me to keep out of it,” said Frank 
in a low voice, looking at her intently. 

She stooped forward over her work, and took up 
her needle again ; but her fingers were trembling, 
he saw, so that she could not guide it. He saw that 
she was flushing slowly and deeply, her whole face 
and neck changed from their usual ivory to rosy 
red. She stooped forward still more, and suddenly 
a tear fell, shining, on the work. Then she got up 
with a quick movement, and was going to leave the 
room, but to do this she had to pass Frank, and he 
was not inclined to let her go so easily. 

“ At least forgive me before you go, mademoi¬ 
selle ? ” he said, with an air of the deepest peni¬ 
tence. “ What have I said or done ? I am perfectly 
wretched. I shad go out and shoot myself.” 

At this threat a smile just quivered about Mar¬ 
guerite’s mouth. 

“ I beg you will do no such thing ! ” she said, with 
a momentary glance and a renewed blush. “ I am 
very foolish. I must tell you the truth. The old 
lady you saw is an aunt of ours. We have all lived 
here together for the last nine or ten years. She is 
peculiar, and has rooms of her own in that part of 
the house. She does not like strangers—never sees 


any one—I think you had better not go near her 
again.” 

Frank bowed. 

“ I am very sorry, indeed, that I intruded on her,” 
he said. “ But no one had given me a hint of her 
existence.” 

“She prefers to be unknown,” said Marguerite, 
and she sighed deeply as she turned away to open 
the door. 

Frank Morley always prided himself on his knowl¬ 
edge of foreign life and customs. He used to talk 
finely of meeting foreigners on their own ground • 
but it seems as if he must just then have forgotten 
where he was, carried away by the excitement of the 
moment. Forgetting all the proprieties, he threw 
himself—figuratively—at the feet of Mademoiselle 
de Saint-Flor. 

“ This is not a place for you ; you are not happy 
here ! ” he burst forth ; and then he told her that 
he loved her passionately, and asked her if he must 
be miserable for life. 

She clasped her hands, and retreated from him a 
step or two, for at that moment Frank was very 
tragical. She looked extremely surprised, as well 
she might, at his extraordinary breach of etiquette. 
But she did not seem angry, and she made no effort 
to leave the room. 

“ Ah, what are you saying ? ” she whispered. 
“You forget—you forget-” 

“ What do I forget ? ” said Frank. “ Is there 
anything I ought to remember ? Are you offended ? 
Will you answer me ? ” 

She shook her head. Presently, after more prayers 
and eager questions, she confessed that she did not 
hate him—no, why should she ? But he had surprised 
her very much, and—in fact, she did not know what 
to say. 

“ I ought to have spoken first to your father ! ” 
cried Frank, suddenly recollecting himself. “But 
that roundabout fashion is all very well for those 
who don’t care as I do. Are you angry ? Do you 
wish that I had spoken to him first ? ” 

“ I don’t know—everything is strange,” said Mar¬ 
guerite. “ It is only—because I am afraid he will 
think that you ought. We always do, you know.” 

“ Then you will let me speak to him now ! ” ex¬ 
claimed Frank, in immense excitement. 

“ You frighten me—you are so terribly English. 
Can I prevent you ? ” 

As the Baron was half a mile off through the 
snow, and as Frank felt that his part of the business 
must be managed through Albert with all possible 
formality, he did not find it necessary to leave off 
his love-making at this point, unorthodox as it was. 
Marguerite, with all her charm, was a puzzle to him. 
There seemed to be more wistful sadness than ever 
in those wonderful violet eyes, as she looked up at 
him ; a sort of sad indifference in her manner too, 
though through it all he knew that she belonged to 
him, and that she recognized the fact. For some 




Snowed Up. 


515 


minutes she seemed to be trying to say something, 
to give him some warning ; she had a way of lifting- 
up her hand, as if to check him in his protestations. 

“ Let me speak,” she said, at last ; “ let me tell 
you something. You are making a sad mistake ; it 
may be only the beginning of the end. Do you be¬ 
lieve me ? Are you superstitious at all ? ” 

“ Not in the least, thank heaven,” said Frank. 
“ And I never make mistakes. Are you supersti¬ 
tious? Is there anything that makes you afraid 
for yourself ? Is it leaving your country ? ” 

“ I am not afraid for myself,” she answered. “ And 
the superstition—it is all nonsense, after all. But 
what did I want to say to you ? Ah, this ! I am not 
a girl, you know. I am a woman, more than twenty- 
six years old. I have suffered a great deal. I have 
not much to give you, except just myself.” 

“ What do I want more ? ” said Frank. “ Yes, one 
knows you have suffered, even by your dress. Do 
you never wear even a blue ribbon, Marguerite ? ” 

She looked at him solemnly for a moment, and 
then smiled. 

“ No,” she said ; “ but you must not ask me why. 
Perhaps some day I may tell you. Now I must not 
stay here with you any longer. Open the door, if 
you please, and let me go.” 

Frank obeyed. She paused in the doorway, under 
the shadow of the velvet curtain ; laid two fingers 
on her lips and looked at him, deeply, intently, as if 
she was asking him some question on the answer of 
which her life depended. He thought afterward 
that he had never seen anything so extraordinary. 

“ You love me ? ” she said, under her breath, and 
without waiting for any sort of reply she glided 
away and was gone. He stood for at least two min¬ 
utes with the curtain in his hand, staring in a sort of 
bewilderment, long after she had vanished. 

III. 

A few weeks later, after his visit to frozen Paris, 
Frank Morley found himself once more at Chateau 
Maupas, this time, wonderful to tell, as the accepted 
lover of Mademoiselle de Saint-Flor. Frank never 
knew, and did not much try to find out, how Albert 
had conquered the prejudices of his parents. There 
may have been more reasons than one for their con¬ 
senting. Beside the solid advantage of belonging 
to a rich and generous Englishman, this marriage 
was, perhaps, seen by them to be a way out of a 
painful difficulty. Frank was afterward conscious 
that the whole explanation was very clear, if he had 
cared to think it out; but he was a chivalrous fellow, 
and thinking it out seemed almost an impertinence, 
both to the poor proud people who bowed their 
heads in such a stately way to circumstances, and 
to their beautiful unhappy daughter. He came to 
Maupas by special invitation, on his way back to 
Bordeaux, joining Albert, who had gone before to 
smooth the way for him. 

The snow was gone, but the weather was still bit¬ 


terly cold ; a frosty wind made music among the 
dark shivering firs, and howled dismally about the 
roofs of the chateau. Frank thought it all looked 
even more desolate than when it was buried in snow, 
and there was hardly enough cheerfulness in-doors to 
make up for the dismal weather. 

Albert was the only person who received him with 
any animation. Monsieur and Madame dc Saint- 
Flor were grave and polite ; Marguerite, though 
her smile made him understand that he was very 
welcome, looked if possible sadder than ever. 

Her eyelids were heavy, as if she had been crying. 
By the end of the evening, the discovery that they 
were not to be left alone together had thrown Frank 
into a state bordering on frenzy. What was the use 
of being engaged if they were to behave to each 
other like strangers, if they might not even talk 
unheard by other people ? Frank resolved that 
either these manners and customs should give way be¬ 
fore his English will, or else that he would leave the 
chateau the next day, and see none of them again 
till it was time to be married. He could not annoy 
his lady-love and her parents by any open rebellion, 
but he promised himself that Albert should know 
his mind on the subject; and he gave it him that 
evening in the smoking-room, after Monsieur de 
Saint-Flor had left them and gone to bed. 

“Certainly, my dear friend ; what you ask is only 
reasonable,” said the amiable Albert. “ Trust to 
me. I will do everything. My mother naturally 
keeps to her own ways, and expects Marguerite to 
conform to them. But I will arrange that you shall 
have an interview to-morrow. Trust to me.” 

“Thank you,” said Frank, with satirical earnest¬ 
ness. “ If you fail to make that arrangement, sir, I 
shall make it myself.” 

He smoked in silence for a few minutes. Albert 
also looked very grave, perceiving that his friend 
was out of temper, and perhaps feeling himself in an 
awkward position between these jarring nationali¬ 
ties. 

“ Marguerite looks terribly sad. What on earth is 
the matter with her ? As I have no chance of ask¬ 
ing her myself, I must ask you,” said Frank, pres¬ 
ently. 

“ How should I know ? She is of a melancholy 
temperament,” said Albert. 

“ There I differ from you. She is as capable of 
being happy as any one else. Do you know of any¬ 
thing that ought to make her unhappy at this mo¬ 
ment ? ” 

Frank fixed his eyes on Albert’s thin dark face, 
which certainly looked grave and puzzled at the 
question. But it was answered immediately. 

“ Nothing, I should say, that ought to make her 
unhappy.” 

“What is it, then ? There is something.” 

Albert shrugged his shoulders, and became impen¬ 
etrable. 

Presently they went up-stairs together. The 




Treasury of Tales . 


516 

young Frenchman left his future brother-in-law, 
still rather injured and sulky, in a large state bed¬ 
room given him in honor of his new position in the 
family. A fire was burning on the low hearth. Two 
candles hardly lighted the high dark room, which 
was hung with old faded tapestry. The flames as 
they flared seemed to make a sudden stir among the 
ghostly figures on the walls. A crowd of pale-faced 
hunters on white horses would come riding forward, 
dogs would run among trees, peacocks would wave 
their once shining tails in the light. 

Frank, as he had told Marguerite, was not super¬ 
stitious. He glanced once round the room, and 
then, pulling up a great chair in front of the fire, 
sat down and thought about that sad, white face, 
those dear, wistful eyes that seemed to be forever 
asking the same question that once had made its 
way into words, “ You love me ? ”—a question which, 
it seemed to him, he had never been allowed to an¬ 
swer properly. Could she doubt him ? Was that 
why she looked so sad ? Had she consented to this 
match for any reason but to please herself—any idea 
of duty to her family ? He promised himself to have 
that all made clear to-morrow. 

A little noise, like a door opening gently, made 
him turn his head and look round the room again ; 
seeing nothing, he supposed there must be rats be¬ 
hind the wainscot, and returned to the fire and his 
meditations. At the far corner of the room there 
was a door opening into a dressing-room, which again 
communicated with the passages. Frank, full of 
other thoughts, had not noticed this entrance ; and 
now he was not at all aware that a hand was pushing 
the dressing-room door, and that eyes were peeping 
at him from behind it. Footsteps on the boards of 
his room, however, with the slight tap of a stick slowly 
approaching him, made him spring from his chair 
in real surprise. 

Standing by the table, on which Francois had 
arranged the materials for eau sucrte, was a small 
elderly lady, dressed in black, with a fair sharp face, 
a suspicious expression, and a quantity of white hair 
rolled up high over a cushion. She wore long gloves, 
and carried a cane in her hand. Frank stared at her 
in speechless surprise. 

“ I am not a ghost, monsieur, and you have seen 
me before,” she said. Her voice had a sort of dis¬ 
agreeable snap in it. 

Frank recognized the old aunt who had looked 
out of her window that snowy morning and had told 
him to take care what he was doing. He bowed 
politely. 

“ Pardon me, madame. I remember you very 
well,” he said. “ Can I do anything for you ? ” 

“ Nothing at all,” she said, with a slight toss of her 
head. “ I am come here to do you a kindness. Give 
me a chair. Is it true that you are to marry my 
niece, Mademoiselle de Saint-Flor ? ” 

She sat down, placed her feet on a footstool, and 
looked at him magisterially. Frank thought she was 


probably mad. He stood opposite to her, at the 
further end of the table, and answered her very 
meekly. 

“Yes, madame, I am to have that honor.” 

“ I suspected it from the moment I saw you in the 
garden, and since then I have heard all about it. 
My brother was obliged to tell me. He can never 
keep a secret, poor man. I suppose he thought I 
had forgotten the past, or that I should not venture 
to interfere again. But no, I would not sit in my 
tower and see a fine young man sacrificed. Did you 
ever hear of Gr^goire de la Masseliere ? ” 

“ No,” said Frank, as she waited for an answer. 

“Ah! I thought not. Or of Jules de Marigny ? ” 

« No.” 

“ Or of my son, Leon de Maupas, and his brother 
Celestin ? ” 

“ No, madame.” 

“Very well. Listen, and I will tell you a little 
history about these four young men. It is more than 
nine years since the war. In those days I and my 
two sons lived here in this house, and my brother 
and his wife and those children of his were miserably 
poor people living at Tours. Out of kindness to my 
brother I arranged that my elder son, the Comte de 
Maupas, should marry that girl Marguerite, though 
I never cared for her—to my eyes she always had 
misfortune written on her face. But my son ad¬ 
mired her, and he was willing enough. She was a 
mere child then. Well, they were betrothed, and 
then the war broke out, and my son Leon went 
straight to the front and was killed in the first bat¬ 
tle. Do you understand ? ” 

“ Perfectly, madame,” said Frank, gravely. 

“ The story improves as it goes on. After that, 
in the winter we arranged that my second son, Ce¬ 
lestin, should marry Marguerite. I did it all out of 
kindness to my brother, remember. Celestin also 
was in the army. He was killed in the spring, in the 
last battle.” 

Frank could not restrain a slight shiver. There 
was something quite awful in the Comtesse’s sharp 
voice, her cold eyes, her air of repressed excitement, 
with quick nervous little movements of her two thin 
hands. 

“After that,” she said, “you would have thought, 
perhaps, they might have had the decency to send 
the girl to a convent. But no ; she must make a 
good match in spite of everything. They waited 
only two years, and then they arranged a marriage 
for her with Jules de Marigny. He looked as strong 
and handsome as yourself. But I knew he would 
not live—why should he, when my sons died ? A 
week before the marriage he was out shooting, and 
he shot himself by accident—accident ! ” 

Madame de Maupas raised her voice almost to a 
scream, and ended this part of her story with a little 
shrill laugh, which made Frank feel colder than ever. 

“ Good,” she said, going on more quietly. “ Now 
we come to the fourth, to Gregoire de la Masseliere. 







Snowed Up. 


He was only three years ago—for, let me tell you, 
people talked about all this, and saw plainly that it 
would be tempting Fate to ally themselves with such 
an unlucky young person. But this worthy man 
had been abroad for some years in the colonies—I 
don’t know where. He came home to find a wife. 
He had plenty of money and some brains. He saw 
Marguerite, and proposed for her at once to her 
father. Of course he was accepted ; they were only 
too glad. He came to this house, where my dear 
relations were living with me—it is my house, mon¬ 
sieur, and not my brother’s at all—and they lodged 
him in this very room. I never see visitors. Since my 
great griefs I have avoided all strangers, have lived 
alone, as you know, though under the same roof with 
those others. 

“ Well I saw the good fat man stumping about in 
the garden one summer evening, looking so pros¬ 
perous and contented that I felt sincerely sorry for 
him. Why should this poor creature die too ? I said 
to myself. I knew very well that Marguerite’s his¬ 
tory would not be told to him unless I told it. I 
made up my mind to save him, if he chose to be 
saved. I came to him in the night, as I come to you 
now. My dear monsieur, I terrified that poor sheep 
so utterly out of his senses that he fled from Maupas 
the next morning, and wrote from Paris to my 
brother to say that he had changed his mind about 
marrying. Heavens ! how I laughed when the Baron 
came to me with the letter in his hand ! ” 

Frank listened with the deepest attention to all 
this. The history of M. de la Masseliere seemed to 
do him good ; for when it was finished he was smil¬ 
ing quite comfortably. 

“ Well ? ” said Madame de Maupas, looking at 
him hard. 

“ Madame ? ” 

“ Well, have you been listening ? Do you under¬ 
stand me ? ” 

“ I have listened to every word ; but you must 
excuse me if I cannot feel sure of your object.” 

“ My object! I had no idea Englishmen were so 
dull. To save you, of course, as I saved Gregoire 
de la Masseliere.” 

“ You really hope, madame, to find me such a 
dastardly coward as M. de la Masseliere—that poor 
sheep, as you justly call him ?—Englishmen are dull, 
no doubt. They don’t understand being expected 
to behave dishonorably.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! Then you will not give up my 
niece ? ” 

“ Literally, madame, I will die first.” 

Frank colored scarlet, and spoke with almost sub- 
blime energy. Afterward he was half-amused, half- 
grieved at himself, for having flown out in this 
manner to a poor old mad woman. Madame de 
Maupas seemed deeply impressed. She got up, 
trembling a little, and leaning on her stick. 

“ Very well. Please yourself. I do not wish to 
see you again. You are very ungrateful, and no 


517 

doubt there is a bitter punishment in store for you. 
You also will die, and your death will break the girl’s 
heart. 1 understand that she cares for you more 
than for any of them. I wish you good-evening.” 

She departed by the v/ay she had come ; through 
the dressing-room, and so into a narrow passage, 
which led to her own part of the house. Frank 
opened the doors for her, and shut and locked them 
securely when she was gone. He then returned to 
his chair before the red smouldering fife, to muse 
over the strange explanation of his Marguerite’s 
sadness. 

IV. 

Albert kept his word, and the next day after 
breakfast Frank found himself left alone in the salon 
with Marguerite. He poured out his feelings with 
the demonstrative candor natural to him, which did 
not seem to offend this French lady. Her English 
lover seemed to her a charming and wonderful creat¬ 
ure ; perhaps a little wild and unmanageable, but 
still a creature with whom one could be amazingly 
happy—if only things would go well. The shadow 
of the past still clouded her eyes and saddened her 
smile. Could any mortal man be master of Fate ? 
Certainly, if any one, Frank Morley. 

“ I know you think me very sad and stupid,” she 
said by and by. “ Believe me, I have had a good 
deal to make me so. Only take care of yourself, and 
I shall forget it all presently.” 

“ Am I in any danger, then ? ” said Frank. 

“ Oh no ; not any real danger ! But I think we 
are an unlucky family. Perhaps some day I maybe 
able to tell you why.” 

“Tell me now, can’t you ? But in the meantime 
you need hardly wear mourning for me in prospect, 
Marguerite. I have not the smallest intention of 
dying at present.” 

He was twining one of her black ribbons round 
his fingers as he spoke. 

“ Ah,” she said, with almost a little cry, “ I ought 
never to have allowed it. I ought never to have 
said ‘ Yes.’ I ought to have cared more—ah, Frank, 
I have been selfish, and selfishness is sure to be pun¬ 
ished.” 

“ Nonsense ! What are you afraid of ? ” said 
Frank, gazing earnestly into her face. She shook 
her head, and looked down. Then she lifted her 
eyes again with a little air of proud resolution. 

“ I will tell you,” she said, “ and then you will be 
warned, perhaps, and go away. You ought to have 
known it all before ; you have been deceived. We have 
all joined in deceiving you. At first I did not think 
what I was doing, but now I know. Frank, I thought 
it would be easier to die than to tell you all the 
story ; but now I will, for you are giving yourself 
ignorantly. And I will not have it ; you are too 
dear and generous.” 

Frank smiled as he listened and watched her face. 

“ I think you are disturbing yourself about noth¬ 
ing, my dear child,” he said. 





Treasury of Tales. 


518 

“ Indeed I am not. Ah, you would not say that if 
you knew what pain it is to me, how all the old pain 
comes back ! Only this is fifty thousand times 
worse, because I do believe-” 

“ That you love me and I love you.” Frank fin¬ 
ished her speech for her. “ I should say that made 
it fifty thousand times better. It strikes me you 
don’t quite understand the force of what you are 
saying. Under those circumstances is it likely that 
I should give you up, whatever you might have to tell 
me ? Listen. You are like some princess in a fairy 
tale, who put all her lovers to death if they couldn’t 
answer a certain question : What is my thought 
like ? Don’t you know ? Well, lots of them came 
to an untimely end, but at last the right man came 
and answered it. He always does. Your question 
was different. You asked it me one morning as you 
went out of that door, and would not stop to hear 
the answer, because you knew it would be the right 
one. So altogether I don’t see what there is to vex 
yourself about.” 

Frank spoke very deliberately, with a cool reason¬ 
ing air. A look of great surprise came into Mar¬ 
guerite’s face ; she flushed up as she had done that 
morning which both she and Frank remembered so 
well. 

• “ You say very strange things,” she murmured, 
after a little silence. 

“ Is there anything quite untrue and ridiculous in 
what I have said ? ” 

“ Oh, Frank, you puzzle me completely.” 

“You see, you need not trouble yourself to tell 
me anything, my dear Marguerite. And as for pain, 
old or new, don’t mention the subject again, please. 
You are going to be happy, and you will oblige me 
by taking off those horrid black ribbons.” 

“ Frank! You know, and it makes no differ¬ 
ence ?” 

“ It makes this difference—that I will not wait for 
you more than a month. I am not going to let you 
stay in this gloomy place, with ghosts and mad peo¬ 
ple, a day longer than I can help.” 

“ Ah, Mon Dieu ! It was my aunt ; you have seen 
her ! When was it ? What did she say to you ? ” 

She was very much agitated. Frank soothed her 
as well as he could, and told her by degrees the 
story of his visit from Madame de Maupas. Mar¬ 
guerite cried a little, and could hardly believe that 
he was uninfluenced by all the horrors he had heard. 
Frank had to soothe and reassure her all over again. 
By and by she looked up at him, her eyes smiling, 
the wild weary look in them gone forever. 

“ I am happy now,” she said. “ I feel the sunshine ; 
there is no more cold wind ; ” and she broke into a 
little joyful laugh. “ After all this is a very good 
world,” she said. 

V 

Frank afterward described his interview with 
Madame de Maupas in a much more unvarnished 


way to her nephew Albert, who told him that all 
her story was true. He added that the poor lady, 
always peculiar, had been a little touched in her 
wits since the war and the death of her sons. She 
had become superstitious and revengeful, throwing 
all the blame of their deaths on the ill-luck of Mar¬ 
guerite. Her late husband’s brother, the present 
Comte de Maupas, was a thorough Parisian, and had 
no use for such a middle-age abode as the Chateau 
de Maupas. He was glad that the Saint-Flors 
should make their home there, and take charge of 
the old lady ; and having no children of his own, he 
meant to leave the place to Albert, with the small 
quantity of land that remained to it. 

It seemed only right that Frank should know all 
the family history, the chain of circumstances which 
had led to his meeting with Marguerite. It was a 
rough way by which he had reached her, certainly : 
of battle-fields and dying men, accidents and terrors, 
the derangement of one person, the cowardice and 
superstition of another. Trains running into snow¬ 
drifts, a struggle with the elements, a ghostly old 
castle blocked in with snow. Through all these diffi¬ 
culties the fair sorrowful Frenchwoman and the 
sturdy Englishman had advanced to meet each other, 
and now Frank was resolved that Marguerite should 
forget the past dimness of her life in its present 
beauty and brightness. 

He took a fine house at Bordeaux and furnished 
it splendidly for his bride. He brought her there 
in the spring, dressed all in lovely rose-pink, which 
made her complexion look like driven snow, and her 
eyes of a deeper and more wonderful blue than 
ever. Albert, when he visited them, hardly knew 
his sister ; she looked so pretty and happy and young. 

Madame Morley, ne'e Saint-Flor, gives the most 
charming parties, and is already known as the most 
agreeable hostess in that part of France. With 
Frank’s help she has introduced something in imita¬ 
tion of an English Garden-party, which was very 
popular this summer. There a few more advanced 
young married ladies might be seen playing lawn- 
tennis, a game in which Marguerite herself, much as 
she liked to w T atch her husband playing it, could 
never be persuaded to join. Still people said she 
was entirely English. What could be more English 
than her marriage ! It was evident that she and 
Frank Morley adored each other ; and there was 
even a floating rumor that they arranged it all be¬ 
tween themselves, before M. de Saint-Flor heard a 
word about it. That, however, was pronounced 
incredible. There is no limit to the extravagances 
of gossip. 

The last night that Frank spent at Chateau Mau¬ 
pas, he found on his table a case of diamond orna¬ 
ments, with a note addressed to himself, written in 
so thin and shaky a hand that he could hardly de¬ 
cipher it. 

“I give these to you, that you may give them to your 








Doctor Marigold. 


Marguerite. I will not see her ; but I congratulate her 
on her marriage with a brave man who loves her, and 
will teach her how to live. 

“COMTESSE DRE. De MAUPAS.” 

Frank thought there was some method in the old 
lady’s madness, after all. 


DOCTOR MARIGOLD. 

BY CHARLES DICKENS. 

I. 

I AM a Cheap Jack, and my own father’s name 
was Willum Marigold. It was in his life-time 
supposed by some that his name was William, 
but my own father always consistently said, No, 
it was Willum. On which point I content myself 
with looking at the argument this way : If a man 
is not allowed to know his own name in a free 
country, how much is he allowed to know in a land 
of slavery ? 

I was born on the Queen’s highway, but it was the 
King’s at that time. A doctor was fetched to my 
own mother by my own father, when it took place 
on the common ; and in consequence of his being a 
very kind gentleman, and accepting no fee but a 
tea-tray, I was named Doctor, out of gratitude and 
compliment to him. There you have me. Doctor 
Marigold. 

The doctor having accepted a tea-tray, you’ll 
guess that my father was a Cheap Jack before me. 
You are right. He was. And my father was a 
lovely one in his time at the Cheap Jack work. Now 
I’ll tell you what. I mean to go down into my 
grave declaring that, of all the callings ill-used in 
Great Britain, the Cheap Jack calling is the worst 
used. Why ain’t we a profession ? Why ain’t we 
endowed with privileges ? Why are we forced to 
take out a hawker’s license, when no such thing is 
expected of the political hawkers ? Where’s the 
difference betwixt us ? Except that we are Cheap 
Jacks and they are Dear Jacks, I don’t see any dif¬ 
ference but what’s in our favor. 

For look here ! Say it’s election-time. I am on 
the foot-board of my cart in the market-place on a 
Saturday night. I put up a general miscellaneous 
lot. I say : “ Now here, my free and independent 
woters, I’m a-going to give you such a chance as you 
never had in all your born days, nor yet the days 
preceding. Now I’ll show you what I am a-going to 
do with you. Here’s a pair of razors that’ll shave 
you closer than the Board of Guardians ; here’s a 
flat-iron worth its weight in gold ; here’s a frying- 
pan artificially flavored with essence of beefsteaks to 
that degree that you’ve only got for the rest of your 
lives to fry bread and dripping in it, and there you 
are replete with animal food ; here’s a genuine chro¬ 
nometer watch in such a solid silver case that you 
may knock at the door with it when you come home 


519 

late from a social meeting, and rouse your wife and 
family and save up your knocker for the postman ; 
and here’s half a dozen dinner plates that you may 
play the cymbals with to charm the baby when it’s 
fractious. Stop ! I’ll throw you in another article, 
and I’ll give you that, and it’s a rolling-pin, and if 
the baby can only get it well into its mouth when 
its teeth is coming, and rub the gums once with it, 
they’ll come through double, in a fit of laughter 
equal to being tickled. Stop again ! I’ll throw you 
in another article, because I don’t like the looks of 
you, for you haven’t the appearance of buyers un¬ 
less I lose by you, and because I’d rather lose than 
not take money to-night, and that article’s a looking- 
glass in which you may see how ugly you look when 
you don’t bid. What do you say now ? Come ! 
Do you say a pound ? Not you, for you haven’t 
got it. Do you say ten shillings ? Not you, for you 
owe more to the tally-man. Well, then, I’ll tell you 
what I’ll do with you. I'll heap ’em all on the foot¬ 
board of the cart,—there they are ! razors, flat-irons, 
frying-pan, chronometer watch, dinner-plates, roll¬ 
ing-pin, and looking-glass,—take ’em all away for 
four shillings, and I’ll give you sixpence for your 
trouble ! ” This is me, the Cheap Jack. 

But on the Monday morning, in the same market¬ 
place, comes the Dear Jack on the hustings,— his 
cart,—and what does he say ? “ Now, my free and 

independent woters, I am a-going to give you such a 
chance ” (he begins just like me) “as you never had 
in all your born days, and that’s the chance of send¬ 
ing Myself to Parliament. Now I’ll tell you what I 
am a-going to do for you. Here’s the interests of 
this magnificent town promoted above all the rest 
of the civilized and uncivilized earth. Here’s your 
railways carried, and your neighbors’ railways jock¬ 
eyed. Here’s all your sons in the Post-office. 
Here’s Britannia smiling on you. Here’s the eyes 
of Europe on you. Here’s uniwersal prosperity for 
you, repletion of animal food, golden corn-fields, 
gladsome homesteads, and rounds of applause from 
your own hearts, all in one lot, and that’s myself. 
Will you take me as I stand ? You won’t ? Well, 
then, I'll tell you what I’ll do with you. Come now ! 
I’ll throw you in anything you ask for. There ! 
Church-rates, abolition of church-rates, more malt 
tax, no malt tax, uniwersal education to the highest 
mark, or uniwersal ignorance to the lowest, total 
abolition of flogging in the army, or a dozen for 
every private once a month all round, Wrongs of 
Men or Rights of Women,—only say which shall it 
be, take ’em or leave ’em, and I’m of your opinion 
altogether, and the lot’s your own on your own 
terms. There! You won’t take it yet? Well, then, 
I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. Come ! You 
are such free and independent woters, and I am so 
proud of you—you are such a noble and enlightened 
constituency, and I am so ambitious of the honor 
and dignity of being your member, which is by far 
the highest level to which the wings of the human 









520 


Treasury of Tales. 


mind can soar,—that I’ll tell you what I’ll do with 
you. I’ll throw you in all the public-houses in your 
magnificent town for nothing. Will that content 
you ? It won’t ? You won’t take the lot yet ? Well, 
then, before I put the horse in and drive away, and 
make the offer to the next most magnificent town 
that can be discovered, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. 
Take the lot, and I’ll drop two thousand pounds in 
the streets of your magnificent town for them to 
pick up that can. Not enough ? Now look here. 
This is the very furthest that I’m a-going to. I’ll 
make it two thousand five hundred. And still you 
won’t ? Here, missis ! Put the horse—No, stop 
half a moment, I shouldn’t like to turn my back 
upon you, neither, for a trifle. I’ll make it two 
thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds. There ! 
Take the lot on your own terms, and I’ll count out 
two thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds on the 
footboard of the cart, to be dropped in the streets of 
your magnificent town for them to pick up that can. 
What do you say ? Come now ! You won’t do bet¬ 
ter, and you may do worse. You take it? Hooray ! 
Sold again, and got the seat ! ” 

I courted my wife from the footboard of the cart. 
I did indeed. She was a Suffolk young woman, and 
it was in Ipswich market-place, right opposite the 
corn-chandler’s shop. I had noticed her up at a 
window last Saturday that was, appreciating highly. 
I had took to her, and I had said to myself, “ If not 
already disposed of, I’ll have that lot.” Next Sat¬ 
urday that come I pitched the cart on the same 
pitch, and I was in very high feather indeed, keep¬ 
ing ’em laughing the whole of the time, and getting 
off the goods briskly. At last I took out of my 
waistcoat-pocket a small lot wrapped in soft paper, 
and I put it this way (looking up at the window 
where she was) : “ Now here, my blooming English 
maidens, is a article, the last article of the present 
evening’s sale, which I offer to only you, the 
lovely Suffolk Dumplings biling over with beauty, 
and I won’t take a bid of a thousand pounds for, 
from any man alive. Now what is it? Why, I’ll 
tell you what it is. It’s made of fine gold, and it’s 
not broke, though there’s a hole in the middle of it, 
and it’s stronger than any fetter that ever was forged, 
though it’s smaller than any finger in my set of ten. 
Why ten ? Because when my parents made over my 
property to me, I tell you true, there was twelve 
sheets, twelve towels, twelve table-cloths, twelve 
knives, twelve forks, twelve table-spoons, and twelve 
tea-spoons, but my set of fingers was two short of 
a dozen and could never since be matched. Now 
what else is it ? Come. I’ll tell you. It’s a hoop of 
solid gold, wrapped in a silver curl-paper that I my¬ 
self took off the shining locks of the ever-beautiful 
old lady in Threadneedle Street, London City. I 
wouldn’t tell you so if I hadn’t the paper to show, 
or you mightn’t believe it even of me. Now what 
else is it ? It’s a mantrap and a handcuff, the parish 
stocks and a leg-lock, all in gold and all in one. 


Now what else is it ? It’s a wedding ring. Now I’ll 
tell you what I’m a going to do with it. I’m not 
a-going to offer this lot for money, but I mean to 
give it to the next of you beauties that laughs, and 
I’ll pay her a visit to-morrow morning at exactly half 
after nine o’clock as the chimes go, and I’ll take her 
out for a walk to put up the banns.” She laughed 
and got the ring handed up to her. When I called 
in the morning, she says, “ O dear ! It’s never you, 
and you never mean it ? ” “ It’s ever me,” says I 

“and I’m ever yours, and I ever mean it.” So we 
got married, after being put up three times,—which,, 
by-the-bye, is quite in the Cheap Jack way again, 
and shows once more how the Cheap Jack customs 
pervade society. 

She wasn’t a bad wife, but she had a temper. If 
she could have parted with that one article at a sac¬ 
rifice, I wouldn’t have swopped her away in exchange 
for any other woman in England. Not that I ever 
did swop her away, for we lived together till she 
died, and that was thirteen years. Now, my lords 
and ladies and gentlefolks all, I’ll let you into a 
secret, though you won’t believe it. Thirteen years 
of temper in a Palace would try the worst of you, 
but thirteen years of temper in a Cart would try the 
best of you. You are kept so very close to it in a 
cart, you see. There’s thousands of couples among 
you, getting on like sweet-ile upon a whetstone, in 
houses five and six pairs of stairs high, that would 
go to the Divorce Court in a cart. Whether the 
jolting makes it worse, I don’t undertake to decide, 
but in a cart it does come home to you and stick to 
you. Wiolence in a cart is so wiolent, and aggrawa- 
tion in a cart is so aggrawating. 

We might have had such a pleasant life ! A 
roomy cart, with the large goods hung outside and 
the bed slung underneath it when on the road, an 
iron pot and a kettle, a fireplace for the cold 
weather, a chimney for the smoke, a hanging shelf 
and a cupboard, a dog and a horse. What more do 
you want? You draw off upon a bit of turf in a 
green lane or by the roadside, you hobble your old 
horse and turn him grazing, you light your fire upon 
the ashes of the last visitors, you cook your stew, 
and you wouldn’t call the Emperor of France your 
father. But have a temper in the cart, flinging lan¬ 
guage and the hardest goods in stock at you, and 
where are you then ? Put a name to your feelings. 

My dog knew as well when she was on the turn 
as I did. Before she broke out, he would give a 
howl, and bolt. How he knew it was a mystery to 
me; but the sure and certain knowledge of it would 
wake him up out of his soundest sleep, and he would 
give a howl and bolt. At such times I wished I was 
him. 

The worst of it was, we had a daughter born to 
us, and I love children with all my heart. When she 
was in her furies, she beat the child. This got to be 
so shocking as the child got to be four or five years 
old, that I have many a time gone on with my whip 






Doctor Marigold. 


521 


over my shoulder, at the old horse’s head, sobbing 
and crying worse than ever little Sophy did. For 
how could I prevent it ? Such a thing is not to be 
tried with such a temper—in a cart—without coming 
to a fight. It’s in the natural size and formation of 
a cart to bring it to a fight. And then the poor child 
got worse terrified than before, as well as worse 
hurt, generally, and her mother made complaints to 
the next people we lighted on, and the word went 
round, “ Here’s a wretch of a Cheap Jack been 
a-beating his wife.” 

Little Sophy was such a brave child ! She grew to 
be quite devoted to her poor father, though he could 
do so little to help her. She had a wonderful quan¬ 
tity of shining dark hair, all curling natural about 
her. It is quite astonishing to me now that I didn’t 
go tearing mad when I used to see her run from her 
mother before the cart, and her mother catch her by 
this hair, and pull her down by it, and beat her. 

Yet in other respects her mother took great care 
of her. Her clothes were always clean and neat, 
and her mother was never tired of working at ’em. 
Such is the inconsistency in things. Our being 
down in the marsh country in unhealthy weather I 
consider the cause of Sophy’s taking bad low fever; 
but however she took it, once she got it, she turned 
away from her mother forevermore, and nothing 
would persuade her to be touched by her mother’s 
hand. She would shiver and say, “ No, no, no,” 
when it was offered at, and would hide her face on 
my shoulder, and hold me tighter round the neck. 

The Cheap Jack business had been worse than 
ever I had known it, what with one thing and what 
with another (and not least what with railroads, 
which will cut it all to pieces, I expect, at last), and 
I was run dry of money. For which reason, one 
night at that period of little Sophy’s being so bad, 
either we must have come to a dead-lock for victuals 
and drink, or I must have pitched the cart as I did. 

I couldn’t get the dear child to lie down or leave 
go of me, and indeed I hadn’t the heart to try, so I 
stepped out on the footboard with her holding round 
my neck. They all set up a laugh when they see us, 
and one chuckle-headed Joskin (that I hated for it) 
made the bidding, “ Tuppence for her ! ” 

“Now you country boobies,” says I, feeling as if 
my heart was a heavy weight at the end of a broken 
sash-line,—“ now let’s know what you want to-night, 
and you shall have it. But first of all, shall I tell 
you why I have got this little girl round my neck ? 
You don’t want to know ? Then you shall. She 
belongs to the Fairies. She is a fortune-teller. She 
can tell me all about you in a whisper, and can put 
me up to whether you’re a-going to buy a lot or 
leave it. Now do you want a saw ? No, she says 
you don’t, because you’re too clumsy to use one. 
Your well-known awkwardness would make it man¬ 
slaughter. Now I am a-going to ask her what you 
do want.” (Then I whispered, “ Your head burns 
so, that I am afraid it hurts you bad, my pet ; ” and 


she answered, without opening her heavy eyes, 
“Just a little, father.”) “Oh ! This little fortune¬ 
teller says its a memorandum-book you want. Then 
why didn’t you mention it ? Here it is. Look at it. 
Two hundred superfine hot-pressed wire-wove pages, 
ready ruled for your expenses, an everlastingly- 
pointed pencil to put ’em down with, a double- 
bladed penknife to scratch ’em out with, a book of 
printed tables to calculate your income with, and a 
camp-stool to sit down upon while you give your 
mind to it! Stop ! And an umbrella to keep the 
moon off when you give your mind to it on a pitch- 
dark night. Now I won’t ask you how much for the 
lot, but how little ? How little are you thinking of ? 
Don’t be ashamed to mention it, because my fortune¬ 
teller knows already/’ (Then making believe to 
whisper, I kissed her, and she kissed me.) “ Why, 
she says you are thinking of as little as three and 
threepence ! I couldn’t have believed it, even of 
you, unless she told me. Three and threepence ! 
And a set of printed tables in the lot that’ll calculate 
your income up to forty thousand a year ! With an 
income of forty thousand a year, you grudge three 
and sixpence. Well, then, I’ll tell you my opinion. 

I so despise the threepence that I’d sooner take 
three shillings. There. For three shillings, three 
shillings, three shillings ! Gone. Hand ’em over to 
the lucky man.” 

As there had been no bid at all, everybody looked 
about and grinned at everybody, while I touched 
little Sophy’s face and asked her if she felt faint or 
giddy. “ Not very, father. It will soon be over.” 
Then turning from the pretty patient eyes, which 
were opened now, and seeing nothing but grins 
across my lighted grease-pot, I went on again in my 
Cheap Jack style. “Where’s the butcher?” (My 
sorrowful eye had just caught sight of a fat young 
butcher on the outside of the crowd.) “ She says the 
good luck is the butcher’s. Where is he ? ” Every¬ 
body hailded on the blushing butcher to the front, 
and there was a roar, and the butcher felt himself 
obliged to put his hand in his pocket and take the 
lot. The party so picked out in general does feel 
obliged to take the lot. Then we had another lot, 
the counterpart of that one, and sold it sixpence 
cheaper, which is always wery much enjoyed. So I 
went on in my Cheap Jack style till we had the la¬ 
dies’ lot,—the teapot, tea-caddy, glass sugar-basin, 
half a dozen spoons, and caudle-cup,—and all the 
time I was making similar excuses to give a look or 
two and say a word or two to my poor child. It was 
while the second ladies’ lot w r as holding ’em enchained 
that I felt her lift herself a little on my shoulder, to 
look across the dark street. “ What troubles, you, 
darling?” “Nothing troubles me, father. I am 
not at all troubled. But don’t I see a pretty church¬ 
yard over there?” “Yes, my dear.” “Kiss me 
twice, dear father, and lay me down to rest upon 
that churchyard grass so soft and green.” I staggers 
back into the cart with her head dropped on my 





522 


Treasury 

shoulder, and I says to her mother : “ Quick ! Shut 
the door ! Don’t let those laughing people see ! ” 
“ What’s the matter ? ” she cries. “ Oh woman, wom¬ 
an,” I tells her, “ you’ll never catch my little Sophy 
by her hair again, for she’s dead, and has flown away 
from you! ” 

May be those were harder words than I meant ’em, 
but from that time forth my wife took to brooding, 
and would sit in the cart or walk beside it, hours at 
a stretch, with her arms crossed and her eyes looking- 
on the ground. When her furies took her (which was 
rather seldomer than before) they took her in a new 
way, and she banged herself about to that extent that 
I was forced to hold her. She got none the better 
for a little drink now and then. So sad our lives 
went on till one summer evening, when, as we were 
coming into Exeter out of the farther West of Eng¬ 
land, we saw a woman beating a child in a cruel 
manner, who screamed, “ Don’t beat me ! Oh, mother, 
mother, mother ! ” Then my wife stopped her ears 
and ran away like a wild thing, and next day she was 
found in the river. 

Me and my dog was all the company left in the 
cart now, and the dog learned to give a short bark 
when they wouldn’t bid, and to give another and a 
nod of his head when I asked him : “ Who said half 
a crown ? Are you the gentleman, sir, that offered 
half a crown ? ” He attained to an immense height 
of popularity, and I shall always believe taught him¬ 
self entirely out of his own head to growl at any per¬ 
son in the crowd that bid as low as sixpence. But 
he got to be well on in years, and one night when I 
was conwulsing York with the spectacles, he took a 
conwulsion on his own account upon the very foot¬ 
board by me, and it finished him. 

Being naturally of a tender turn, I had dreadful 
lonely feelings on me arter this. I conquered ’em at 
selling times, having a reputation to keep (not to 
mention keeping myself), but they got me down in 
private and rolled upon me. 

It was under those circumstances that I come ac¬ 
quainted with a giant. I might have been too high 
to fall into conversation with him, had it not been 
for my lonely feelings. For the general rule is, 
going round the country, to draw the lines at dress¬ 
ing up. When a man can’t trust his getting a living 
to his undisguised abilities, you consider him below 
your sort. And this giant when on view figured as 
a Roman. 

He was a languid young man, which I attribute to 
the distance betwixt his extremities. He had a little 
head and less in it ; he had weak eyes and weak 
knees ; and altogether you couldn’t look at him with¬ 
out feeling that there was greatly too much of him 
both for his joints and his mind. But he was an 
amiable though timid young man (his mother let him 
out, and spent the money), and we come acquainted 
when he was walking to ease the horse betwixt two 
fairs. He was called Rinaldo di Velasco, hU name 
being Pickleson. 


of Tales. 

This giant, otherwise Pickleson, mentioned to me, 
under the seal of confidence, that, beyond his being 
a burden to himself, his life was made a burden to 
him by the cruelty of his master towards a step¬ 
daughter who was deaf and dumb. Her mother was 
dead, and she had no living soul to take her part, 
and was used most hard. She travelled with his 
master’s caravan only because there was nowhere to 
leave her, and this giant, otherwise Pickleson, did go 
so far as to believe that his master often tried to lose 
her. He was such a very languid young man that I 
don’t know how long it didn’t take him to get this 
story out; but it passed through his defective circu¬ 
lation to his top extremity in course of time. 

When I heard this account from the giant, other¬ 
wise Pickleson, and likewise that the poor girl had 
beautiful long dark hair, and was often pulled down 
by it and beaten, I couldn’t see the giant through 
what stood in my eyes. Having wiped ’em, I give 
him sixpence (for he was kept as short as he was 
long), and he laid it out in two threepenn’orths of 
gin-and-water, which so brisked him up that he sang 
the Favorite Comic of “ Shivery Shakey, ain’t it cold ” 
—a popular effect which his master had tried every 
other means to get out of him, as a Roman, wholly 
in vain. 

His master’s name was Mim, a wery hoarse man, 
and I knew him to speak to. I went to that fair as 
a mere civilian, leaving the cart outside the town, and 
I looked about the back of the vans while the per¬ 
forming was going on, and at last, sitting dozing 
against a muddy cart-wheel, 1 come upon the poor 
girl who was deaf and dumb. At the first look 1 
might almost have judged that she had escaped from 
the wild-beast show, but at the second I thought 
better of her, and thought that if she was more cared 
for and more kindly used she would be like my child. 
She was just the same age that my own daughter 
would have been, if her pretty head had not fell 
down upon my shoulder that unfortunate night. 

To cut it short, I spoke confidential to Mim while 
he was beating the gong outside betwixt two lots of 
Pickleson’s publics, and I put it to him : “ She lies 
heavy on your own hands ; what’ll you take for 
her ? ” Mim was a most ferocious swearer. Sup¬ 
pressing that part of his reply which was much the 
longest part, his reply was, “A pair of braces.” 
“ Now I’ll tell you,” says I, “what I’m going to do 
with you. I’m a-going to fetch you half a dozen 
pair of the primest braces in the cart, and then take 
her away with me.” Says Mim (again ferocious), 
“ I’ll believe it when I’ve got the goods, and no 
sooner.” I made all the haste I could, lest he should 
think twice of it, and the bargain was completed ; 
which Pickleson, he was thereby so relieved in his 
mind that he come out at his little back door, long 
ways like a serpent, and gives us “ Shivery Shakey ” 
in a whisper among the wheels at parting. 

It was happy days for both of us when Sophy and 
me began to travel in the cart. I at once give her 





Doctor Marigold. 


5 2 3 


the name of Sophy, to put her ever towards me in 
the attitude of my own daughter. We soon made 
out to begin to understand one another, through the 
goodness of the heavens, when she knowed that I 
meant true and kind by her. In a very little time she 
was wonderful fond of me. You have no idea what 
it is to have anybody wonderful fond of you, unless 
you have been got down and rolled upon by the 
lonely feelings that I have mentioned as having once 
got the better of me. 

You’d have laughed—or the rewerse—it’s accord¬ 
ing to your disposition—if you could have seen me 
trying to teach Sophy. At first 1 was helped—you’d 
never guess by what—milestones. I got some large 
alphabets in a box, all the letters separate on bits of 
bone ; and say we was going to Windsor, I give her 
those letters in that order, and then at every mile¬ 
stone I showed her those same letters in that same 
order again, and pointed towards the abode of roy¬ 
alty. Another time I give her CART, and then 
chalked the same upon the cart. Another time I 
give her DOCTOR MARIGOLD, and hung a cor¬ 
responding inscription outside my waistcoat. People 
that met us might stare a bit, and laugh, but what did 
/ care, if she caught the idea ? She caught it after 
long patience and trouble, and then we did begin to 
get on swimmingly, I believe you ! At first she was a 
little given to consider me the cart, and the cart the 
abode of royalty ; but that soon wore off. 

We had our signs, too, and they was hundreds in 
number. Sometimes she would sit looking at me and 
considering hard how to communicate with me about 
something fresh,—how to ask me what she wanted 
explained,—and then she was (or I thought she was ; 
what does it signify?) so like my child with those 
years added to her, that I half believed it was herself, 
trying to tell me where she had been to up in the 
skies, and what she had seen since that unhappy 
night when she died away. She had a pretty face, 
and now that there was no one to drag at her bright 
dark hair, and it was all in order, there was a some¬ 
thing touching in her looks that made the cart most 
peaceful and most quiet, though not at all melan¬ 
choly. 

The way she learnt to understand any look of 
mine was truly surprising. When I sold of a night, 
she would sit in the cart unseen by them outside, 
and would give a eager look into my eyes when 1 
looked in, and would hand me straight the precise ar¬ 
ticle or articles I wanted. And then she would clap 
her hands and laugh for joy. And as for me, seeing 
her so bright, and remembering what she was when 
I first lighted on her, starved and beaten and ragged, 
leaning asleep against the muddy cart-wheel, it give 
me such heart that I gained a greater height of rep¬ 
utation than ever, and I put Pickleson down (by the 
name of Mim’s Travelling Giant otherwise Pickleson) 
for a fypunnote in my will. 

This happiness went on in the cart till she was six¬ 
teen year old. By which time I began to feel not 


satisfied that I had done my whole duty by her, and 
to consider that she ought to have better teaching 
than I could give her. It drew a many tears on both 
sides when I commenced explaining my views to her ; 
but what’s right is right, and you can’t, neither by 
tears nor laughter, do away with its character. 

So I took her hand in mine, and I went with her 
one day to the Deaf and Dumb Establishment in 
London, and when the gentleman come to speak to 
us I says to him : “ Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do 
with you, sir. I am nothing but a Cheap Jack, but 
of late years I have laid by for a rainy day, notwith¬ 
standing. This is my only daughter (adopted), and 
you can’t produce a deafer nor yet a dumber. Teach 
her the most that can be taught her, in the shortest 
separation that can be named, state the figure for it, 
and I am game to put the money down. I won’t 
bate you a single farthing, sir, but I’ll put down the 
money here and now, and I’ll thankfully throw you 
in a pound to take it. There ! ” The gentleman 
smiled, and then, “ Well, well,” says he, “ I must first 
know what she has learnt already. How do you 
communicate with her ? ” Then I showed him, and 
she wrote, in printed writing, many names of things, 
and so forth, and we held some sprightly conversa¬ 
tion, Sophy and me, about a little story in a book 
which the gentleman showed her, and which she was 
able to read. “ This is very extraordinary,” says the 
gentleman ; “ is it possible that you have been her 
only teacher ? ” “ I have been her only teacher, sir,” 
I says, “ besides herself.” “Then,” says the gentle¬ 
man, and more acceptable words was never spoke to 
me, “you’re a clever fellow, and a good fellow.” 
This he makes known to Sophy, who kisses his 
hands, claps her own, and laughs and cries upon it. 

We saw the gentleman four times in all, and when 
he took down my name, and asked how in the world 
it ever chanced to be Dbctor, it come out that he 
was own nephew by the sister’s side, if you’ll believe 
me, to the very Doctor that I was called after. This 
made our footing still easier, and he says to me : 

“Now, Marigold, tell me what more do you want 
your adopted daughter to know ? ” 

“ I want her, sir, to be cut off from the world as 
little as can be, considering her deprivations, and 
therefore to be able to read whatever is wrote, with 
perfect ease and pleasure.” 

“ My good fellow,” urges the gentleman, opening 
his eyes wide, “ why, / can’t do that myself ! ” 

I took his joke and give him a laugh (knowing by 
experience how flat you fall without it), and I mended 
my words accordingly. / 

“What do you mean to do with her afterwards?” 
asks the gentleman, with a sort of a doubtful eye. 
“ To take her about the country ? ” 

“ In the cart, sir, but only in the cart. She will 
live a private life, you understand, in the cart. I 
should never think of bringing her infirmities before 
the public. I wouldn’t make a show of her for any 
money.” 




524 


Treasury of Tales. 


The gentleman nodded and seemed to approve. 

“Well,” says he, “can you part with her for two 
years ? ” 

“ To do her that good,—yes, sir.” 

“ There’s another question,” says the gentleman, 
looking towards her : “ Can she part with you for two 
years ! ” 

I don’t know that it was a harder matter of itself 
(for the other was hard enough to me), but it was 
harder to get over. However she was pacified to it 
at last, and the separation betwixt us was settled. 
How it cut up both of us when it took place, and 
when I left her at the door in the dark of an evening, 
I don’t tell. But I know this : remembering that 
night, I shall never pass that same establishment 
without a heartache and a swelling in the throat; and 
I couldn’t put you up the best of lots in sight of it 
with my usual spirit,—no, not for five hundred pound 
reward from the Secretary of State for the Home 
Department, and throw in the honor of putting my 
legs under his mahogany afterwards. 

Still, the loneliness that followed in the cart was 
not the old loneliness, because there was a term put 
to it, however long to look forward to, and because 
I could think, when I was anyways down, that she 
belonged to me and I belonged to her. Always 
planning for her coming back, I bought in a few 
months’ time another cart, and what do you think I 
planned to do with it? I’ll tell you. I planned to 
fit it up with shelves, and books for her reading, and 
to have a seat in it where I could sit and see her 
read, and think that I had been her first teacher. 
Not hurrying over the job, I had the fittings knocked 
together in contriving ways under my own inspection, 
and here was her bed in a berth with curtains, and 
there was her reading-table, and here was her writ¬ 
ing-desk, and elsewhere was her books in rows upon 
rows, picters and no picters, bindings and no bind- 
ings, gilt-edged and plain, just as I could pick ’em 
up for her in lots up and down the country, North 
and South and West and East, Winds liked best and 
winds liked least, Here and there and gone estray, 
Over the hills and far away. And when I had got 
together pretty well as many books as the cart would 
neatly hold, a new scheme came into my head, wffiich 
helped me over the two years’ stile. 

Without being of an awaricious temper, I like to 
be the owner of things. I shouldn’t wish, for in¬ 
stance, to go partners with yourself in the Cheap 
Jack cart. It’s not that I mistrust you, but that 
I’d rather know it was mine. Similarly, very likely, 
you’d rather know it was yours. Well ! A kind of 
jealousy began to creep into my mind when I re¬ 
flected that all those books would have been read 
by other people long before they was read by her. 
It seemed to take away from her being the owner of 
’em like. In this way the question got into my head, 
couldn’t I have a book new made express for her, 
which she should be the first to read ? 

It pleased me, that thought did ; and having 


formed the resolution, then come the question of a 
name. How did I hammer that hot iron into shape ? 
This way. The most difficult explanation I had 
ever had with her was, how I came to be called Doc¬ 
tor, and yet was no Doctor. We had first discovered 
the mistake we had dropped into through her having 
asked me to prescribe for her when she had supposed 
me to be a Doctor in a medical point of view. So 
thinks I, “ Now, if I give this book the name of my 
Prescriptions, and if she catches the idea that my 
only Prescriptions are for her amusement and inter¬ 
est,—to make her laugh in a pleasant way, or to 
make her cry in a pleasant way,—it will be a delight¬ 
ful proof to both of us that we have got over our 
difficulty.” It fell out to absolute perfection. 

But let me not anticipate. (I take that expression 
out of a lot of romances I bought for her. I never 
opened a single one of ’em,—and I have opened 
many,—but 1 found the romancer saying “ let me 
not anticipate.” Which being so, I wonder why he 
did anticipate, or who asked him to do it.) Let me 
not, I say, anticipate. This same book took up all 
my spare time. 

At last it was done, and the two years’ time was 
gone after all the other time before it, and where it’s 
all gone to, who knows ? The new cart was finished, 
—yellow outside, relieved with wermillion and brass 
fittings,—the old horse was put in it, a new un and 
a boy being laid on for the Cheap Jack cart,—and I 
cleaned myself up to go and fetch her. 

“ Marigold,” says the gentleman, giving his hand 
hearty, “ I am very glad to see you.” 

“Yet I have my doubts, sir,” says I, “if you can 
be half as glad to see me as I am to see you.” 

“ The time has appeared so long ; has it, Mari¬ 
gold ? ” 

“ I won’t say that, sir, considering its real length ; 
but-” 

“ What a start, my good fellow ? ” 

Ah ! I should think it was ! Grown such a wom¬ 
an, so pretty, so intelligent, so expressive ! I knew 
then that she must be really like my child, or I could 
never have known her, standing quiet by the door. 

“ You are affected,” says the gentleman, in a kindly 
manner. 

“ I feel, sir,” says I, “ that I am but a rough chap 
in a sleeved waistcoat.” 

“/ feel,” says the gentleman, “ that it was you who 
raised her from misery and degradation, and brought 
her into communication with her kind. But why do 
we converse alone together, when we can converse 
so well with her? Address her in your own way.” 

“ I am such a rough chap in a sleeved waistcoat, 
sir,” says I, “ and she is such a graceful woman, and 
she stands so quiet at the door ! ” 

“ Try if she moves at the old sign,” says the gen¬ 
tleman. 

They had got it up together o’ purpose to please 
me ! For when I give her the old sign, she rushed 
to my feet, and dropped upon her knees, holding up 







Doctor Marigold. 


525 


her hands to me with pouring tears of love and joy ; 
and when I took her hands and lifted her she clasped 
me round the neck and lay there ; and I don’t know 
what a fool I didn’t make of myself, until we all three 
settled down into talking without sound, as if there 
was a something soft and pleasant spread over the 
whole world for us. 

II. 

Every item of my plan was crowned with success. 
Our reunited life was more than all that we had 
looked forward to. Content and joy went with us as 
the wheels of the two carts went round, and the same 
stopped with us when the two carts stopped. I was 
as pleased and proud as a pug-dog with his muzzle 
black-leaded for an evening party, and his tall extra 
curled by machinery. 

But I had left something out of my calculations. 
Now, what had I left out ? To help you to a guess, 
I’ll say, a figure. Come. Make a guess, and guess 
right. Naught ? No. Nine ? No. Eight ? No. 
Seven? No. Six? No. Five? No. Four? No. 
Three? No. Two? No. One? No. Now I’ll 
tell you what I’ll do with you. I’ll say it’s another 
sort of a figure altogether. There. Why then, says 
you, it’s a mortal figure. No, nor yet a mortal figure. 
By such means you get yourself penned into a corner, 
and you can’t help guessing a zV/zmortal figure. 
That’s about it. Why didn’t you say so sooner ? 

Yes. It was a immortal figure that I had alto¬ 
gether left out of my calculations. Neither man’s, 
nor woman’s, but a child’s. Girl’s, or boy’s ? Boy’s. 
“ I, says the sparrow, with my bow and arrow.” Now 
you have got it. 

We were down at Lancaster, and I had done two 
nights’ more than fair average business in the open 
square there. Mim’s travelling giant, otherwise Pick- 
leson, happened at the self-same time to be a-trying 
t on in the town. The genteel lay was adopted with 
him. No hint of a van. Green baize alcove leading 
up to Pickleson in a auction-room. Printed poster, 
“Free list suspended, with the exception of that 
proud boast of an enlightened country, a free press. 
Schools admitted by private arrangement. Nothing 
to raise a blush in the cheek of youth or shock the 
most fastidious.” Mini swearing most horrible and 
terrific, in a pink calico pay-place, at the slackness of 
the public. Serious hand-bill in the shops, importing 
that it was all but impossible to come to a right un¬ 
derstanding of the history of David without seeing 
Pickleson. 

I went to the auction room in question, and I 
found it entirely empty of everything but echoes and 
mouldiness, with the single exception of Pickleson on 
a piece of red drugget. This suited my purpose, as 
I wanted a private and confidential word with him, 
which was : “ Pickleson. Owing much happiness to 
you, I did put you in my will for a fypunnote ; but, 
to save trouble, here’s fourpunten, down, which may 
equally suit your views, and let us so conclude the 


transaction.” Pickleson, who up to that remark had 
had the dejected appearance of a long Roman rush- 
light that couldn’t anyhow get lighted, brightened up 
at his top extremity, and made his acknowledgments 
in a way which for him was parliamentary eloquence. 

But what was to the present point in the remarks 
of the travelling giant otherwise Pickleson was this : 
“ Doctor Marigold,”—I give his words without a 
hope of conweying their feebleness,—“ who is the 
strange young man that hangs about your carts ? ” 
“ The strange young man 1 ” I gives him back, think¬ 
ing he meant her, and his languid circulation had 
dropped a syllable. “ Doctor,” he returns, with a 
pathos calculated to draw a tear from even a manly 
eye, “ I am weak, but not so weak yet as that I don’t 
know my words. I repeat them, Doctor. The 
strange young man.” It then appeared that Pick¬ 
leson, being forced to stretch his legs (not that they 
wanted it) only at times when he couldn’t be seen for 
nothing, to wit, in the dead of the night and towards 
daybreak, had twice seen hanging about my carts, in 
that same town of Lancaster where I had been only 
two nights, this same unknown young man. 

It put me rather out of sorts. Howsoever, I made 
light of it to Pickleson, and I took leave of Pickleson. 
Towards morning I kept a lookout for the strange 
young man. What was more, I saw the strange 
young man. He was well dressed and well looking. 
He loitered very nigh my carts, watching them like, 
as if he was taking care of them, and soon after day¬ 
break turned and went away. I sent a hail after him ; 
but he never started or looked round, nor took the 
smallest notice. 

We left Lancaster within an hour or two, on our 
way towards Carlisle. Next morning at daybreak I 
looked out again for the strange young man. I did 
not see him. But next morning I looked out again, 
and there he was once more. I sent another hail 
after him, but as before he gave not the slightest sign 
of being anyways disturbed. This put a thought 
into my head. Acting on it, I watched him in dif¬ 
ferent manners and at different times not necessary 
to enter into, till I found this strange young man was 
deaf and dumb. 

The discovery turned me over, because I knew that 
a part of that establishment where she had been was 
allotted to young men (some of them well off), and I 
thought to myself, “ If she favors him, where am I, 
and where is all that I have worked and planned 
for ? ”—hoping—I must confess to the selfishness— 
that she might not favor him. I set myself to find 
out. At last I was by accident present at a meeting 
between them in the open air, looking on, leaning 
behind a fir-tree, without their knowing of it. It was 
a moving meeting for all the three parties concerned. 
I knew every syllable that passed between them as 
well as they did. I listened with my eyes, which had 
come to be as quick and true with deaf and dumb 
conversation as my ears with the talk of people that 
can speak. He was a-going out to China as clerk in 






5 26 


Treasury of Tales. 


a merchant’s house, which his father had been before 
him. He was in circumstances to keep a wife, and 
he wanted her to marry him and go along with him. 
She persisted, no. He asked if she didn’t love him ? 
Yes, she loved him dearly, dearly, but she could never 
disappoint her beloved, good, noble, generous, and 
I-don’t-know-what-all father (meaning me, the Cheap 
Jack in the sleeved waistcoat), and she would 
stay with him, Heaven bless him, though it was to 
break her heart! Then she cried most bitterly, and 
that made up my mind. 

While my mind had been in an unsettled state 
about her favoring this young man, I had felt that 
unreasonable towards Pickleson that it was well for 
him he had got his legacy down. For I often thought, 
‘‘ If it hadn’t been for this same weak-minded giant, 
I might never have come to trouble my head and 
wex my soul about the young man.” But once that 
I knew she loved him,—once that I had seen her 
weep for him,—it was a different thing. I made it 
right in my mind with Pickleson on the spot, and I 
shook myself together to do what was right by all. 

She had left the young man by that time (for it 
took a few minutes to get me thoroughly well shook 
together), and the young man was leaning against 
another of the fir-trees,—of which there was a clus¬ 
ter,—with his face upon his arm. I touched him on 
the back. Looking up and seeing me, he says, in 
our deaf and dumb talk, “ Do not be angry.” 

“ I am not angry, good boy. I am your friend. 
Come with me.” 

I left him at the foot of the steps of the Library 
Cart, and I went up alone. She was drying her 
eyes. 

“ You have been crying, my dear.” 

“Yes, father.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ A headache.” 

“ Not a heartache ? ” 

“ I said a headache, father.” 

“ Doctor Marigold must prescribe for that head¬ 
ache.” 

She took up the book of my Prescriptions, and 
held it up with a forced smile ; but seeing me keep 
still and look earnest, she softly laid it down again, 
and her eyes were very attentive. 

“ The Prescription is not there, Sophy.” 

“ Where is it ? ” 

“ Here, my dear.” 

I brought her young husband in, and I put her 
hand in his, and my only further words to both of 
them were these : “ Doctor Marigold’s last prescrip¬ 
tion. To be \aken for life.” After which I bolted. 

When the wedding come off, I mounted a coat 
(blue, and bright buttons), for the first and last time 
in all my days, and I give Sophy away with my own 
hand. There were only us three and the gentleman 
who had had charge of her for those two years. I 
give the wedding dinner of four in the Library Cart : 
pigeon-pie, a leg of pickled pork, a pair of fowls, and 


suitable garden stuff. The best of drinks. I give 
them a speech, and the gentleman give us a speech, 
and all our jokes told, and the whole went off like a 
sky-rocket. In the course of the entertainment I ex¬ 
plained to Sophy that I should keep the Library 
Cart as my living-cart when not upon the road, and 
that I should keep all her books for her just as they 
stood, till she come back to claim them. So she 
went to China with her young husband, and it was a 
parting sorrowful and heavy, and I got the boy I 
had another service, and so as of old, when my child 
and wife were gone, I went plodding along alone, 
with my whip over my shoulder, at the old horse’s 
head. 

Sophy wrote me many letters, and I wrote her 
many letters. About the end of the first year she 
sent me one in an unsteady hand : “ Dearest father, 
not a week ago I had a darling little daughter, but 1 
am so well that they let me write these words to you. 
Dearest and best father, I hope my child may npt be 
deaf and dumb, but I do not yet know.” When I 
wrote back, I hinted the question ; but as Sophy 
never answered that question, I felt it to be a sad 
one, and I never repeated it. For a long time our 
letters were regular, but then they got irregular 
through Sophy’s husband being moved to another 
station, and through my being always on the move. 
But we were in one another’s thoughts, I was sure, 
letters or no letters. 

Five years, odd months, had gone since Sophy 
went away. I was at a greater height of popularity 
than ever. I had had a first-rate autumn of it, and 
on the twenty-third of December, one thousand 
eight hundred and sixty-four, I found myself at Ux¬ 
bridge, Middlesex, clean sold out. So I jogged up 
to London with the old horse, light and easy, to have 
my Christmas Eve and Christmas Day alone by the 
fire in the Library Cart, and then to buy a regular 
new stock of goods all round, to sell ’em again and 
get the money. 

I am a neat hand at cookery, and I’ll tell you what 
I knocked up for my Christmas Eve dinner in the Li¬ 
brary Cart. I knocked up a beefsteak pudding for 
one, with two kidneys, a dozen oysters, and a couple 
of mushrooms thrown in. It’s a pudding to put a 
man in good-humor with everything except the two 
bottom buttons of his waistcoat. Having relished 
that pudding and cleared away, I turned the lamp 
low, and sat down by the light of the fire, watching 
it as it shone upon the backs of Sophy’s books. 

Sophy’s books so brought up Sophy’s self that I 
saw her touching face quite plainly, before I dropped 
off dozing by the fire. This may be a reason why 
Sophy, with her deaf and dumb child in her arms, 
seemed to stand silent by me all through my nap. 
Even when I woke with a start, she seemed to van¬ 
ish, as if she had stood by me in that very place only 
a single instant before. 

I had started at a real sound, and the sound was on 
the steps of the cart. It was the light, hurried tread 




True. 


of a child, coming clambering up. That tread of a 
child had once been so familiar to me that for half a 
moment I believed I was going to see a little ghost. 

But the touch of a real child was laid upon the 
outer handle of the door, and the handle turned and 
the door opened a little way, and a real child peeped 
in,—a bright little comely girl, with large dark eyes. 

Looking full at me, the tiny creature took off her 
mite of a straw hat, and a quantity of dark curls fell 
all about her face. Then she opened her lips, and 
said in a pretty voice : “ Grandfather ! ” 

“ Ah my God ! ” I cries out. “ She can speak ! ” 
In a moment Sophy was round my neck as well as 
the child, and her husband was a wringing my hand 
with his face hid, and we all had to shake ourselves 
together before we could get over it. And when we 
did begin to get over it, and I saw the pretty child a 
talking, pleased and quick and eager and busy, to her 
mother, in the signs I had first taught her mother, 
the happy, pitying tears fell rolling down my face. 


TRUE. 

BY ROSE TERRY COOKE. 

ERE I am, Jack ! ” and without more words 
a tall, slight, well-dressed young fellow put 
one hand on the low window-sill of John 
Seymour’s bedroom and jumped in ; luckily for him, 
the whole window sash had been taken out for repairs, 
and left out because the weather was hot and the 
room small; so he neither lost his hat nor hit his head. 
John looked up from the chair where he sat reading. 

“ Are you bound to go to-morrow, then ? ” he said. 

“ Yes, I’ve got my leave from the boss, and now 
I’ve brought a horse and we’ll have a drive, eh ?” 

John Seymour was a clerk in Dartford Bank, on a 
small salary, and could not afford to drive more than 
once a year ; though having been born on a farm, 
and lived always in the deep country till he went 
to a commercial school, and from there to the bank, 
he fairly pined sometimes for fresh air. 

Tom Long was a new acquaintance of Jack’s, a 
young fellow who had recently appeared in Dart- 
ford, and taken up his abode at the Dartford House, 
ostensibly as an insurance agent. His keen, shifty, 
dark face, his alert manner and his quick, restless 
green eyes, shaded by the blackest lashes, with eye 
brows as black meeting above them, attracted Jack 
Seymour, who was steady, sturdy, and honest; he 
thought Mr. Long a wonderful man to look at when 
he first came into the bank to get a fifty-dollar bill 
changed. 

Still more astonished and deeply delighted was 
John when this stranger singled him out among all 
the other men in the place, and cultivated his ac- 


5 2 7 

quaintance. They fished together in the river after 
bank hours, they smoked together on the hotel porch, 
they took long rambles by moonlight. Jack listening 
as if under a spell to the stories of sport and travel 
Tom poured into his eager ears, and to-night they 
were to drive off into the country ; for the broad 
full moon shone down on hill and river, till a new 
day seemed to rise soft and tranquil as a lingering 
dawn, over all the beautiful country about Dartford. 

They drove away at once. The sunset had not yet 
withdrawn its red banners from the sky, but the moon 
rose in solemn grandeur over the low eastern hills, 
and even Tom Long’s rattling audacity seemed sub¬ 
dued ; he talked less than usual, and John’s honest 
heart felt a real sorrow at parting with such a friend. 
In fact the drive was not altogether a success, and 
by unspoken consent it was shortened, and they drove 
into the village just about nine o’clock, and stopped 
at the office to get Long’s mail. 

“ Hallo ! ” he said, as he jumped in again, and 
looked at a letter, having given John the reins. “ Pull 
up a bit, Jack ; here’s a go ! I don’t often stop to read 
a letter by moonlight, but Hulbert’s hand is so big 
and his pen so square-ended one could read it by a 
paler shine than this.” Jack stopped the horse. 

“ Whew ! ” said Long. “ I must take the eleven 
p.m. express, as sure as guns—and not fifty cents in 
my pocket; can you cash a check for me ? ” 

“ Why the bank’s shut for hours, Tom, and I have 
got just a dollar.” 

“ But you’ve got the key ; can’t you take the check 
and deposit it, give me the money, and nobody will 
be the wiser ? ” 

“ I could ; for the teller’s gone to Boston, and I 
am to sleep in his place in the bank to-night ; but I 
don’t like to do it ; its against rules.” 

“ My dear fellow, who’ll ever find it out, espe¬ 
cially if you’re temporary teller? Just get me the 
money to-night and you have the check on hand dated 
to-day. I know I’ve got fifty dollars left of my small 
deposit.” 

“ Yes, you’ve just fifty, and I don’t know why you 
shouldn’t have it. I suppose there’s really no harm, 
if you must go, as you say. ” 

“ Oh, I must ! There’s no help. Old Hulbert is 
peremptory.” 

“ Well, I must go home and set in that window- 
sash, and then I’ll come round for you.” 

“ And I’ll take the horse back, but if you’re not at 
the hotel when I get there, I’ll stroll along and meet 
you.” 

John was a long time putting in his sash ; he 
lodged in the house of an elderly maiden lady who 
had nerves, and very troublesome ones at that. If 
any noise awoke her at so late an hour—late for her, 
who always, as she boasted, went “ to roost with the 
chickens”—John would be visited with a long and 
peppery tirade at the breakfast table ; so he put in 
the window as if he were handling cobwebs, and 
screwed in the side-pieces with great deliberation ; 







528 


Treasury of Tales. 


luckily for him this room, which was on the ground 
floor of a small wing to Miss Marvin’s house, had an 
outside entrance, and he kept lock and hinges well 
oiled ; so about ten o’clock he slipped out, and met 
Tom Long coming down the road. 

“ I thought you’d gone to sleep, old fellow, like 
everybody else in this Rip Van Winkle borough,” 
he said. John explained, and by the time he had 
told his story they were at the bank door, which let 
them into a vestibule and by a baize door into the 
bank, beyond which, in the directors’ room, the teller 
usually slept. 

John took the check which Tom Long gave him, 
impaled it on the small spike used for such purposes, 
as many a living, quivering life and hope has been 
impaled before now by financial machinery—real in¬ 
stead of typical—and proceeded to open the cash- 
drawer ; but suddenly he recollected that there were 
not fifty dollars left there ; he must go to the safe. 
Dartford had little experience in bank robberies then, 
in gagged cashiers, or tunnelled vaults. The teller 
kept a key to the safe as well as the cashier, and as 
John opened the ponderous door, Tom turned from 
the light where he seemed to be calmly reading the 
evening paper that lay on the counter, and said : 

“By the way, Jack, I’ve broken the lock of my 
travelling bag. Will you lend me yours?” 

“Yes, of course ; but it’s down in my room.” 

“ Well, can’t you step back and get it ? I’ll w r ait 
here, and lock the door till you get back ; I should 
be sure to wake the old lady, fumbling round in 
your possessions.” 

“Yes, I will; but take your money first. Is it 
right ? ” 

“All right! ” said Tom, as John slipped the safe 
key into his pocket. 

“ But hold on a minute ! You’ve got my hat, old 
fellow ! ” 

“No ! ” exclaimed Jack, and just then Tom,care¬ 
lessly lifting his arm to take the hat off his friend’s 
head, knocked the lamp over and it went out. He 
laughed at his own stupidity. 

“Never mind, don’t wait to light it,” as John 
reached across him to find a match. “ I can sit here 
by the moonlight till you come back ; but hurry, for 
I must have time to put my things in it before I 
get off. ” 

So Jack hastened off, let himself in, found his bag 
and hastened back to the bank. He found Tom 
Long where he had left him, and they went off to the 
hotel together, with the bag between them ; but 
there an unexpected obstacle met them ; this was a 
country town and even the tavern kept early hours, 
the door was locked. 

“I won’t ring’em up,” said Tom. “Mrs. Davis is 
very sick, and they’re all worn out waiting on her ; that 
is, I won’t, if you can lend me a shirt and hair-brush, 
Jack. Only for a day, you know. I’ll send them 
back to-morrow, by express.” 

Obliging Jack consented, and off they went again 


to his room, Tom staying outside till Jack had 
put the needful articles into the bag. When he came 
out they went back to the bank, relit the lamp, 
and left it burning ; for Jack was to see his friend 
off. The express train rushed up just as they set foot 
on the platform. “ Take the bag in, old fellow, will 
you, while I get my ticket.” 

Jack sprang in, found a seat partly occupied, for 
the train was full, and stood with his hand on the 
bag till Tom should come. Suddenly the whistle 
sounded ; the jar of the moving train began ; Jack 
tried to make his way to the door, but, unused to the 
motion, stumbled, and before he recovered himself, 
the wheels were revolving at lightning speed ; he 
knew there was not another stop for fifty miles ; he 
could only sit down calmly and pity poor Tom Long, 
who was so unlucky. 

Half-way to the next station the train ran over a 
cow, and the last car was shunted off the rail at right 
angles ; though, happily, no one was hurt, the train 
was delayed, and did not reach Hoxton, the next 
stop, till three o’clock in the morning. Jack found 
no return train would leave there before early the 
next day, so he made his way to the nearest tavern, 
remembering gladly that Tom had not borrowed his 
last dollar, and trusting to his acquaintance with the 
conductor of the morning train to get a pass back to 
Dartford, or at least borrow money for his ticket. 

He was tired, excited, and a little feverish in con¬ 
sequence, and slept very heavily, long past the hour 
for the morning train ; in fact, it was nine o’clock 
when he went down to his breakfast, sadly reflect¬ 
ing that he had both the door and safe-key of the 
bank in his pocket, and the cashier would be sure to 
reprimand him severely. But Jack was young and 
hungry ; his breakfast cheered and reassured him, 
and he betook himself to the station early, in order 
to be on time ; so early that a northward traki rolled 
in as he stepped on to the platform to wait for the 
southward cars. Before he had time to take one 
farther step, a man’s hand was laid heavily on his 
shoulder, another grasped his arm on the other side, 
his wrists were brought together, and the click of a 
pair of handcuffs sounded in his ears like the report 
of a cannon. 

“Just in time, my lad ! ” growled the police officer 
on his right. “You didn’t throw us off the scent 
much, stoppin’ here.” 

“What?” gasped Jack, turning white and ghastly; 
“ what is it ? what’s the matter ? ” 

The officer gave a short, dry laugh. 

“ Innocent, ain’t he ! I never knowed one that 
wasn’t.” Jack’s pale face reddened with rage. 

“ Can’t you give me a civil answer ? ” he said, 
hotly. 

“ No, I can’t, and I ain’t a-goin’ to ; I don’t want 
to hear anything from you, and I don’t mean you 
shall pump me about what you know a’ready.” 

There was no shaking the man’s dogged reticence; 
in the blackness of despair Jack sat down on the 




True. 


5 2 9 


last seat of the car, next his captor, who kept his arm 
linked in the captive’s, for fear of escape. But Jack 
had no such thought; his brain was in a wild whirl 
of terror and conjecture at first, and when he could 
think, he tried to look as calmly at the situation as 
his shaken nerves would allow. He had that con¬ 
sciousness of innocence which is a support just as 
long as it is not assaulted outwardly by plausible law, 
or circumstantial evidence, and he felt sure that he 
should be set at liberty as soon as he could confront 
his accusation. 

Picture his dismay, then, on being brought before 
a justice as soon as he arrived in Dartford, and com¬ 
mitted to jail for having stolen and run off with a 
hundred thousand dollars, deposited the day before 
in the safe of Dartford Bank ! 

He had known of the deposit, which was tempo¬ 
rary, and consisted of bonds, bills, and gold, the 
payment made by a company who had just bought 
out Dartford paper-mills, and the water privileges 
above and below the great dam, for half a mile, in 
order to set up a manufactory of bank-note paper 
for government. He could not get bail for this 
offence, so convinced was every one in Dartford of 
his guilt, and when his trial came on it was proved 
to everybody beyond a doubt that he had taken the 
northward train at eleven p.m. with his booty, left 
the cars at Hoxton, to confer no doubt with a con¬ 
federate, since no part of the money was found on 
him, and the key of the bank door was found in his 
pocket, proving his means of access to the bank—if 
any one had doubted that after the teller’s avowal 
that John was to take his place there for this one 
night. 

He could not prove that he had slept heavily all 
that time, for the porter who had given him his 
room was too sleepy himself to notice the late guest 
after he unlocked his door ; he might have gone out 
and come in again before morning for all this man 
knew, and the fact of his appearance on the platform, 
just as the north-bound train came in, seemed to give 
direct lie to Jack’s statement that he was there to 
go back to Dartford. The safe-key, too, which he 
avowed was in his pocket when he left Dartford, 
had instead been found in the safe door, though 
Jack could have sworn that it had never left his 
possession. 

When his own story was told, and the opposing 
counsel brought in the witnesses for the prosecution, 
what was the luckless prisoner’s dismay to hear Tom 
Long declare that on leaving Jack that night at his 
own door, he had taken the horse to the livery-stable, 
gone to the hotel, and to bed ; all of which was proved 
by the hostler of the stable, and the porter at the 
tavern, who was just about to close the door after a 
departing guest as Mr. Long went in and up to his 
room. The postmaster also swore no such letter as 
Jack spoke of had been given to Mr. Long on that 
Tuesday night; in fact, he got nothing, as the man 
well remembered, since he swore a mild oath at not 


receiving any mail, and the postmaster jokingly asked 
if he should write letters to him himself. The story 
of Long’s bag having a broken lock was also dis¬ 
proved, and the fact that Jack’s shirt, brush, comb, 
and handkerchiefs were in his own bag, with fifty 
dollars in the inner pocket, seemed the plainest 
evidence of his intended flight ; while Tom Long’s 
check, which had been one strong point in Jack’s 
story, was nowhere to be found. 

But to add the last certainty of his guilt, just at 
this moment a man brought in the missing bonds, 
which had been found by Miss Marvin where the 
officer sent to search had overlooked them, under 
the sticks of wood in Jack’s little stove. 

While all this was going on, the prisoner grew 
more ghastly ; surely his guilt wrote its own sentence 
on that tortured face, those staring incredulous eyes, 
and trembling hands; in fact, the poor wretch 
pleaded against himself by his own countenance. It 
really was innocence that wore this mask ; the face 
that seemed to express guilt was contorted with rage, 
despair, contempt, and an agonizing sense of help¬ 
lessness. It had never entered this honest fellow’s 
head that a man could lie, under oath, too ; he could 
scarce believe his ears ; and when at last all the 
evidence was in, and the judge asked him courteously 
if he had anything to say for himself, he hoarsely 
answered : “ I am an innocent man, sir ! and that 
fellow Long is a liar.” 

This was not to be endured in court, of course ; 
nobody believed it, either ; Long had given his evi¬ 
dence in an unwilling manner, as if he hated to tell 
unpleasant facts against a young fellow who had been 
his friend, and his o,wn references as to character 
and occupation had been fully and favorably an¬ 
swered by Mr. Smith, president of the insurance 
company who employed him. 

There was but one end to all this : Jack was found 
guilty, but in consideration of his youth, his friend¬ 
lessness,—for he was an orphan—and his previous 
good conduct, he was sentenced for six years only 
to the State prison. 

Six years ! The sentence seemed too lenient to 
an outraged public sentiment, but to Jack it was all 
but death. His conscious innocence, instead of sup¬ 
porting him, added to hig pangs of indignation and 
rage. Had he been guilty, he felt that this punish¬ 
ment would be atonement as well as penalty ; but to 
lose six years of hope and strength out of his young 
manhood, and then to be all his life a marked and 
blighted man, was unendurable. 

He was too sound and healthy in mind as w y ell as 
body, too innately courageous, to think of suicide. 
Indeed he thought of nothing but his unjust treat¬ 
ment and his betrayed friendship, till he found him¬ 
self inside the prison walls, set to a mechanical 
round of hard labor, and began to realize that, like 
the mournful starling of Sterne’s record, he could not 
get out. 

This he bore for a day or two calmly, but the re- 










Treasury of Tales. 


530 

iterate thought maddened him at last ; to be locked 
each night in a lonely cell, unable to take ten steps 
between its sides ; absolutely solitary, in dark silence, 
broken only now and then by the steps of the armed 
watchman, as he traversed the echoing corridors 
and flashed his lantern into the grate of every cell ! 

He who had all his life been used to come and 
go ; to hear the myriad soundless stirs of night in 
the country ; to wander at will by moon or starlight 
down the grass-grown roads, drinking in the warm 
and fragrant air, listening to the rippling murmur of 
tiny brooks, or the soft whisper of a wind-kissed 
lake to its grassy shores ; he whose only annoyance 
in his occupation had been its confinement all day 
through the heats of summer or the sparkling days 
of winter ; he was now debarred from every glimpse 
of nature, from the freshness of the fields, the dewy 
birth of dawn, the crisp glitter of morns, the gor¬ 
geousness of autumnal forests, or the riotous verdure 
of June-decked hillsides. All he beheld now of the 
outer world was the sky above the prison courtyard 
where he hammered stone, or the rare star that 
looked in through a narrow grated window, set high 
up in his cell. 

Some prisoners, no doubt, get silent and dull in 
their long loneliness ; they break down under the 
stress of solitude, and learn neither to hope nor fear ; 
and some take to themselves the evil consolation 
that their whole lives have been a conflict with law 
and order, and their capture is but the fortune of 
war, which they set their wits to retrieve by planning 
escape or vengeance ; but Jack belonged to neither 
of these classes ; the poor comforts of stolidness or 
cunning were alike denied him. He grew thin, list¬ 
less, feeble, except when occasionally onsets of fury 
possessed him, and his bitten lips and clenched 
fingers bore silent but terrible witness to the storm 
within. 

Perhaps his mind would in the end have given 
way, but that after two years of this life he excited 
the interest of a fellow who worked beside him in 
the yard, and curiously watched his face as he chip¬ 
ped the heavy stones before him. This man was an 
old offender, and in more States than one had found 
his way out of prison long before his time was up. 
His sentence now was twenty years, but he did not 
by any means intend to endure it. In some of 
those subtle ways known to men of his stamp he 
contrived to open communication with Jack Sey¬ 
mour and shrewdly win his confidence, till at length 
Manson proposed that they should escape together. 

His cell was next to Jack’s, and he had a “ pal ” 
ready to furnish him with files and saws whenever 
he gave the signal ; but he needed a comrade in the 
adventure, and selected our hero because he knew 
from his face—being long experienced in reading 
character—that Jack was honest, inexperienced, and 
burning with a sense of bitter injustice. An older 
man, or a guilty man, would not so readily have 
fallen in with his proposition ; the one would have 


reflected that a failure in this direction would leave 
him worse off than before, and that failure was far 
more likely than success ; the other would perceive 
from experience that his safer way would be to be¬ 
tray Manson to the authorities, and so establish his 
own character, and insure future favor. But to 
Jack the idea of freedom was too dazzling, too de¬ 
licious, to allow him any other thought. He entered 
eagerly into his fellow convict’s plans ; was ready 
with deft hands and suddenly revived strength to 
help him ; and, fired with hope, was undaunted in 
labor, and certain of success. 

It is not needful to delay our story in order to 
detail the means of escape these prisoners used, but 
escape they did, and taking a boat from the bank of 
the near river, put many a long mile between them 
and the prison before their escape was detected. 
Then they parted, Manson to renew his shifty life 
in the great city, Jack to work his way far into the 
deep country of Northern New England, where he 
would be utterly strange to everybody, and might 
earn his living by the simplest iabor of his hands for 
the remainder of a lonely life. Manson had used all 
his arts to draw him into his own pursuits, promising 
to make an accomplished burglar of him in the brief¬ 
est time possible, and laughing uproariously at the 
scorn with which Jack received his proposition. 
That the young man was innocent he profoundly dis¬ 
believed, but yet he had to give up all hope of 
adding to his familiars a new recruit, and go his own 
way alone. 

It was a painful experience enough to Jack to 
find himself an outlaw, skulking through woods and 
lonely fields, begging his bread from women who 
gave it with scared faces and trembling hands, 
sometimes for days living on the scarce berries 
winter had left behind, or the crusts children had 
thrown away from their dinner-pails, about the lonely 
school-houses. 

At last, one mild day in spring, full a month after 
he escaped from prison, he came out upon a little 
valley lying in the shelter of the great New Hampshire 
hills. A small church, a country store, and half a 
dozen houses in its centre, made the nucleus of a 
village ; but all about, on high plateaus, on hilltops 
and mountain-flanks, lay the main population of the 
little township—hardy farmers, who wrested their 
scant living from the thin soil, and knew only 
enough of the outer world to be glad that its rich 
people swarmed yearly into the mountain hotels and 
brought a market for eggs, chickens, and wild berries. 

It was Jack Seymour’s intention to seek work 
here ; some kindly woman had given him a worn, 
but decent suit of clothes to replace the torn overalls 
he had escaped in from the prison, and he had begged 
of her needle and thread to keep them in repair. 
At a brook in the woods he had washed himself, 
smoothed his hair, and shaken the dust from his cap, 
so that now he made the aspect of a poor but cleanly 
tramp looking for occupation. 






True. 


53i 


He looked over the valley and its encircling hills, 
and saw on one of the steepest of these, high up 
among trees, a thin curl of smoke rising heaven¬ 
ward—sign of hearth and home below. He resolved 
to find that hidden homestead and try his luck 
there. It seemed safer in its position and isolation 
than any other ; and as the country lay leafless be¬ 
fore him he could see that a narrow grassy road 
turned off a quarter of a mile farther on from the 
turnpike by which he had come upon the valley, 
and, winding upward, seemed to lead to or past 
the house in the woods. A short walk showed him 
that the road ended in the yard of a brown farm¬ 
house, and he found his way to the back door, 
where his knock was answered by an elderly woman 
of set features and prim aspect, who held the door 
half-shut while she asked his business. 

“ I’d like to see the man of the house,” said Jack. 
The woman still held on to the latch, but turning her 
head over her shoulder called out in a thin sharp 
voice, 

“ Dani’l! Dani’l ! here’s somebody to see ye.” 
The farmer had just come in to dinner, which Jack 
could see a young girl taking from the great pot on 
the hearth, so he strode at once to the front. 

“ Want me, do ye ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Jack ; “ I’m looking for work.” 

“ Where d’ye come from ? ” 

“ Down in Connecticut.” 

“What’d ye come for?” Jack had his story 
already made, but he did not lie with a good grace. 
He was not used to it; he made out at last, however, 
to tell a plausible story of losing his place in a 
factory by the failure of the concern, and thinking 
farm-work and pure air would be better for his 
health than confinement among machinery. 

“ Where’s your folks ? ” sharply queried Dan Case. 
Jack was tired and faint with hunger; he could not 
keep the tears from his eyes or the tremor from his 
voice, as he answered : “ All dead.” 

“ Poor fellow ! ” said a soft whisper, and looking 
up he saw over Dan Case’s arm that held the door 
ajar, a sweet, pitiful, young face, with the softest 
brown eyes, full of compassion, looking at him. 

“Well. I do’no’. I’m some on the outlook for 
hired help, I allow, but I don’t want to be a-wastin 
my substance in riotous livin’ as Scriptur hez it, 
payin’ fancy prices for ’em.” 

“ I ain’t expecting great wages,” put in Jack. 
Dan Case’s green eyes glittered ; he saw a chance to 
turn a penny here. 

“ Well, mebbe we might dicker ; come in, set up 
and take a mite o’ dinner, ef ye ha’n’t eat a’ready.” 

Jack entered and sat down at the table—a clean 
board table with no cloth, spread in frugal fashion 
enough—the meal being “ b’iled dish ” the favorite 
viand of old-fashioned farmers; cabbage, potatoes, 
parsnips, winter beets, in short any vegetables the 
cellar afforded, boiled a due time in the same pot 
with a lump of salt pork or beef. Slices of rye bread, 


a plate of butter, and a pitcher of hard cider fin¬ 
ished the menu set before the tired tramp ; but he 
ate sparingly, for well he knew what pangs visited 
him when his daily hunger was now and then hur¬ 
riedly satisfied. 

This found favor for him in Dan Case’s eyes ; to 
work hard and eat little were cardinal virtues with 
him ; that is in his dependants, for he himself, as 
his person showed, lived by abundant food. Middle- 
sized, fat rather than stout, with a grizzled head, a 
toothless mouth, a great, coarse, sensual, yet shrewd 
face, greedy green eyes that sparkled like the nether 
fires at any prospect of gain, thick of speech, and 
insolent in manner; he was the sort of man who 
would have made a great financier and a millionaire, 
had he lived in a part of the country where oppor¬ 
tunity was afforded him to weave the web of craft, 
and sit therein an astute spider ; the central figure in 
some country bank, or railway ring, where at his 
leisure he could suck the life-blood of small manu¬ 
facturers, or petty shopkeepers, and cast them aside 
to perish in poverty as soon as his usurious leeching 
could find no more vital sap to pump from their 
souls or bodies. 

Happily for his fellows he was unaware of his 
powers and possibilities ; his ample brain had to rust 
in comparative inaction ; he could only be a tyrant 
in his home, on his farm, or in his occasional office 
as selectman ; his wife trembled at his voice, his 
daughter dreaded to see him enter, for both of them 
were ground under his heel, kept on the least food 
and clothing human nature could get along with, 
and deprived of everything that was not an absolute 
necessity of existence. 

So Jack found a home here ; in his ignorance of 
work and wages he accepted just enough to buy 
himself coarse clothes, and agreed, as was usual, to 
board and lodge with his employer’s family. This 
meant a hard bed in the “back chamber,” and a 
scant share of the daily food. He had to be up 
early as the dawn, and work while daylight lasted ; 
but he was young, and here he felt safe ; in the pure 
air his youthful strength came back, muscles filled 
out, his color freshened, and his courage renewed 
itself ; he had a sensitive conscience, and if life at 
times seemed hard to him under these narrow con¬ 
ditions, he consoled himself by thinking of the 
prison he had escaped from, and the terrors he had 
eluded. 

The one thing that disturbed him was the unde¬ 
served distress and suffering of his housemates un¬ 
der Dan Case’s tyranny. Beulah, particularly, ap¬ 
pealed to all his manly sympathies ; she too was 
young, and her tender slightness of figure ill-fitted 
to her heavy tasks. She had to carry all the water 
used in the house, even for washing, from an old- 
fashioned well in the yard ; to feed the pigs, the 
calves, and cosset the weakling lambs. Her shoul¬ 
ders were growing round with their burdens, and her 
slender hands were reddened and roughened with 





532 


Treasury of Tales. 


toil. She never complained of work, but she had 
some keen deprivations to endure. 

It was a good deal to “ Mrs. Case,” Dan’s wife, 
that she could not have certain social privileges ; 
that two calico dresses had to serve for all her needs, 
and she was ashamed to go to church or sewing so¬ 
ciety in such a garb ; but she was old and worn, 
pride had died out of her long ago, and her limited 
nature had settled down into its hard rut with a help¬ 
lessness that looked like resignation. She baked, 
boiled, swept, washed, and ironed, with all the help 
she could wring out of Beulah between times, in one 
unvarying routine from week to week. The harsh, 
brutal words which Dan flung at her she either did 
not hear or did not heed.; but the girl was of another 
mettle. She could not but see even in her cracked 
and distorted mirror that she was pretty ; that her 
eyes were large, dark, and soft; her cheeks bright 
with pure color ; her delicate lips scarlet as alder- 
berries, and her deep brown hair glossy, waving, 
and abundant ; and with real feminine instinct she 
longed to have these things appreciated and ad¬ 
mired ; it is to flowers alone that “ Beauty is its own 
excuse for being.” Humanity has its vanity as in¬ 
separably as its life. 

Other girls of Beulah’s age, though perhaps as 
hard-working as she, had their Sunday finery, their 
chances at sleigh-rides, apple-bees, and picnics ; but 
Beulah was condemned to social solitude since her 
avaricious parent had declared long ago, “ Caliker’s 
good enough wear for women folks; ef ye had 
fin’ry ye’d be forever a gaddin’, an’ you’ve got to 
work for a livin’ same’s the rest. The’ won’t none 
o’ my ’arnins go to rig ye up and fetch fellows a 
buzzin’ round here. I ha’n’t ben and bringed ye up 
all these years for to have ye goin’ off jest when 
your ma an’ me is goin’ to get old, an’ stan’ in need 
of ye ; so you can chaw on that, Beuly ! ” 

Such words were like the lash of a whip across 
her face to the poor girl ; and when Jack discovered 
her more than once sitting behind the woodpile, her 
apron over her face, crying with the passion and 
abandonment of girlhood over her sunless life and 
Dan’s bitter words, his soul was filled with pity for 
the girl, and indignation that was even more useless 
to her than his pity. 

However, he began to look about for opportuni¬ 
ties to console her ; at odd times he delayed on his 
way from the pasture to gather a little bunch of 
spring’s early blossoms, for he had found out that she 
loved flowers ; and when on some propitious Sunday 
he offered to go into the woods and get “ roots and 
yarbs” for Mrs. Case’s syrups “for the blood,” and 
Beulah went to help him, he never let her do the 
work, but took her to some nook where the spicy 
wintergreen-berries grew profusely, or the squattee 
hid its delicately flavored pearls in myrtle-like sprays 
of trailing verdure ; or later set her upon some sunny 
hillside fragrant with thick, sweet, wild strawberries 
and left her to rest and refreshment while he 


hunted up the ingredients for that witch-like brew 
that was to simmer and smell in the farm-house 
kitchen all the next day. 

Beulah was grateful indeed ; nobody had ever 
cared for or considered her before ; and when Jack 
rose half an hour earlier to fetch in the water for all 
day, and pile the kitchen hearth with wood for the 
stove, he had abundant reward in the bright shy 
smile that greeted him, or the low word of thanks 
uttered when no other ear could receive it. 

The very concealment of his friendliness, made of 
necessity, added to its charm : nothing attracts hu¬ 
man nature more than the forbidden, or captivates 
it so much as the mysterious and underhand. Both 
of them knew that Dan Case would have stormed at 
the idea of Beulah’s being helped at her work, and 
put a stop to any such waste of labor on Jack’s part; 
so they kept all signs of friendship to themselves, 
and went on through the changing seasons comforted 
by the consciousness of accord, and gradually drawing 
closer and closer to that revelation which should in 
time show them how much nearer and dearer a tie 
would yet bind them together. 

It was just a year since Jack Seymour had hired 
himself to Dan Case, when once more he found 
Beulah in tears behind the woodpile ; a hard day’s 
washing and a torrent of abuse from Dan because she 
had not sprouted all the potatoes in the cellar, had 
quite overset her composure ; Jack’s heart ached for 
her, and he did the most natural thing in the circum¬ 
stances—sat down beside her on the log, drew her 
head on to his shoulder and began to comfort her. 

“Don’t you cry, now, Beulah ! don’t, dear.” 

“ I ca-ca-cant h-help it! ” she sobbed. 

“Well, don’t; you won’t stay here always, ’twon’t 
last.” Beulah shook her head in dissent, she was 
choking back the tears so hard she could not trust 
her voice. 

“Say, dear!” he went on, “I’ve been thinking 
ever so long about it. Would you be willing to 
marry me, Beulah?” She looked up at him with 
such pure, innocent love and wonder in her eyes that 
his heart beat high and fast. “Would you, if I 
could get a little farm on shares over in Toptowm 
or somewhere ? ” Beulah blushed, and looked away. 

“I guess so,” she said, faintly; and for answer 
Jack silenced her trembling lips with a very tender 
kiss. So now their lives were bound together, yet 
neither of them knew fully the other’s past. Beulah 
had her own little secret, and Jack his great one. 

As he took up his axe and went off to his chop¬ 
ping, when Beulah had gone back to the house, over 
his happy heart a cloud of fear crept dark and cold. 
What was he but an escaped convict ? Ought any de¬ 
cent girl to share his name and his life? Could he 
ever tell this dreadful thing to her? And yet what if 
he married her and the matter came to light when 
she was irrevocably his? His conscious innocence 
did not help him a particle here, so long as he could 
not prove it; and yet with a lover’s sophistry he per- 





True. 


533 


suaded himself that so long- as he knew himself guilt¬ 
less, it was better for him to keep Beulah ignorant, 
and rescue her from her hard and cruel life, than to 
tell her the story which would not only hurt her lov¬ 
ing nature but raise a barrier between her and every 
hope of help from him in her life. 

They had decided to keep their compact a secret 
from her parents, for well they both knew what Dan’s 
rage would be to lose at once two such efficient 
helpers; and if Beulah should confide it to her 
mother, she too might object to such a loss, for she 
had never shown the girl any of that affection or con¬ 
sideration that we are apt to think an ineradicable 
motherly instinct, though daily experience goes to 
prove that even a mother’s heart may be hard and 
indifferent to her offspring and a father no synonym 
for Him who is in Heaven, but only a vain name, 
worn by fretful selfishness and domestic tyranny. 

So all the consolation our lovers had was a rare 
meeting in the dark shadow of the friendly woodpile, 
kept to its height by Jack’s keen axe, or a stroll in 
the woods on Sunday, when they left the house in 
different directions, always to find each other as soon 
as the old gray homestead was out of sight. 

So things rolled on into July. Summer boarders 
began to invade the mountain solitudes ; the cool 
fragrant air was silent and pure no longer, but echoed 
the idle laugh and senseless chatter of pervasive city 
school-girls, and was mixed with the vile odors of 
tobacco from cigars and pipes. Jack, always haunted 
by a dread of detection, kept sedulously away from 
the village in summer, and Dan Case never urged him 
to leave his work for an errand ; Jack’s strength and 
activity were worth far more to him on the sterile 
farm than anywhere else, and he preferred to go 
himself to “the store” for what few things were of 
absolute necessity to his family, for then he made 
sure that not one cent more than the lowest sum 
needful would be rashly expended.' 

But Fate does not always leave its work at the 
mercy or guidance of man ; in the middle of August 
a party came up the road, from a boarding-house 
down in the village, and stopped to ask the way to 
a blackberry patch supposed to be on Dan Case’s 
farm. Neither Mrs. Case or Beulah could tell them 
anything about it, and Jack very well knew that he 
must not betray its position, for Dan counted on 
selling the berries as a source of income, so when Beu¬ 
lah went up to the fence he was mending, and asked 
him, he shook his head negatively and walked away ; 
his straight profile and keen eye attracted the notice 
of an elderly man on the back seat of the wagon, 
and as Jack unconsciously turned his head to look 
after Beulah, a certain bright red scar on his left 
cheek showed plainly in the sunshine. 

Poor Jack ! By one of those luckless chances that 
befall us in this life this observant man was the 
warden of the very prison from which he had fled ; 
and he had taken a peculiar interest in this prisoner, 
having a theory of his own as to his guilt or inno¬ 


cence, and Tom Long’s real name and history. Mr. 
King had been heartily sorry at Jack’s escape ; it 
seemed to the outside world, as he knew, that a 
guilty man confesses his guilt when he runs away 
from its punishment; and he had hoped to mitigate 
Jack’s situation and shorten his term on account of 
good behavior. Now he was neither pleased nor sur¬ 
prised at his discovery ; he knew Jack had not, in all 
probability, left the country, and he also knew how 
small the world is practically. He had always ex¬ 
pected that this man would be retaken, all the more 
because he believed him innocent, and now his duty 
lay plain before him, hard as it was. 

Jack had not recognized Mr. King; his habit 
of concealment and distrust had always made him 
turn his face away from any stranger’s eye ; so the 
next morning he went on with his work at the wood- 
pile, as the haying was over, and when Mr. King 
and the Toptown sheriff rode up to the door he did 
not see them. Presently Beulah came out and called 
him : “ Pa says he wants you, dear.” 

The sweet little word was sent out to him with a 
smile, and Jack’s fresh face colored and his heart 
leaped to his eyes, as he laid down his axe and stepped 
into the kitchen after her. 

“Where is he?” he asked, unsuspiciously. 

“ Out in the dooryard I guess ; he only put his 
head in here and called for you.” Jack passed on 
into the short hall and stepped out of the front door. 
A wagon and a pair of horses stood there, and as he 
went forward a man he had not seen put his hand 
on his shoulder, another twisted his hands together, 
and the sharp click he had once before heard turned 
his veins to ice ; he was arrested and handcuffed, 
and before his breath came back Dan Case stood 
before him loading him with bitter invective. 

This was not the worst; in vain he begged to say 
good-by to Beulah. Dan swore at him with fresh 
fury, and maddened by the idea which was forced 
upon him by Jack’s passionate pleading, was only 
prevented by the sheriff’s stern warning from using 
personal violence. Mrs. Case heard the noise and 
looked out of the window, and to her Jack renewed 
his prayers. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Case ! do let me see Beulah just a 
minute ! I must! I must! Just one minute to say 
good-by ! ” 

“ Not one second, d-ye ! ” howled Dan. “ Shet 

that window, Dely! don’t you hear sech talk.” 

“Tell her I’m innocent! oh do, do, tell her ! if 
you don’t want her to go mad as well as me ! ” 
screamed Jack, as the sheriff half lifted him into the 
wagon ; but Mrs. Case dared to make no answer, for 
now her husband turned his rage on her because she 
did not shut the window, the truth being that her 
fright so unnerved her trembling fingers that they 
could not work the stiff and rusted spring which held 
the sash up. 

At this moment Beulah, to whose corner in the 
back kitchen an uncertain sort of stir had just arrived 





534 


Treasury of Tales . 


to rouse her curiosity, appeared at the door, only to 
see Jack disappearing down the road, held on a 
wagon-seat between two strange men, his head turned 
back over his shoulder as if desperately searching 
for one last look ; and her father purple with help¬ 
less rage, shaking his fist at the distant wagon, and 
filling the air with hideous profanity. 

“ Get into the house you d-d fool,” he yelled 

at Beulah. “ There goes your feller’t you’ve been 
sparkin’ behind my back, with han’cuffs onto him 
an’ a sheriff hold of him ; going back to State’s prison 
where he come from to sarve out his term for bur¬ 
glin’ an’ bank robbin’.” He hurled the words at Beu¬ 
lah with an air of savage triumph ; so furious was he 
at the thought that she as well as Jack had all but 
escaped his service. The girl heard him with di¬ 
lated eyes, the color slowly ebbing from lip and cheek, 
her parted lips trembling with terror, till at last mer¬ 
ciful unconsciousness crept over her and she slipped 
softly to the ground in a dead faint. 

Meanwhile Jack on his way to prison was desper¬ 
ate. He would gladly have thrown himself out of the 
wagon into the first water they crossed, or over the 
precipitous edge of the mountain road, but the 
sheriff and his assistants were on the lookout for such 
a possibility, and with an arm of each linked in either 
of his, Jack was held as helpless as an infant in his 
position. 

After a day or two of enforced journeying he found 
himself again in the old prison, in a more secluded 
cell than before, and at first kept in solitary confine¬ 
ment ; not allowed even the free air of the court¬ 
yard or the sight of other laborers ; of course soli¬ 
tude such as this was even more maddening than 
incarceration ; his thoughts had no other outlet than 
the past; life had just opened again for him, and 
opened more brightly than ever, when, still more un¬ 
justly than before, to his mind, he was shut out 
from all its joys. For weeks,—yes for months,—he 
hoped daily that he might have a letter from Beulah. 
He knew there would be difficulties in her way, but 
a man cannot understand what mountains beset a 
young girl that to him would seem but mole-hills. 

Jack Seymour knew that in Beulah’s place he 
would have done the impossible, as it seemed, rather 
than not communicate with and console her ; and as 
months rolled lingeringly by and made a year, he lost 
the last comfort of his life, faith in love, in truth, 
even in humanity. In his godless soul he cursed bit¬ 
terly all the ways of God and man ; he gave himself 
over to the worst of all unbelief, the infidelity of the 
heart; he reproached himself for loving, for having 
loved, unaware that the very asperity of his thought 
and feeling was proof that he loved still. Indifference 
never rages, and hate in its worst virulence is the 
black shadow of an undying love. 

He had sent Beulah letters as often as he was al¬ 
lowed to write them ; and this exasperated his suffer¬ 
ing ; to write and receive no token of reception, no 
acknowledgment of even a courtesy, is irritating 


even where there is no question of love or trust ; but 
to waste prayers, tenderness, eager questions, and 
piteous pleading for sympathy on an utter blank of 
silence adds insult to injury and sears as well as 
wounds. 

But where was Beulah ? From her fainting fit she 
was aroused by cold water and hot words. Dan 
Case had no pity in his nature ; he was outraged by 
the fact that he had been deceived, forgetting that 
he owed the deception to his own character, which 
made it a necessity to all around him. No man or 
woman who spreads fear and trouble abroad in his 
own house and home can ever grow the roses of truth 
and candor in that chill and stormy atmosphere. 
Nor can any such gather peace and love into their 
fretful, unjust, and evil tempers, until men shall pluck 
grapes from thorns or figs from thistles. 

Beulah’s life became a daily torture now ; she could 
not find one item of intelligence about Jack’s crime, 
or his destination, except from Dan’s rabid words of 
wrath. She had no place to go to for help or sym¬ 
pathy, for her mother neither wished nor dared to 
give her comfort; the letters poor Jack put his heart 
into she never received, for no one but Dan ever went 
to the village, and when such missives came he burned 
them in the nearest fire at once, or tossed them, torn 
to atoms, into the mad mountain stream that crossed 
and re-crossed his homeward drive. 

Beulah had never read a novel ; she was altogether 
ignorant of the ways in which cruel parents strive to 
drive an unsuitable lover from a daughter’s mind ; 
but she had what some novel-reading girls lack—a 
faithful heart; and its depths were all inhabited by 
Jack’s image ; the first and only love of her life, he 
lost nothing by enforced absence, or cruel accusa¬ 
tion ; not for one moment did she believe him guilty, 
though his parting declaration of innocence had 
never reached her ears, for Dan Case had said to his 
wife with the fiercest oath he could compass, and said 
it over Beulah’s senseless body : 

“If you go and tell that-nonsense to her, 

Dely, I’ll make every bone in your old carkiss ache 
like the devil himself; d’ye hear ? ” and Delia knew 
well what that threat meant, for now and then this hus¬ 
band of hers filled himself with cider brandy—that 
fiendish brew that not alone intoxicates but lets Satan 
enter into a man and all his legions infest that man’s 
dwelling ; and in one of these passions Dan had 
beaten his wife black and blue ; while Beulah escaped 
with her life only by hiding deep in the bay of the 
barn under the piled hay, for all day long. 

But whether she heard it or not Beulah knew that 
her Jack had never been a thief; she had wondered 
at and admired the scrupulous honesty which always 
forbade him to use the least thing not his own, to 
“scamp” or slight his hard work, or to use Dan’s 
lawful time even to help her with her tasks. More¬ 
over she loved him ; and it grew to be the steady 
purpose of her life some day to seek him out. 

Her little secret was the only thing she had ever 








True. 


535 


hidden from her lover, and this secret was that from 
some unguarded word of Mrs. Case’s, the girl had 
discovered soon after Jack came to the farm that she 
was neither Dan Case’s daughter nor Delia’s ; she 
was indebted to them for everything she had, but no 
tie of blood bound her to them, only to her just and 
true nature gratitude seemed stronger than rela¬ 
tionship, and she felt that she owed to these people, 
who really had been overpaid by her work for her 
scanty food and poor clothing, the debt of her whole 
life-time. This alone kept her at the farm ; she was 
sure Jack would some day be free and come back to 
her ; till then she would wait for him here. 

But about two years after Jack left her, one day 
when Dan Case had taken his wife off to pick black¬ 
berries for the village boarding-house, leaving Beulah 
at home to make yeast and pickles, neither of which 
could be delayed, the girl went up-stairs to look for 
a piece of rag, to wind round the loose cork of the 
great jug, and impatiently pulling out the tight under¬ 
drawer of an old bureau, heard something/all behind 
it, and putting in her hand drew out a yellow folded 
paper, which she opened without a thought, to see if 
it were to be kept or burned, and read therein the 
indentures of “ Beulah Barnes, daughter of Levi and 
Ophelia Barnes, both deceased, to Daniel and Delia 
Case, said bond to'be of continuance till said Beulah 
arrived at the age of eighteen.” Also inside this was 
another paper, a queerly written will, signed by Levi 
Barnes, leaving his “ unincumbered property,” a farm 
of sixty acres in Toptown, chiefly meadow land on 
the Assiniquoin River, to his only daughter Beulah 
when she should be twenty. 

She gathered up the papers in her apron and sat 
down to think. She was twenty-two years old now, 
and she had been legally free four years, and owner 
of a house and land too. Often she had heard Dan 
Case talk of his farm over in Toptown, and she knew 
it was leased to a thriving farmer. Beulah’s blood 
boiled ; she saw how she had been cheated of her 
simplest rights, but how could she, alone and help¬ 
less, arrive at their possession ? 

It had been a great relief to discover she was not 
Dan Case’s daughter, though she had been inno¬ 
cently ashamed to let Jack know that she was a 
nameless pauper, but it was a greater relief far to be 
rid of her burden of obligation. She had in her an 
unusual share of that quality which the Yankee ver¬ 
nacular styles “grit ”—a compound of courage, reso¬ 
lution, endurance and dauntless strength ; now it 
came to her aid ; she left yeast and pickles to their 
fate, put on her clean calico dress and sunbonnet, 
and with the papers in her pocket set out to find 
Toptown, a village lying on a broad hilltop full ten 
miles away from Tucker, the little settlement where 
Dan Case got his groceries. 

The day was hot, and she was unaccustomed to 
walking, but her courage never failed, and when she 
had fairly got beyond Tucker, an old farmer over¬ 
took her, and asked her to ride with him ; luckily for 


her, he too was bound for Toptown and lived next 
door to one of the men whose name as first select¬ 
man was affixed to her indentures sixteen years ago. 
Judge Salford he was now, a title of honor given in 
these primitive regions to justices of the peace or 
lawyers with no judicial office ; but Beulah found him 
a kindly clear-headed man, who was indignant at her 
treatment. 

Mr. Safford explained to her that her mother was 
a step-sister of Delia Case, and had died suddenly 
when her only child was four years old ; Levi Barnes, 
her father, had consented that Dan’s wife should 
take the child home with her, and had himself died 
at the West only two years later. Dan had never 
produced this will, but had taken possession of the 
farm, declaring that Barnes had given him a mortgage 
that covered its whole value, and in that scattered 
rural township nobody had looked up his proofs of 
such indebtedness to him, or even asked when such 
a paper was recorded. He refused to support the 
child unless she was bound out to him, and the town 
authorities considered it best to save her from the 
poorhouse in that fashion, though she herself never 
knew her own position. Judge Safford offered her 
now a home in his family till she should be settled 
in her own, and his wife, a kindly, motherly woman, 
“ took to ” Beulah, in her own phrase, at once. 

Matters concerning the property were soon ar¬ 
ranged. Dan Case was furious at the girl’s discov¬ 
eries and escape, but could not produce the alleged 
mortgage or any record of its existence ; he had laid 
up enough money in Haverhill bank to refund the 
past rent of the farm and its interest, and Beulah 
refused to prosecute him, naturally considering that 
disgorging all his evil gains was punishment enough ; 
and perhaps thinking, with a woman’s fond super¬ 
stition, that if she showed mercy to him, perhaps some 
correspondent mercy might be poured out upon 
Jack ! Then she set herself to discover her lover, 
and knew no other way than to lay the whole case 
before Mr. Safford, which she did with many blushes 
and a few tears. He remembered the affair at once, 
for it was of late occurrence and made much noise 
in that lonely country. He went at once to the sheriff, 
who lived not far from his own door, and found that 

Jack’s prison was in Connecticut at-; and, by 

further inquiry, that his term had only two years 
to run. 

Beulah judged her lover by her own heart; she 
believed him faithful as well as innocent, and had re¬ 
solved to spend the time she had yet to wait for him 
in educating herself to greater fitness for his affec¬ 
tion. She had money enough now to go to a good 
school, and at her age education proceeds with 
wonderful speed. So the day came at last when Jack, 
worn, wan, spirit-broken, and hurt to the heart, 
hopeless of life or a hereafter, was clothed once more 
in civilized garments and set free. It was the free¬ 
dom of despair to him; he had resolved to kill him¬ 
self as soon as his liberty allowed him to find means 








53 6 


Treasury of Idles. 


for suicide, and with a soul full of cursing and bit¬ 
terness, he passed wearily out of the prison-door— 
into Beulah’s arms. 

Ah ! what human pen could depict the emotion of 
a soul that expects in the opening dawn of another 
world to be received into the lurid nether flames, but 
is instead drawn softly upward and circled by the 
rapturous ether of heaven ? As little can I tell, 
even in my mother-tongue, the incredulous utter 
gladness of Jack’s whole soul, its entire revolution, 
its exhausting joy—all because a woman was—and 
had been—true ! 

“ So they were happy ever after,” says the old 
fairy story of our childhood ; but they would still 
have dwelt under the black shadow of the past, had 
not one of those dramatic incidents that illustrate, 
oftener than we know, this dull dailiness of our life, 
happened just as Jack, faint and pallid with sudden 
release and relief, neared the prison-yard gate, lean¬ 
ing on happy Beulah’s arm. The grated iron en¬ 
trance was already open, and the sheriff was helping 
a man, shackled hand and foot, out of the prison- 
van ; it was Tom Long! He recognized Jack 
at the same moment, and called out with a sneering 
laugh : 

“ I did for you pretty well, young fellow, didn’t I ? 
But you’re out now, and I’m a lifer. Not for long, 
though, I’m blank blanked if I am.” 

Jack shuddered at his voice, but Beulah’s quick 
wit took the cue of Tom’s words at once ; she 
searched out the record of Tom’s trial, which was for 
murder this time, and discovered that in the some¬ 
what miscellaneous evidence given against him, an 
old comrade who had turned State’s evidence be¬ 
trayed all the details of the plot in which Jack Sey¬ 
mour had been made a tool to rob the Dart- 
ford bank. 

Our perceptive reader will easily unravel Tom 
Long’s skilful manipulation without detailed descrip¬ 
tion. Beulah took care that the whole story 
should be laid before the public in those universal 
wrongers and righters, the newspapers of the 
country ; and then the two were quietly married and 
went back to the farm at Toptown, where Jack 
regained his strength and health, and his faith in God 
and man ; and is, to this day not only a Fortunatus 
Agrico/a, but, better than that classical agriculturist, 
knows and feels every day that he is well off and 
even blessed. 

While for Beulah what better or more inclusive 
words shall be said than the ancient Hebrew com¬ 
mendation : “ The heart of her husband doth safely 
trust in her ! ” 



THE WHITE CAMELLIA. 

BY H. SAVILLE CLARKE. 

I. 

THE PHOTOGRAPH. 

HERE were no pleasanter rooms in London 
than those of my friend, Edward Maynard, 
Esq., artist and Bohemian, or, as his friends 
called him, “Teddy.” There was no occasion to 
repeat his surname, for London contained but one 
“ Teddy ” for us—Teddy Maynard. 

When I say Bohemian, I do not mean that Ted¬ 
dy’s existence was spent in the haunting of disrepu¬ 
table taverns and the consumption of alcoholic 
mixtures, the characteristics of many of the Bohe¬ 
mians of the present day ; but that his tastes were 
of a delicately unconventional kind, and that while 
no cavalier looked more irreproachable at the “ Zoo ” 
on Sundays, he had gone through adventures in 
France and Spain which served to show he had de¬ 
serted his vocation in being an artist, and should 
have “ gone in ” for knight-errantry. 

To return, however, to Teddy’s rooms, in which 
I was sitting one pleasant afternoon, just when 
the spring was about to surrender herself to the kiss 
of summer. They were decorated after a design of 
his own. Dark maroon-colored panels, edged with 
gold, with hangings and furniture to correspond. 
Over the mantel-piece was a curious old-fashioned 
glass, set in an oak frame. Cabinets and book-cases 
of the same wood stood in various parts of the room, 
and the walls were adorned with some good pictures 
in oil and water-colors, the production chiefly of 
Teddy’s artist friends, who had given him those 
“nice little bits,” which delight painters and puzzle 
the public. It was not far off Regent Street, a quiet 
row of houses within sight and hearing of that gay 
thoroughfare ; and the distant echoes of voices and 
footsteps, mingled with the roll of carriages, brought 
one’s thoughts back to London, when the beauty of 
the afternoon had carried them away into dreamy 
visions of how the country was looking in the spring¬ 
time. 

Teddy was out. He was always out when you 
called, and I was waiting for him, in obedience to a 
note left for me with his Cerberus. Having to wait, 
it was natural that I should light a cigar, and then 
looking about for that mischief which Dr. Watts 
declares the enemy ot mankind will always find for 
idle hands to do, I seized upon one of the photo¬ 
graph albums which ornamented the table, and 
commenced an investigation as to whether Teddy 
had picked up any new cartes-de-visite. I may men¬ 
tion that he had a perfect mania for these little pict¬ 
ures, and was always having them presented to him 
on his first introduction to people, and buying any 
pretty faces that he took a fancy to in his walks 
abroad. I saw a good many old favorites in his 
book. The pretty girl in the rfding-habit he had 






The White Camellia. 


S 'y * 
0 / 


the happiness to call cousin ; the young lady with 
charmingly dishevelled hair, who had distinguished 
herself so in private theatricals, and a good many 
more ; and then I hastily turned over the leaves to 
get nearer the end of the book, where any new faces 
would be found. 

And how was I rewarded ? How can I put upon 
paper the impression that a photograph, the last in 
the album, made upon me? I was at first quite 
startled. I was only looking at the pictures care¬ 
lessly, but something in the face of this one made 
me start up and go to the window with the book, to 
get a better light upon it. The photograph was 
a wonderfully good one. The sun, glad to limn so 
fair a face, had done his work lovingly and. well. It 
was the most beautiful, the most expressive face 
that I had ever seen. Dark hair, as far as I could 
tell, a face classical in its perfection, lit up with eyes 
that seemed almost to have the power of speech as 
they looked at you. An exquisite mouth, small and 
not too full, while the curve of the chin, and the 
way in which the head was posed on the bosom, 
“ like a bell-flower on its bed,” might have inspired 
Mr. Browning with that simile. 

It was not only love at first sight, but love with a 
photograph. I had not thought my susceptibilities 
-easily roused, but here I was in a fever of love about 
a small picture on a piece of pasteboard. Who 
was this girl ? That was the question. I hastily 
took the photograph out of the book, and looked to 
see who the photographer was. There was no name 
at the back of it! Plain cardboard, that was all. 
The usual photographer’s imprint, and number of 
the negative absent. Where had Teddy got it? 
Was it a carte of one of his friends ? or had he 
picked it up somewhere ? Was she married ? or en¬ 
gaged ? in short, who and what was this mysterious 
girl, who had changed me from a sober and rational 
being into a strangely frantic and excited creature ? 

When would Teddy come in? I paced the room 
impatiently, holding the photograph before me. I 
opened the window, and looked up and down the 
street many times, and at last, after what seemed 
hours, I heard his footsteps on the stairs, and he 
lounged into the room. 

“Well, old man, how are you?” he said ; “glad 
you got my note and waited.” 

“ Teddy,” I said, without returning his greeting, 
and showing him the photograph, “tell me whose 
likeness this is ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” said Teddy, prolonging that exclamation 
in the most aggravating way possible, and coolly 
lighting a pipe. “ How excited we are about it! ” 

“ I know I am excited,” I said, for I had worked 
myself up into a perfectly ridiculous condition. 
“ But do answer my question. Who is this girl ? 
I must know.” 

“ Let me see,” said he, pretending not to recog¬ 
nize it. “ Oh, yes, that—that—is a photograph of my 
aunt, the Empress of China Nice old girl, isn’t she ? ” 


“ Teddy,” I said, impatiently, “ please be serious. 
I’m awfully spooney upon this picture. Pray tell me 
where you got it, and all about it.” 

“ I tell you my aunt-,” he began, and then see¬ 

ing how annoyed I looked, he said : “ Well, my dear 
boy, the fact is, I don’t know who it is any more 
than you do. I thought it was a tidy face, and 
bought it of some photographic chap in the suburbs 
somewhere, for a shilling.” 

I was bitterly disappointed, and sat down in a 
disconsolate way, still keeping hold of the photo¬ 
graph. I had almost rather he had told me the un¬ 
known beauty was married, or out of my reach in 
some other way ; it was the suspense, the absence 
of any knowledge whatever about her that was so 
hard to bear. 

“Why, Frank, old boy,” said Teddy, “you look 
all knocked of a heap. You don’t mean to say that 
you are really spoons on that carte. Why, she may 
be the mother of any number of promising children. 
She may be a blessed barmaid. She-” 

“ Teddy, please don’t. I’m hard hit. I know 
I’m an ass, but I can’t help it. I will find out about 
this girl, if possible. Can’t you remember where 
you bought the photograph ? ” 

“ No, upon my honor I can’t. Somewhere near 
Westbourne Grove, I fancy. I was dining in Bays- 
water, I know, but I can’t be sure.” 

“ I may have it, I suppose ? ” 

“Certainly. But if you’ll take my advice, Frank, 
you’ll put it into the fire.” 

“ Thank you. I shan’t do that.” And I placed 
the carte carefully in my pocket-book. “ Now 
good-by. Look you up again to-morrow.” 

“All right. But where are you off to in such a 
hurry ? ” 

“Well,” I said slowly, “ I think I shall take a walk 
in the neighborhood of Westbourne Grove.” 

“ Y'ou old ass ! ” was the complimentary rejoinder, 
and then I went away. 

II. 

WESTBOURNE GROVE. 

Westbourne Grove, as most Londoners know, 
is not to be understood in a sylvan or rural sense, 
for but few trees grace the pleasant Bayswater 
thoroughfare which goes by that name. It is a sort 
of miniature Regent Street, with many excellent 
shops, while the famous Whiteley provides you with 
everything from the cradle to the grave, and it is 
the favorite lounge of the female part of the Bays¬ 
water population. Bayswater, as everybody knows, 
is given up almost entirely to stockbrokers, retired 
Indian officers, and Jews ; it is a sort of metropoli¬ 
tan Asia Minor ; and about four o’clock on a fine 
afternoon all that is fairest of the female, and most 
Israelitish of the male sex, promenades Westbourne 
Grove. 

Native Indian nurses may be seen in charge of 
perambulators full of innumerable children ; inva- 








53S 


Treasury of Tales. 


lids are dragged about in bath-chairs by the most 
malevolent-looking ruffians in existence; maiden 
ladies stalk on with an evangelical and tract-dis¬ 
tributing air ; the British curate may be seen am¬ 
bling along as if conscious of the nimbus with which 
the imagination of his female votaries invests him ; 
the Bayswater swell, a distinct type, very weak 
about the legs, hangs on to his eyeglass, and nods 
to a passing acquaintance ; a ladies’ school—some 
ten hapless maidens—is marched sternly past the 
attraction of shop windows full of bonnets and ear¬ 
rings ; the pavement is hidden by waving dresses, 
and the air is redolent of scent. Such is West- 
bourne Grove ; and for this promenade I started 
when I left Teddy Maynard’s rooms, with the pre¬ 
cious photograph in my possession. 

When I got into Regent Street I hailed a han¬ 
som, and was soon speeding westward toward the 
Grove. As soon as I was safely ensconced in the 
vehicle I took out the portrait. It looked lovelier 
than before, the face still fairer than when I had 
first seen it; and by the time I had got to the Mar¬ 
ble Arch I was more in love with it than ever. It 
was madness, I knew, but men had been mad before 
my time for love of a woman’s face ; and wiser men 
than I was had engaged in the mad tournament in 
olden times to win a smile from a lady that they 
could never dare to love. I had imported the old- 
world madness of chivalry into the nineteenth cent¬ 
ury ; and it was nobody’s business but my own if I 
chose to go on what every one of my friends would 
call a wild-goose chase after a carte-de-visite. 

In the meantime I was speeding toward West- 
bourne Grove, wrapt in the contemplation of my 
beloved photograph, and with no very definite idea 
of what course I was going to pursue when I reached 
my destination. 

Teddy had given me no clue whatever to the 
photographer ; there would be a dozen in the Grove, 
and I was not even sure that his purchase had not 
been made in some street in the vicinity ; so that to 
take the picture round to every photographer in the 
neighborhood seemed likely to be a very hopeless 
business, which would lead to no satisfactory result. 
It was probable, I thought, that the portrait had 
been privately taken, and that possibly a few copies 
had remained in the photographer’s hands. There 
was some chance, then, that, finding the picture had 
sold, he might, if he possessed another, have ex¬ 
posed it also for sale. I accordingly dismissed my 
cab at the end of the Queen’s Road, and commenced 
an investigation of the photographers in the Grove. 

It was weary work, for, as I might have expected, 
I could find no counterpart of my portrait. I even 
went into several places and made inquiries as to 
whether it had been taken there ; but my question 
was met with a supercilious negative, one magnifi¬ 
cently attired artist informing me that their work 
was “ infinitely superior to anything like that.” It 
seemed like sacrilege to be thus exposing my pict¬ 


ure to vulgar gaze, and I determined to abandon 
the search, at all events for some days. I thought 
that in the meanwhile I would try and extract from 
Teddy more exactly the whereabouts of the place at 
which he had bought it. I would make him come 
with me to Bayswater, and go over the ground 
which he had traversed on the day when he discov¬ 
ered the photograph. If that plan failed, I should 
have no alternative but to try every photographer 
in the district; and I determined that even if the 
search lasted for months, I would persevere with it, 
and not rest until I had at least discovered who the 
original of my cherished portrait was, wffiere she 
lived, and what was her position in life. It was a 
mad resolve, but I am a man of a very obstinate 
nature, and I determined to accomplish my end. 

On application to Teddy next day he received 
me with a great deal of unfeeling chaff ; and I found 
that it was quite hopeless to attempt to get any 
more precise directions from him. He had gone in 
a cab to Bayswater, he said, and had stopped to get 
some cigars. He had seen the photograph near the 
tobacconist’s, had bought it, and then driven on, 
and had “ not the vaguest notion ”—so he said—as 
to what street it was in. Somewhere near West- 
bourne Grove, that was all he could tell me ; and 
he concluded his information, as he had done our 
previous conversation on the subject, with the gra¬ 
tuitous statement that I was a great donkey to go 
running after a photograph. Thus far Teddy : of 
no use at all to me. 

And in truth, after many inquiries in various 
quarters, I began in some measure to doubt the 
wisdom of my proceedings myself. Not a very 
surprising thing, perhaps, when my situation was 
calmly reviewed. Here I was, rushing all over town 
after photographers, only to meet with perpetual 
disappointment; and even if I was so far success¬ 
ful as to find out who my portrait was, I might be 
as far off knowing her and winning her as ever. I 
looked at the fair face, and the wonderful eyes that 
met mine so steadily in the picture, and I was driven 
nearly mad by the thought that they might even 
then be smiling upon some one else ; that some one 
with a good right to such happiness was even then 
caressing that sweet face. She might be another 
man’s wife, and all I could do when I found her out 
would be to accept my fate, and leave the place 
where she lived, to hide my hopeless love, as the 
old song says, “ for ever and a day ! ” 

At last, after visiting scores of photographers, I 
began to think my search hopeless, and to despair 
of ever finding my visionary lady love. I did not 
swerve, however, in my allegiance to her charms. I 
still held my carte-de-visite to be the portrait of the 
fairest, sweetest woman upon earth. I would con¬ 
tinue to hold that belief, no matter whether I ever 
found her or not. The said portrait in time, after 
much affectionate saluting of an oscillatory nature, 
began to get somewhat faded, and to lose some of 




The IVkite Camellia. 


539 


its original brilliancy. I determined, therefore, to 
have it copied by a first-rate artist, and I thought 
that at the same time I would have it enlarged. I 
was doubtful about having it colored, for I hardly 
knew the exact tints to order. So I took the carte 
to one of the greatest photographers in town—a 
man, by the way, to whom I had before applied to 
see if he knew anything of it—and I gave orders for 
an enlarged copy to be made of it in the very best 
possible style. 

1 he attendant to whom I gave the order, after 
looking at the portrait for a few minutes, said : “ An 
enlarged copy of this, sir? You can have it directly. 
Didn’t you order one the other day, sir ? ” 

“ No ! ” I said, in the utmost astonishment. “ But 
I order it now.” 

“ Well, sir, I think we have one on hand. Will 
you walk this way?” 

In another instant I had followed him into an ad¬ 
joining room, and there, on an easel, stood a large 
portrait of my darling ! 

Enlarged evidently from a copy of the same carte 
I possessed, but it was colored ; and now that I 
could see the exact shade of the hair and complex¬ 
ion, it looked more beautiful than ever. 

“ I have been looking for this everywhere,” I said, 
eagerly, to the attendant. “ Pray tell me who it is ? ” 

“ Who it is ? ” the man repeated, looking at me 
suspiciously. “Why, it’s an enlarged copy of the 
portrait you have in your hand, to be sure.” 

He thought of course that I must know the origi¬ 
nal ; and I saw the necessity of being cautious, or 
he might refuse to give me the information I 
wanted. 

“ Ah, yes,” I said ; “ but I was to order the en¬ 
largement for the friend of the lady’s, and I was not 
told the name. Can’t you tell me ? ” 

The man still seemed suspicious, but took up an 
order book and said— 

“ Well, sir, I’d better take your order, and we shall 
see the name here, I dare say.” 

I gave my order for an enlargement like the one 
before me, and begged the man not to mention it to 
the persons who had ordered the first one, as it was 
intended as a surprise to some relatives. I enforced 
my request by a liberal douceur, and the man, who 
seemed quite mollified, turned over to some previous 
entries, and said, showing me the book : 

“There you are, sir. Miss Vane, 28 Worcester 
Square, Hyde Park, W.” 

My heart beat, and I felt my face flushing, as I 
read the address. I had found her at last—and she 
was still Miss Vane—unless, indeed, “ Miss Vane ” 
was only some relation, 

“ I suppose this is the lady herself,” I said, care¬ 
lessly. 

“ Yes, sir, I think so,” the man said, “ for I waited 
on her.” 

“ Thanks,” I returned, and after mentally noting 
the address, I rushed off to Maynard’s rooms. 


III. 

IN THE PARK. 

4 

Teddy was seated in his easiest arm-chair, tran¬ 
quilly engaged in the consumption of sherry and 
seltzer, and smoking an enormously long wooden 
pipe. He looked up as I entered, and said, “ Ah ! 
the photograph maniac ; and how are we and the 
picture to-day ? ” 

“ To-day,” I said, in a tone of triumph, “we have 
found out the address.” 

“Indeed,” he said, calmly; “then sit down and 
have a pipe ; there’s plenty of seltzer in that cup¬ 
board, so mix and be happy.” 

“ Insensate creature ! you don’t even ask who 
she is ! ” 

“ Not I. I have heard so much about her for the 
last month or so, that you’ll excuse me for saying it, 
but I think I would rather not know her address. 
If you want to rave about her as usual, I’ll shut my 
eyes and listen. Don’t go on longer than you can 
help.” 

“ Wretch ! ” I said, iaughing, “ she is a Miss Vane 
—lives in Worcester Square, Hyde Park.” 

“ Is she ? Old maid, I suppose ? ” 

“Well, if you think her photograph is that of an 
old maid, you are welcome to your opinion. All I 
can say is that I don’t agree with you.” 

“ And what are you going to do now ? You don’t 
know any Vanes, and I don’t know any Vanes. I 
don’t see how you’re any nearer to your object, 
which is, I presume, an introduction. Be satisfied 
with the address. Give it up,—and hand me the 
tobacco-jar.” 

“ I shall do neither. I must know Miss Vane ; 
and you are so insufferably lazy, that it wall do you 
all the good in the world to get the ’baccy for your¬ 
self.” 

“ How do you propose to begin this charming 
plan ? ” 

“ By going off immediately to reconnoitre the 
house. I may catch a glimpse of her.” 

“ Poor fellow ! ” said Teddy, mockingly, touch¬ 
ing his forehead significantly. “ How far gone we 
are to be sure ! ” 

Teddy Maynard was never known to be in love 
with anybody himself, and he was quite incapable 
of comprehending it in other people. Regardless 
of his chaff, I set off to Worcester Square to have 
a look at number twenty-eight. 

I found, as I expected, a fine, decorous-looking 
mansion, with nothing to distinguish it from the 
other houses in the square. I did not imagine, of 
course, that there -would be anything distinctive 
about it; but it seemed to me, in my excited frame 
of mind, that the careless way in which people 
passed it was highly reprehensible. They did not 
know what a pearl of price that dull casket con¬ 
tained. There was nothing to be gained, however, 
by watching the house just when the inhabitants 







540 


Treasury of Tales. 


would be going to dinner, and Miss Vane was hardly 
likely to appear at one of the windows for my bene¬ 
fit, like a princess in a story book ; so I left the 
square and betook myself to a solitary dinner at the 
club, where I held a council of war with myself. 

The result of that council was that I determined 
my first move must be to see the lady, to make sure 
that she was Miss Vane, the original of my photo¬ 
graph, and whether she was likely to stay in town 
during the whole of the season. In accordance with 
this resolve I went down to Worcester Square the 
next day, and had an interview with the affable 
policeman on duty in the neighborhood. He knew 
Worcester Square, he said, well—had been in ser¬ 
vice near it before he entered the force. Yes. A 
Mr. Vane, Colonel Vane, lived at number twenty- 
eight. Any family? Yes—Miss Vane, as hand¬ 
some a young lady as ever stepped. Did they drive 
or walk out much ? Generally drove—about two or 
three in the afternoon. Was always glad to answer 
a gent’s questions, when he was a gent; and as he 
spoke my informant’s hand closed affectionately 
over the half-sovereign which I slipped into it. 

This was so far satisfactory. I did not go back 
to incredulous Teddy to pass the morning, but 
strolled tranquilly into the Park, and there con¬ 
sumed innumerable cigars, thinking over my good 
fortune in having a chance of seeing Miss Vane. I 
began to wonder, in a foolish and fantastic way, 
whether she would notice me. It was exceedingly 
improbable that she should do so, but I had been 
thinking of her so continuously for so many months 
that I almost believed my mind could, as some peo¬ 
ple say, have influenced hers. Our thoughts should 
have been en rapport, some knowledge of my strange 
and earnest love might, I fancied, have made itself 
felt in her heart. If the mind, concentrated on one 
object, has power and volition beyond the body, as 
has been asserted—and cases bearing out the state¬ 
ment are not uncommon—I know that I must have 
exercised some mysterious influence over her thought 
and feeling, although she would never know from 
whence it sprang. 

Such were some of my thoughts as I paced up 
and down the broad walks of the Park, longing for 
the hour to come when I might have a chance of 
again seeing my divinity. I was just leaving when 
I saw an open carriage coming toward the gates 
at a quick pace. I stepped aside to let it pass—and 
the face that had haunted me sleeping and waking 
for so many months flashed across me again. Our 
eyes met for a minute, and then the carriage bore 
her out of sight, and left me standing near the gates 
with my face flushed and my heart beating as if I 
had been undergoing some violent exercise. 

Colonel Vane and his daughter had come for 
their drive earlier than usual, or I might have seen 
her get into the carriage. Now, however, they 
would probably be in the drive, and I could go and 
watch them pass and repass. I accordingly went 


and stationed myself at a convenient part of the 
railings, and waited for the carriage. At last, far 
down the line I could see it approach. My darling 
had on the airiest, sweetest little summer bonnet in 
the world, and her beautiful brown hair shone un¬ 
derneath it, as it formed a coronal for the fair face 
and lustrous eyes that held me in thrall. 

Her father, a handsome, soldierly-looking old 
man with a gray moustache, sat beside her, and she 
seemed to be listening attentively to some story he 
was telling her, for she looked straight in front of 
her, and I never caught her eye again during the 
whole time that I watched her in the drive. 

And yet it was happiness enough just to be within 
a few yards of her, to be able to see her at all, and 
until they drove away from the Park my bliss was 
complete. Then I went away also, feeling very dis¬ 
consolate ; my vision had vanished. When was I to 
see it again, and how was I to get any nearer to an 
intimacy with her ? Any one might look at her in 
the Park. How was I to gain a dearer privilege ? 

IV. 

AT THE- OPERA. 

I determined to go to Maynard again, and, 
luckily, on my way home I met him at a literary and 
artistic club of which we were both members. 

He was smoking as usual, and his first remark 
was : “ Well, old man, how goes it ? ” 

“ I’ve just come from seeing her-” 

“ Oh ! it’s her again, is it ? I thought you’d quite 
forgotten that affair,” he said, laughing. 

“ Then you’re doomed to disappointment, my 
boy. I’ve just come from seeing her out driving in 
the Park—have seen her several times, and it was 
glorious ! ” 

“ Ah ! it was glorious, was it ? And what are you 
going to do next ? ” 

“ That’s just what I want to know—I don’t know 
what to do next. Can you advise me ? ” 

“ Throw yourself before the wheels of her chariot, 
and when the hoofs of her haughty steeds are tramp¬ 
ling out your heart’s best blood, tell her how you 
love her.” And Teddy, as he spoke, waved his 
cigar dramatically, and then leaned back in his arm¬ 
chair as if the effort had been too much for him. 

“ Don’t chaff me, please, but tell me what I’m 
to do.” 

Teddy, who is a capital fellow at heart, looked 
serious for a moment, and then said : 

“ I have it. Write to her.” 

“ Write to her ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But I don’t know her, and she’ll never forgive 
such a piece of impertinence.” 

“Never mind. Risk it. ‘He either fears his 
fate too much—’ you know he rest—that’s my ad¬ 
vice. If you won’t take it, why the deuce did you 
ask me for it.” 

“ I think I will,” I said, musingly. 







The White Camellia . 


54i 


“ That’s right,” said Teddy, encouragingly. 
“ Write and say who you are : I wouldn’t give your 
real name, but let her know you’re a gentleman, and 
that if she takes you she’ll stand a chance of being 
Lady Harcourt some day. Say you don’t want to 
press matters till you can get a formal introduction 
to her, and,”—here he stopped a moment—“ ask 
her, if she’s not very angry with you, to be at the 
Opera on some night in one week, when you’ll go 
every night it’s open, and wear a white camellia 
in your button-hole. There’s your plan all cut 
and dried, and you’re the most ungrateful fellow 
in the world if you don’t carry it out.” 

I was rather staggered at the boldness of this 
proposal, and went home, after having thanked 
Teddy, promising to think it over. It was indeed 
a mad scheme—not wilder, though, than my wild 
search after I had seen her photograph. And re¬ 
member, I was madly in love with Miss Vane ; so 
madly, indeed, that I could not be content to wait 
until, by some happy accident, I met her in society 
and got introduced to her. She might be engaged 
to some one else in the interval, if even she were 
not engaged already ; she might even get married ; 
and I was resolved at least to let her know how 
strange and mad a passion she had inspired. A 
girl with such eyes, I thought, must be romantic, 
and surely all the romance of her nature would 
come to my aid when she knew for how long I had 
worshipped her photograph. 

For two more days I watched her in the Park, 
and then I determined to act upon Teddy’s advice. 
Not without some misgivings, however, as to the 
romantic nature of the proposal having any weight 
with her; for on one occasion she was riding, and 
was attended not only by her father but by a 
younger cavalier with whom she seemed to be on 
very intimate terms, and I fancied that she was 
chaffing him unmercifully about something. 

Our family were famous in old days for acting 
without hesitation, when once a course of action 
was decided upon, and I was no exception to the 
general rule. A letter, precisely in accordance with 
the sagacious Teddy’s instructions, was written and 
dispatched the next day. I did not give my own 
name, fearing Miss Vane’s indignation. Being 
anonymous, the letter could do no harm if it fell 
into the hands of any one who knew me. Of course 
she would see me if she went to the Opera ; but I 
thought that, if she kept the appointment, she would 
hardly be so base as to betray me. There were 
four opera nights at Covent Garden during the next 
week, and on one of these four occasions I implored 
her to appear. I should be there with the white 
camellia, and I should—so I said in the letter— 
construe her attendance as a sign that she was not 
fatally angry with me, and that I might seek an in¬ 
troduction to her in some more conventional and 
legitimate manner. 

It was with a beating heart that I took my seat in 


a stall at the Opera on the first of the appointed 
nights. I was absurdly early, in my eagerness to 
be upon the scene, and few persons but myself were 
in the theatre. These 1 scanned carefully through 
my opera-glass, and as the stalls and boxes began 
to fill I devoted the whole of my time to a steady 
scrutiny of their occupants. People near me in the 
stalls must have wondered what made me so regard¬ 
less of the music, and so much on the alert when 
any new comer appeared in the house. I was voted 
a great barbarian, no doubt, with no soul for music, 
and my neighbors must have speculated what had 
brought me to the Opera, since I had evidently not 
come there to listen to the singing. 

But my search was hopeless. I looked in vain 
round the “glittering horse-shoe,” that spread be¬ 
fore me like a rainbow. 

I saw many fair faces, many bright eyes bent 
earnestly upon the stage ; golden-haired and dark¬ 
haired beauties sat in snug boxes, enthroned like 
queens, while attentive gentlemen, in irreproachable 
evening-dress, bent over them. But nowhere in the 
great theatre could I see the one face that was en¬ 
graven on my heart; on the first night, at all events, 
she had not thought fit to come ; and as my mind 
dwelt on my disappointment, I was very angry with 
myself for ever having taken Teddy’s advice, and 
having written my mad letter. I went home in a 
very disconsolate mood, although I was rather con¬ 
soled by the enlarged photograph which had been 
taken for me, and which was installed in a place of 
honor in my room. 

The next day I had no heart even to go to the 
Park ; and again, punctual to the time of opening, I 
went to the Opera. Again I was disappointed. Miss 
Vane was evidently incensed at my impertinence in 
writing to her, and did not make her appearance. 

I returned home the second night mad with love 
and disappointment. I went into Maynard’s rooms 
and upbraided him for his advice, and altogether, 
as he said, I qualified myself for Colney Hatch by 
easy stages. I tried to console myself with my por¬ 
trait ; and I saw Miss Vane for an instant in the 
Park on the third day, but she only drove round 
once ; and I took my seat at the Opera, so prepared 
for a third disappointment that when she failed to 
appear I settled down into calm despair. There 
was one more night, however—one more chance for 
me and my white camellia ; and I still dared to hope 
that I should see her. 

On this fourth evening I was obliged to go out to 
dinner. My host was an old friend of our family, 
who had been for many years in Canada, and had 
now come home to settle in his native country. He 
had no family ; had taken a handsome house in 
town, and was very desirous of showing every possi¬ 
ble kindness to me. I was obliged, therefore, to 
accept his invitation, but hoped that the Laurences 
would let me get away in time to go to the Opera. 

I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, when on 




542 


Treasury of Tales. 


» 

reaching their house and going up into the drawing¬ 
room, Mrs. Laurence said to me : “ My husband will 
have to make his apologies to you, Mr. Harcourt, 
for he is obliged to go off on some most important 
business immediately after dinner. Now, as I can¬ 
not expect to be able to amuse you all the evening, 
I have got a box at the Opera, Covent Garden ; will 
you take me ? ” 

“ I shall be delighted ; but I hope you don’t think 
I should not be equally pleased to be here.” 

“ Well, the fact is,” she said, “ I am not wholly 
unselfish. I very seldom get to the Opera, as my 
husband does not care for music, and am glad when 
I can catch any one who will go with me. We shall 
not be alone, by-the-by, as I have a young lady 
coming to the box who will only need an escort to 
her carriage, for she is very independent person, 
and goes about a good deal by herself.” 

“ Indeed ! ” I said. 

“ Yes ; she is a charming girl, however, and I 
hope you will like her.” 

Then Mr. Laurence came in, and shortly after¬ 
ward dinner was announced. 

Such an arrangement was an extremely fortunate 
one for me, I thought, and I only hoped that Mrs. 
Laurence and her charming young lady might de¬ 
vote themselves entirely to the music, and leave me 
at liberty to scrutinize the house. 

One thing I had to remember, and that was my 
camellia. I had left the one I intended to wear at 
my chambers. However, I persuaded good-aatured 
Mrs. Laurence to drive round by my rooms, under 
pretence of getting my own opera-glass, which I 
said was specially adapted to my sight. Then I got 
my flower, put it carefully into my button-hole, and 
covered it over with my light overcoat. 

When we drew up under the portico at Covent 
Garden, and were entering the lobby, Mrs. Laurence 
said to me : 

“ Why, I declare ! there are the Colonel and Edith 
going up yonder before us. I suppose he’s just 
brought her, for I know he had to go to the same 
meeting as Mr. Laurence.” 

“The Colonel and Edith!”—“The Colonel!” 
gave me a thrill, thinking of her father, and I won¬ 
dered with a vague curiosity who they were. 

We were getting near our box, led by an obse¬ 
quious attendant, when I said to Mrs. Laurence : 

“ You talked of the Colonel just now ; may I ask 
who he is ? ” 

“ Colonel Vane ; an old friend of my husband’s. 
He was quartered at Quebec a long time. Edith is 
his only child, and they live in Worcester Square.” 

I sometimes wonder now that I didn’t faint at this 
intelligence. I am sure unsuspecting Mrs. Laurence 
must have felt the arm on which she was leaning 
tremble, and I fancied even the box-keeper must 
have been able to hear my heart beating. 

Edith Vane ! This, then, was the name of my 
idol ; and I thought never did name sound so musi¬ 


cal. In a few seconds I should be in her company. 
I remembered my letter and the camellia. Had she 
come, I wondered, on this last night? But just as 
we reached the box-floor, I tore the flower from my 
button-hole, and put it into the ticket pocket of my 
coat. I was about to be properly introduced to 
her, and I thought I would dissociate myself from 
my foolish letter. 

We got to the box ; the usual introductions fol¬ 
lowed ; and then Colonel Vane departed, and left 
me with the ladies. They had a great deal to say 
to each other, and for some time I occupied myself 
with sitting in the back of the box, just content to 
look at Edith. If I had thought her beautiful in 
her photograph, and when out driving, think how I 
worshipped her loveliness when I saw her in full 
dress. I was glad that I had some time given to 
me to recover myself, and to collect my thoughts, 
for I was so stunned by this unexpected good for¬ 
tune that I should have acquitted myself badly had 
I been required to make myself agreeable as soon as 
we were seated in the theatre. I was glad Edith 
had so much to say to Mrs. Laurence, and I was 
amusing myself by comparing her real face, as I saw 
it before me, with my photograph, when Mrs. Lau¬ 
rence turned to me and said, laughingly : 

“ Mr.‘Harcourt, you have perhaps sharper eyes 
than Edith or myself. Can you see any gentleman 
in the theatre with a white camellia in his button¬ 
hole?” 

A pleasant occupation for me, truly ! How thank¬ 
ful I was I had taken the odious flower out. 

“ Yes,” said Miss Vane, merrily, “ do you see any 
swain in the stalls who looks particularly love- 
stricken ! ” 

“ May I ask the reason of this investigation ? ” 

I said, as lightly its I could, although I felt very 
nervous. “ Is this an appointment?” 

Miss Vane glanced quickly at me for a moment 
as if some suspicion had entered her head, and then 
said, smiling: 

“ Well, I suppose it is. The fact is, Mr. Har¬ 
court, I have an unknown admirer, who implored 
me to be at the Opera on one night out of four. I 
did not intend to come, but papa wished me to do 
so to-night ; so, if the enterprising individual is in 
the house, he will be gratified.” 

“ The faithless creature is not here, apparently,” 

I said, scrutinizing the house through my opera- 
glass ; “ at least, I don’t see any white camellia, if 
that was the sign.” 

“ I’m afraid he’s not,” said Miss Vane. “ How 
very ungallant of him, is it not, Mr. Harcourt ? ” 

“ Poor young man ! ” said good-natured Mrs. 
Laurence, who was of rather a sentimental charac¬ 
ter. “ He may have seen you, and be really in love 
with you, Edith ; and you said you thought, from 
his letter, that he was a gentleman.” 

“ Well, he has not kept tryst,” I said, leaning for¬ 
ward to get a good view of the house, and wonder- 





The White Camellia. 


543 


ing whether any wretch would be present with a 
conspicuous white camellia, who would be singled 
out as the hero of the romance. 

When I next turned to speak to Miss Vane, I 
noticed a new and curious expression on her face, 
as if something was occupying her thoughts that 
she was trying to conceal; something amusing, ap¬ 
parently, for her eyes were laughing, although her 
face looked quiet and demure. She answered some 
question I put to her about the music, and then 
said : 

“ Do you often go to the Opera, Mr. Harcourt ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” I said, carelessly. “ I’ve been three 
times before this week.” And then, remembering 
my letter, I turned away to hide my confusion. 

The hours went swiftly by ; far too fast,! thought 
for I was in the seventh heaven of delight, and Mrs 
Laurence seemed very pleased that Miss Vane and 
I got on so well together. I heard little of the 
opera that evening. “ Diva ” Patti was entrancing 
all hearts upon the stage, but my Diva was beside 
me in the box, and I had no ears for the music. 

But the happy evening ended at last. We es¬ 
corted Edith to her carriage, and then I drove home 
with Mrs. Laurence, both of us singing a chorus in 
her praise. One thing deserves to be noted about 
that evening at the Opera. When I got • home 
strange to say, I could not find my camellia any¬ 
where, and imagined that it must have been jerked 
out of my pocket. However, I had, luckily, not 
needed it, and I went to bed happy, and dreamed 
of Edith Vane. 

V. 

THE EPILOGUE. 

Mrs. Laurence, who, like all middle-aged ladies 
was very fond of match-making, had evidently made 
up her mind to foster my love affair as much as pos¬ 
sible ; for I was continually being invited to her 
house, and always met Edith Vane. I came to 
know the Colonel also, and in time was invited to 
Worcester Square, where Edith played the hostess 
like a little queen. Need I say that I came daily to 
love her more and more ? And I had the happiness 
of believing that she was not indifferent to my devo¬ 
tion. Riding by her side in the Park, I used some¬ 
times to look back upon the old days when I wor¬ 
shipped her at a distance, and hardly dared to hope 
that I should ever be so blessed as to be daily in her 
society. 

One afternoon I had gone to Worcester Square, 
and as Edith was too tired with a ball the previous 
night to go out riding, I stayed chatting with her in 
the pleasant drawing-room. And that summer after¬ 
noon I put my fate to the touch ; and a strange an¬ 
swer I received to my pleading, when I told Edith 
Vane how I loved her, and asked her to be my wife. 

She did not reply at once, but at last she said : 

“ Please do not think unkindly of me, but I have 
a confession to make.” 


“ I cannot think unkindly of you, Miss Vane— 
Edith ! You know it would be impossible.” 

“ Do you remember,” she said, “that night at the 
Opera, when a gentleman was to meet me with a 
white camellia in his button-hole ! ” 

“ Perfectly. How can I ever forget it ?—it was 
the first time I met you.” 

“Well,” she said slowly, “although perhaps you 
did not see him, I saw the gentleman with the ca¬ 
mellia that night.” 

“ Did you ? ” I said, feeling terribly annoyed. 
Some fellow had been there with the flower; ca¬ 
mellias were common enough. How was it I hadn’t 
seen him? 

“ Yes,” she went on, “and I have seen him since 
—very often ! ” And as she spoke she hung her 
head down, as if to hide her blushes. 

How I cursed Teddy and his hateful advice! 
Some one had heard of the letter, and had taken 
advantage of my plan to steal my darling’s heart. 

“ And—and—” I said trembling, “ I know I have 
no right to ask—you love him ? ” 

A burning flush came over her face and neck as 
she looked into my eyes, and said : 

“Ido!” 

I clasped my hands over my face, and groaned. 
Here was a pleasant end to all my plotting ! And 
yet she had given me many reasons for believing 
that she had some love for me. It was very bitter 
to hear her onenly confess her love for another man, 
and to know moreover that it had been brought 
about by my agency. 

I was startled by a laugh. Edith Vane was sit¬ 
ting near me—positively laughing at my misery. 

“ I hardly thought I should have been insulted,” 
I said, indignantly. 

But still Edith did nothing but laugh. 

“ How have I insulted you ? ” she said. 

“ How have you insulted me ? Why, by laugh¬ 
ing at my disappointment when you have confessed 
your love for another man ! ” 

“ But I have not done that! ” 

“ I cannot stop to guess riddles, Miss Vane,” I 
said, abruptly. “ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Why I mean that I love ”—and here she half 
turned her head away—“ the gentleman who had a 
camellia that night at the Opera, and he says that I 
insult him by saying so. Oh, Frank ! ” 

And then, looking divinely beautiful, she held out 
to me—my white camellia! And in another mo¬ 
ment she was hiding her rosy face on my shoulder. 

So I won my darling. The original of the cher¬ 
ished photograph was mine. The appointment with 
the wearer of the white camellia was kept for life. 








544 


Treasury of Tales . 


THE SCENT OF A DEAD ROSE. 

SHALL say no more; you may take 
your own way, all of you. I shall never in¬ 
terfere with you again, for good or bad, so 
good-bye to you ! ” and Aunt Paulett hobbled off 
on her ebony crutch like the offended old fairy god¬ 
mother. 

The family looked at one another with blank faces 
as the door clapped smartly after her. 

Aunt Paulett was a woman of her word, and, if 
she said she would go back to her husband’s people, 
go she would, undoubtedly; and then, what would be¬ 
come of them all ? 

From that day—twenty years ago—when she, a 
childless widow, entered her sister’s scrambling, 
out-at-elbows household, to yesterday evening she 
had ruled them all with a rod of iron, by the might 
of a strong will and a long purse. 

Easy-going Mr. Hilton and his fair, stupid, good- 
natured wife, who spent a placid existence doing 
wool-work on the sofa, her ideas seemingly bounded 
by the requirements of the last annual baby, were 
mere ciphers in their own house, under her stern 
yet wholesome sway. 

If Mr. Hilton, after one or two cutting remarks 
from her ladyship, had sadly resigned his ancient 
and comfortable fashion of spending the evening in 
his greasy old dressing-gown and down-at-heel slip¬ 
pers—if the servants shook in their shoes at the sound 
of Lady Paulett’s bell, and a hint of “ Aunt Ara¬ 
bella” quelled the wildest nursery riot—yet the 
handsome premium which was to start clever Jack 
on the road to glory as an engineer, the allowance 
which sent studious Pierce to college and saved him 
from filling a stool in his father’s office, Dora’s pretty 
gowns and trinkets, Emily’s singing lessons and the 
new piano, the summer trip to the sea-side, the win¬ 
ter pantomime and Christmas party—in brief, all 
the comforts and luxuries of the family, from the 
pony carriage to the last baby’s christening robe, 
came from the generous hand of the same beneficent 
old despot; and now, now, all were melting away be¬ 
fore their astonished eyes like summer snow, and 
Aunt Arabella was off to spend the rest of her days 
with the George Pauletts—and why ? Because, for¬ 
sooth, pretty Dora, instead of carrying out her aunt’s 
intentions, and waiting till, in the fulness of time, 
Spencer Paulett should return from sea, fall in love 
with and marry her, had gone and engaged herself 
to the parish doctor’s long-legged Irish assistant, with 
nothing in the world to offer her but a warm Irish 
heart, a decent share of brains under his shock of 
red hair, and an income which he modestly described 
as being mostly on the wrong side of his account- 
book as yet. 

There was an appalled silence, broken only by the 
sound of the old lady’s crutch tapping off into the 
distance. 

Mr. Hilton retired behind his newspaper with the 


air of a man who had much to say on the subject 
presently. 

Mrs. Hilton sniffed feebly on her sofa. The 
smallest Hilton but one sat under the table sucking 
its thumb and, vaguely conscious of evil to come, 
prepared for a wail. In a distant window Dora wept, 
and wept impervious to all her Cornelius’s vigorous 
whispers of consolation. 

Pierce had withdrawn discreetly when the storm 
broke, through the window into the garden, where he 
was seen walking up and down in dismayed medita¬ 
tion ; and Jack, surreptitiously shaking his fist at the 
unconscious back of his would-be brother-in-law, 
followed Pierce. Meanwhile, up the staircase and 
down the corridor went Aunt Arabella, briskly 
enough, despite her lameness and her eighty years. 
She had two little rooms in a remote corner of the 
house, sacred from the intrusion of the most auda¬ 
cious of Hiltons. She entered the first of them, 
where a pale, meek young female sat sewing. 

“ Parker ! ” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

“ I want my trunks. Find them at once and pack 
up everything that belongs to me.” 

Long attendance on her imperious mistress had 
deprived the gentle Parker of the power of express¬ 
ing any sentiment but that of meek acquiescence. 

“Yes, my lady.” 

“We go by the first train to-morrow; so be ready.” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

“ And let some one take two letters to the post 
for me to : night.” 

“Yes, my lady.” 

Lady Paulett passed on to the next room, a bed¬ 
room furnished with a magnificent erection of ma¬ 
hogany and satin damask large enough to accommo¬ 
date ten little old ladies like herself. 

There was a wood fire burning, rendering dimly 
visible ancient spider-legged tables, a corner cup¬ 
board with treasures of old china and enamel; elabo¬ 
rate works of art in patch-work ; a counterpane, 
cushions, etc., and some framed and glazed perfor¬ 
mances, in tent-stitch, “ Eleazer meeting Rebecca,” 
“ The Prodigal’s Return,” and “ Ruth Gleaning,” 
with faces and hands of painted kid faded by age 
into a ghastly whiteness. 

Lady Paulett seated herself in a tall old arm-chair 
by the fire, while Parker lighted a large silver- 
branched candlestick and drew a table near to her. 

“ My writing-desk, Parker, and you may come for 
the letters in half an hour.” 

“Yes, my lady,” and while Parker hurried off to 
rummage out her mistress’s long-forgotten travelling 
equipments, Lady Paulett, in her neat old-fashioned 
hand, indited two short notes, addressed the one to 
Mrs. George Paulett , Eastholm Hall , Wilmington , 
Yorkshirej the other to P. J. Blackett , Esq., Lin¬ 
coln's Inn , London. 

She had finished before Parker reappeared, and 
after sitting thinking for a few minutes, drew from 





The Scent of a Dead Rose. 


545 


her desk a folded paper. It was headed Memoranda 
for my will, 1869 , and contained sundry notes, over 
which she pondered. 

“ There are the letters, Parker. Let them go at 
once—but first bring me my dressing-case and jewel- 
case. They shall have what I have bequeathed to 
them now, before I go. I’ll make no difference, and 
then I’ve done with them all forever—ungrateful 
set! ” 

Parker placed a gorgeous inlaid dressing-case and 
a massive brass-bound coffer before her mistress, and 
departed. Lady Paulett drew the latter to her with 
some difficulty. 

“ It is time an old woman like me should be rid 
of some of those burdens,” she said, smiling grimly 
as she turned the key and disclosed case upon case 
of morocco and velvet snugly stowed away. She 
turned them out and laid them all open before her 
—a brave show in the bright fire and candle light. 

Parker meanwhile stepped noiselessly to and fro 
in the background, emptying the big wardrobe of its 
contents and bearing them away to pack in the next 
room. 

“ Let me see. Dora ? She’s the eldest. She was 
to have my emeralds. She’ll take it as a delicate 
compliment to the nationality of the man of her 
choice. Bah ! he’ll pawn them ; what else can one 
expect ? Well, well, it doesn’t matter. I always 
hated them, though they are the handsomest set I 
possess. How well I remember Sir Josiah bringing 
them home the day before I was presented at Court, 
and I had thought he meant to give me pearls, and 
had ordered a pale amber dress ! I cried about it, 
but I dared not ask him to change them, or refuse 
to wear them, and I felt so disgusted. I knew they 
looked detestable, and I heard one old lady whisper 
to another, ‘Eggs and spinach,’ and the other said 
something about ‘ City,’ and they both tittered. One 
feels those things, when one is young. Well, I hope 
Mrs. O’Shane may be happier in wearing them. 
O’Shane ? pah ! I dare say, though, she’ll be as proud 
of the name as I was at that time of being Lady 
Paulett—ah me ! 

“What next? Emily—my diamond brooch ! Yes, 
here it is.” It was one of those quaint, old-fashioned 
ones in a silver setting—a large spray of flowers and 
leaves. “ Pretty little gentle thing, it’s too grand for 
her now, but she’ll be a fine young woman some of 
these days. They say she’s something like what I 
was, but without my high spirits. Dear ! dear! what 
a gay young thing I was at her age, and what fine 
things I expected were to happen to me in my life ! 
—and what a dreary time I have had of it. I must 
keep an eye on little Emily—wherever I am they are 
all too apt to overlook her. 

“Yes, she shall have the diamonds. Mr. Paulett 
gave them to me on my wedding day, and I wore 
them at the grand ball his company gave when the 
Duke came into the city to be made a Cheesemonger. 
I can see myself now in my white Canton crape with 


the French fringes and the myrtle sprig embroidery 
and the Prince-of-Wales plume in my hair. Josiah 
said I looked quite elegant, only very young (he was 
sensitive about the difference in our ages, poor man). 
I remember hearing Lord Henry Murray, the Duke’s 
aide-de-camp, ask ‘ who the pretty little bride was,’ 
and a minute after he came up and was presented. 
He led me out, right to the head of the room, into 
the very set with the Duke and the Lady Mayoress, 
and I thought Josiah would be so pleased. I could 
see him fidgeting about the whole time trying to 
catch sight of us between the people, and shaking 
his head and making signs to me, till I almost for¬ 
got the figures—and my dancing used to be greatly 
admired in those days.” Lady Paulett smiled to her¬ 
self at the thought, arched her neck, and made a 
little movement with her wrinkled old fingers as if 
gracefully bestowing the tips on some imaginary 
partner. 

“ It was vexatious, and Lord Henry was so kind 
and so droll ! But Mr. Paulett gave me such a 
frown as he led me out into the tea-room that I 
hardly knew what he said or how to answer him. 
Poor dear Josiah ! To think that, after all, he was 
only afraid that I was laughing too much, and Lord 
Henry might think me a silly school-girl, or that 
some of the city ladies might fancy we were quizz¬ 
ing them. I cried all the way home, and that was 
the end of my first appearance in society.” 

Lady Paulett laid by the brooch in its case after 
carefully rubbing it with a silk handkerchief. 

“ Arabella, my god-daughter, must have the dia¬ 
mond ear-rings. I got them when I was too happy 
to care about them, when cur little son was born. 
How kind Sir Josiah was then ! there was nothing 
he would not have done for me or baby. He gave 
them to me for the christening dinner, and little Jos 
took notice of them and laughed, when he was 
brought down to have his health drunk. Such a 
noble little fellow he looked—dark curly hair and 
blue eyes like my dear father’s—taking notice of 
everything, and only six weeks old ! and that very 
day week he was in his coffin. My poor little son ! ” 

The old lady snapped the case and pushed it 
away from her with a trembling hand. 

“ I had just begun to think that after all I might 
be going to have some happiness in this world when 
he was taken from me. Sir Josiah never seemed to 
care for anything but his business after that. 

“ When I cam^ here and saw Jack in his cradle 
he looked so like my boy I thought he was given 
back to me. Dear, good, loving Jack ! I can never 
cast him off—I must speak to Mr. Blackett about 
that. Now : my dressing-case ? Ah ! that must be 
Mrs. George Paulett’s ; her initials are the same as 
mine. Sapphire necklace. Cameo set. Pearl cross 
and ear-rings for her three daughters. They’re rich 
enough to have as much jewelry of their own as they 
want ; and the rubies I must keep for Spencer 
Paulett’s wife, when he gets one. 




546 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Why, that’s the end of my list excepting Cecilia, 
and there are Olivia, Maria, Grace, the little boys, 
and the baby—all come since I made it out. Well, 
I dare say I can find some remembrance of their old 
aunty for each—not that they’ll ever remember me. 
Ceci must have my workbox. She has my pretty 
taste in needlework” [with a complacent glance at 
the patchwork and tent-stitch in which the gold 
threads in Ruth’s gleanings and Rebecca’s ear-rings 
still faintly glimmered]. “ The new crewel-work 
isn’t so bad. I could have taught her something if 
I hadn’t been going away. Parker ! ” 

Parker, a moving heap of brocades and furs, gave 
a faint, inarticulate reply. 

“ My workbox ! ” 

Parker staggered off and returned with a queer 
little Chinese box with an inlaid landscape, a pagoda 
with two Celestials walking in the skies above it on 
the lid. 

“You’re dreaming, Parker ! Where did you find 
this ? I’ve not seen it these ten years ! ” 

Parker scurried away like a frightened rabbit, to 
return this time with a magnificent article—ebony 
and gold without, quilted satin, pearl, and yet more 
gold within. A turquoise-studded thimble—crystal 
smelling-bottle, in case the fair worker should col¬ 
lapse under her arduous labors—a pearl-framed 
mirror with which she might refresh herself by occa¬ 
sional glances—curious implements apparently con¬ 
structed to support the largest possible amount of 
gold chasing, without a point that would pierce or a 
blade that would cut among them ; a receptacle for 
work, satin-lined, padded, perfumed, and empty, 
except for a half-made baby’s cap with the rusty 
needle still sticking in it. 

“ Who was there to work for when he was gone ? ” 
said the poor old lady, looking at the morsel of dis¬ 
colored cambric. “ What had I left in the world to 
care for then ? What have I now, for that matter ? ” 

She began with nervous impatience to open and 
close some of the cases almost at random. 

“ I would have put them away forever, long, long 
ago, and been a faithful nurse to my husband, if he 
would have let me, all through those last, long, 
weary years of his life ; but he never loved me well 
enough to wish for me—he cared more for his old 
housekeeper. ‘ My lady is young, and should have 
her pleasure,’ I heard her say once. He had married 
me for my good looks, and was not to be defrauded 
of his bargain, and I must dress and visit and enter¬ 
tain in our large, dull, and splendid house—weary, 
oh ! so weary of it all. He was proud of me, in his 
way, and gave me all he promised when he asked 
me to marry him. Much good it was to me : father 
and mother dead—Sister Sophia married and gone 
—no one left to admire my splendor or profit by my 
wealth.” 

Here entered Parker, and began noiselessly to 
make up the fire and put out her lady’s dressing- 
gown and slippers as a gentle reminder of bed-time. 


“Ah! it’s late, Parker. Well, I’ve finished. No; 
go and finish your packing, and then come. What 
am I to do with this ?” 

This was the little sham Chinese box—a sadly 
battered and shabby little thing. The pink sarcenet 
lining was frayed and gone, disclosing the bare wood 
and cotton-wool foundation. In the compartments 
were odds and ends of miscellaneous rubbish. The 
pocket in the lid bulged out with yellow scraps of 
paper, old-fashioned patterns for marking, letters 
tied with faded ribbon, scraps from newspapers. 
There were curiously cut silk winders of cardboard 
with silk of dim and long-forgotten tints wound in 
fancy patterns, a half-made hair chain, a string of 
amber beads ; pervading all a faint, sweet smell of 
roses. 

“ I should like to have it put in my coffin, my dear 
old box ! No one will care for it, and I cannot have 
it thrown away, or kept just to please the children. 
I had better look it over and burn all these poor 
little treasures.” 

The yellow papers dropped one by one steadily 
into the fire—old valentines on huge square sheets 
of colored paper, wonderfully embossed and sealed 
with tender mottoes in tinted wax, school friends’ 
epistles crossed and recrossed in colored inks. One 
she kept to the last. 

“ Cornelia Clarke, what a dear sweet creature she 
was ! Dead and gone this many a year. We were 
neighbors, and I used to go with her to dancing 
parties to practise the new steps. Why ! here are 
the very garnet clasps I loaned her the night she 
came in early to put up my hair in the new giraffe 
bows. We both wanted to look well that night, I 
remember. How we joked one another about Mrs. 
Lowder’s fine London cousins who were to be at her 
house for the party, and I would put on my old 
purple satinet gown, just to show how little I cared 
for any one noticing me ! (I knew very well how it 
became me, though.) 

“ After all, Mr. Paulett, the rich London merchant, 
didn’t come, only the sailor cousin, Hugh Lowder. 
He had been in the Levant, and we were all wild 
about the East and my Lord Byron’s new poem just 
then, and expected something so romantic—a hero 
with a big black beard, and stories of corsairs and 
veiled beauties of the harem, and murdering despots 
of Pashas. 

“ It was a disappointment to find only a big, blue¬ 
eyed north-countryman, so shy and awkward that 
the girls all turned up their noses at him for a part¬ 
ner till I taught him the figures, which he picked up 
in five minutes, and then he wouldn’t ask any one 
else to dance with him. 

“ He came to call on us next day and brought 
mother a little Turkish bag and Sophia some amber 
beads. She lost half of them and I saved the rest. 
He had a present for me too, but was so shy about 
giving it to me. It wasn’t good enough, he said, 
yet it was worth all the rest, that dear little crystal 






Fid's Delicate Case. 


547 ; 


and gold flask of attar of roses. How it has scented 
everything ! ” 

She bent over the tiny box, tenderly touching the 
shabby old odds and ends, and the rose scent seemed 
to rise and fill the room. 

“And Josiah threw it in the fire! said he hated 
the smell, and would like to have thrown my little 
box after it. He was angry, all because he found 
me crying over poor father’s wrist-bands. I had 
been stitching them the very day he was taken ill 
with the fever that killed him. It was unkind of 
Josiah, and I think he felt ashamed of himself after¬ 
ward, for he brought my fine new workbox home the 
very next day. 

“If he had known all I was crying about! Not 
poor father only. I was thinking of Hugh Lowder. 
How handsome he looked and how kind, when he 
came in to say good-bye before he went away to sea 
again ! He took my hand, sewing and all (I could 
see the marks, years after, where I had pricked my 
finger when I heard him come in), and he said, oh ! 
so tenderly, ‘Bella, have you courage to marry a 
poor man, or patience to wait till I come back a 
rich one ? ’ and I had neither, God forgive me—as 
He has punished me ! ” 

, She held the little box tightly in her hands, her 
whole figure shaking with emotion. “ God forgive 
me,” she cried again, and sank forward on the table 
sobbing among her diamonds. 

There was a timid knock at the door, but she 
could not hear it—then another. She rose from her 
chair, looking strange and bewildered as the door 
softly opened and Dora stole in. Her poor little 
face was all flushed and swollen out of its pretti¬ 
ness by hard crying, and her hair in a woe-begone 
touzle. 

“ Aunty, I’ve come to say— -please forgive me if I 
was rude to you this evening ; and please don't leave 
us ! Cor—Cor—nelius and I are not g—going to be 
engaged any more ! ” 

Here came a breakdown and a burst of stormy 
sobbing. 

“ Every one says—I’m s—sacrificing the whole 
family by my selfishness, so I’ve given him up, oh ! 
oh ! oh !—forever ! ” 

Lady Paulett made no sign—only looked with a 
half-terrified air at her niece, her old lips working 
nervously. 

“ But I won’t marry any one else. Never ! ” broke 
out Dora with sudden energy. “ I’ll do anything 
else I can to please you, aunty. I can wait and wait, 
and perhaps, he says, if some day he comes back 
rich enough to please you-” 

“ You little fool! ” broke in Aunt Arabella in her 
own sharp tone ; then suddenly changing to a pite¬ 
ous shaky little voice : “ Why are you all so quick 

to take up an old woman’s hasty words ? I’m sure 
I’ve never been unkind to any of you yet. Don’t 
let him go, Dora ! Can’t you trust your old aunty ? 
‘ Rich enough to please me.’ Child! child! to 


think that some day I might have had to answer for 
two more spoiled lives.” 

Dora looked all wonderment. 

“ There ! there ! go to bed, and if the others want 
to sacrifice you to their own interests, never you 
mind them. I’ll let them know to-morrow what I 
think of such wicked selfishness ! ” 

She gently pushed her amazed little niece out and 
shut the door. 

“ Parker ! are those letters gone ?” 

“Yes, my lady.” 

“ Then let some one take two telegrams first thing 
to-morrow.” 

“Yes, my lady.” 

“ And, Parker ! Have you finished packing for 
to-night ?” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

“ Then put everything back in its place directly. 
I'm not going." 

“Yes, my lady.” 


FIEL’S DELICATE CASE. 

HEN Mrs. Fiel was a bride, all the spec¬ 
tators agreed that she was a pretty and 
interesting girl, who would make a fine 
woman when she came to fill out. But she never did 
fill out; on the contrary, Time, that stole her years 
away, robbed her of plumpness too ; and after thirty 
anniversaries of that wedding-day, she was consider¬ 
ably more slender than at starting. She wore curls, 
and a black band round her forehead, and mittens— 
not knowing that these things had long ceased to 
make her attractive, and, on a first introduction, 
would have struck you generally as being somewhat 
of a guy ; but a better wife you would scarcely find 
in all England, and that is infinitely more important 
than comeliness and tasteful attire, as you will own 
before you have been married for a quarter of a 
century. 

Excellent at all times, Mrs. Fiel culminated at 
meals. Call no man happy till you have seen him at 
breakfast; a natural irritability in Mr. Fiel’s disposi¬ 
tion had been almost entirely cured by little sooth¬ 
ing comforts and tidbits. He was a solicitor, with 
an office in London, and a semi-detached villa in the 
suburbs, who had to leave the latter at nine to reach 
the former by ten every morning. This necessitated 
breakfast at eight, but even at that early hour Mrs. 
Fiel saw to every detail herself. 

It would have shaken a very confirmed bachelor 
to have seen her table one spring morning a few 
years ago—the linen was so white, and the tea so 
black, the water-cresses and radishes so fresh, the 
marmalade and apricot jam so daintly set out, the 
eggs so new-looking, the loaf so brown and crusty, 
the dry toast so crisp and thin. And when she heard 
the tread of her husband’s foot on the staircase, and 
the flourish on his nose which invariably heralded 








54 § 


Treasury 

his approach, she rang the bell for the appetizing 
little covered dish, which matched and fitted the 
slop-basin, to be brought up. This contained friz¬ 
zled slices of ham or bacon, delicate and curled, a 
sausage, a kidney, or the savory thigh of a chicken. 
May such be your only domestic broils ! 

A hale neat man, with sharp gray eyes, and a very 
good opinion of himself, entered and looked at his 
letters, selecting and opening one at once. 

“Well, Martha,” said he, “the Chip-chow has 
arrived at last.” 

“ You don’t say so ! Then Mr. Lobyear will be 
here presently. Will he come to stay with us, do you 
think ? ” 

“ I don’t know. You had better have a bed ready ; 
though I expect he has not come to England with 
the idea of shutting himself up with an old man and 
woman four miles from the Marble Arch. Still, as 
everything will be strange to him at first, he may 
accept my invitation for a night or two.” 

“ This Mr. Thomas Lobyear is rich—is he not ? ” 

“ Will be, I suppose. At present he probably 
depends upon his father, who has given me very lib¬ 
eral orders, absurdly liberal orders, about him. From 
living so long among savages, the old man must 
have lost all idea of the value of money. However, 
there is plenty of it accumulating, and it does not 
matter to me.” 

“Don’t you think,” said Mrs. Fiel, “it might be 
well to have Sarah home ? ” 

Sarah, the only child of the Fiels, was at a finish¬ 
ing-school at Clifton, but she was seventeen, and a 
woman. 

“Ah, ah, ah! ” laughed the lawyer. “At your 
match-making, old lady ? From what I am advised, 
he is proof against your attempts. Besides which, 
it would be something like a breach of trust: old 
Lobyear has evidently got other views for his son 
than marrying him at present—at any rate to an 
Englishwoman.” 

“ Why, he would never go and match him with a 
heathen, with a ring through her nose like a pig ! ” 

“ I don’t know that,” replied Mr. Fiel, laughing ; 
“ if he could discover a new weed or a fresh variety 
of black beetle by it, he certainly would.” 

It was of good augury for Mrs. Fiel when her 
husband laughed, and a better when he replied to 
her observation, instead of looking deaf and grunt¬ 
ing, which he generally did if she alluded to his clients 
or their business ; for it showed that he was -willing 
to be pumped, and Mrs. Fiel’s thirst for information 
was great, though it was rarely slaked. In the pres¬ 
ent instance, however, the lawyer thought he might 
require feminine aid in the task which he had under¬ 
taken, and was therefore not unwilling to admit his 
wife into his confidence. 

“Ah,” said she, “that was a curious idea for a rich 
man, to banish himself completely, and give up civil¬ 
ized life, for the sake of studying botany and butter¬ 
flies in Japan. For a poor man, indeed, it w r ould be 


of Tales. 

explicable if he expected to make something by it in 
the end ; but from what you say, Mr. Lobyear has 
more money than he knows what to do with, as it is.” 

“Yes ; he was well off originally, and got a good 
property through his wife besides.” 

“ Ah, poor man ; I daresay grief for her death gave 
him a craze.” 

“Fudge!” exclaimed Mr. Fiel, somewhat rudely. 
“ He was glad enough to be free to go hunting on 
his favorite hobby. If she had lived another year, 
it is my opinion that he would have bolted and left 
her.” 

“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Fiel, “it is a fortunate thing 
for him, or at any rate for this son, that he fixed on 
so good a man of business as yourself to look after 
his interests.” 

“ Well,” replied her husband, complacently, “ con¬ 
sidering that the bulk of his property is in houses 
situated in a rapidly improving neighborhood, and 
that the tenants are up to all sorts of dodges to avoid 
having their rents raised, perhaps an agent who was 
not sharp might miss an advantage here and there. 
For instance, there was an application for the re¬ 
newal of a lease, the other day, and I discovered that 
the tenant, who had been paying forty pounds a year, 
had underlet for the last three years at a hundred 
and ten.” 

“ Lor, how sharp you are ! ” 

“Well, I was not born in Yorkshire for nothing. 
I do not know of more than one person who ever 
regularly took me in—that young rascal, Tom Scott, 
who robbed me five years ago.” 

“Ah, that was very shocking,” said the good wife 
soothingly ; “ but then, you know, he was brought 
up in your own office.” 

“ Why, Martha ! Do you suppose, then, that he 
learned dishonesty there ! I never expected an epi¬ 
gram of that sort from your mouth. I would have 
you to know that I could put at least a couple of 
thousand a year in my pocket from this Lobyear 
property alone, without a chance of detection, if I 
chose to be dishonorable.” 

“ I am sure I never meant to call you an epigram, 
or any other name,” cried Mrs. Fiel, astonished at 
this outbreak. “ I only said that a breach of trust 
was easy for that Scott, because he had been under 
you for some time, and probably had had opportuni¬ 
ties.” 

“ Oh, that is different,” said her husband, cracking 
an egg. It w-as not a tender conscience which made 
Mr. Fiel so touchy—for though priding himself upon 
keen shrewdness, he was perfectly upright and trust¬ 
worthy—but the thought of Tom Scott. There is 
this disadvantage in reckoning yourself to be cleverer 
than the rest of the world, that if ever you are taken 
in, it rankles. So the remembrance of Tom Scott 
always irritated him. He had taken a fancy to the 
sharp lad, and put him in the office, where he favored, 
encouraged, and trusted him more and more every 
year; and the result had been a cunning bit.of 




Fiel's Delicate Case. 


549 


roguery, and—flight. There was one consolation : he 
had caught the scoundrel, who was sentenced to two 
years’ imprisonment. Had Tom Scott got off with 
impunity, his heart would have been near breaking. 

“ I suppose this young gentleman was quite a lad 
when his father went to foreign parts?” said Mrs. 
Fiel presently, returning to the pump-handle. 

“As he is not of age yet, I suppose he must have 
been,” replied her husband, continuing to flow. 

“Was he educated in England before he went out 
to his father ? ” 

“ I don’t know. Mr. Lobyear never mentioned 
him before. I have written regularly to advise him 
how his affairs stood, and he has from time to time 
briefly acknowledged my letters, declaring himself 
satisfied, telling me to do what I thought best, say¬ 
ing where he Avished his remittances sent, and now 
and then requesting me to undertake certain com¬ 
missions for him connected with his pursuits, but 
not at all Avith my business. HoAvever, as he has 
always behaved very handsomely, I have done my 
best to oblige him, and mean to do so still, though 
this present job is rather a delicate affair, and quite 
out of my line : Avhat I call a regular bit of diplo¬ 
macy.” 

“ Ah ? ” 

“ Yes. It seems that the young man has inherited 
his father’s fancy for a roving life, though not his 
scientific tastes. He has been living in Borneo for 
some years, sailing about with expeditions against 
the pirates, and I don’t knoAv Avhat all. Mr. Lob¬ 
year, senior, Avent to China from Japan a year and a 
half ago ; and his son joined him at Hong-Kong, 
AAdiere he intimated a desire to go to England for a 
Avhile, and have a spell of comfortable living. The 
father Avas Avilling enough to let him do so, and gave 
him a letter of credit to me, and he started in one of 
the tea sailing-ships. But after he had sailed, Mr. 
Lobyear, senior, received information from a friend 
that his son’s principal reason for desiring to visit 
England Avas the hope of meeting with an advent¬ 
uress, whose acquaintance he had made at Calcutta, 
and Avhom, in the ardor of a first passion, he desired 
to marry. The lady had other views at the time ; 
but had since smiled by letter on his suit ; and she 
is a most undesirable Avife for him. This news having 
come to me by steamer, has of course long preceded 
the youngster’s actual arrival ; and my mission is to 
prevent the marriage. This can be done Avith com¬ 
parative ease Avhile he is a minor ; but he will come 
of age in eight months, and it Avould be poor success 
merely to delay matters for that time. I hope to 
break it off altogether.” 

“ Exactly. And don’t you think that if he Avere 
thrown into the society of an innocent, accomplished, 
and attractive girl, his infatuation for this creature 
would the sooner be got over? ” 

“ Well, well ; send for Sarah if you like ; she Avould 
be leaving anyhoAV at the end of the quarter. Only, 
don’t put her up to thinking this youngster a very 


great catch, for his father may have other children 
and older ones, for aught I knoAA\ Or he may spend 
all his money in building pagodas, or aquariums, or 
black-beetle museums ; or in fitting out expeditions 
to discover the South Pole, AAdiich really ought to 
have a turn, after all the fuss made about the North. 
I am not by any means sure that it is a good thing, 
Martha.” 

As Mr. Fiel uttered these last Avords, he looked at 
his Avatch, and then took a cigar out of his case ; 
Avhereupon Mrs. Fiel brushed his hat, and brought 
it to him, together Avith a light. Something like a 
Avife! And ere a man could cry :“ Conductor, hold!” 
the City Atlas has devoured him up. 

It is one thing for a sailing-ship to be telegraphed, 
and another for it to arrive in port. A heavy gale 
tantalized the creAV and passengers of the Chip-chow , 
and it Avas a Aveek before Mr. Fiel and his client’s 
son met, by Avhich time the accomplished Sarah Avas 
safely established under the paternal roof; for her 
mother thought the laAvyer exaggerated the chances 
against the young man’s inheriting a good fortune, 
and stuck to her little intrigue. It is certain that 
she herself over-estimated her daughter’s attractions. 
Sarah A\ r as a good girl enough, but commonplace, and 
not beautiful: a pellet hardly calculated to drive out 
another very firmly fixed in the pop-gun heart of a 
lover. 

HoAvever, the designing mother and umvitting 
daughter had a fair chance, for young Lobyear ac¬ 
cepted the offer of hospitality made him by Mr. Fiel, 
and established himself in their house until he could 
look about him. Travel in hot climates had matured 
the young man, Avhom you AA'ould have taken for five- 
and-tAventy. It had likeAvise tanned him ; and his 
face and hands Avere so dark that Mrs. Fiel Avas in¬ 
duced to make inquiries about the nationality of his 
mother ; but as her husband had never knoAvn any¬ 
thing of Mr. Lobyear before he put his affairs in his 
hands, on going out to the East, and Avas even igno¬ 
rant, until quite lately, of the very existence of this 
son, she could not get much satisfactory information 
out of him. So she concluded that Mr. Lobyear 
senior’s oriental tastes Avere not confined to the fauna 
and flora ; and the deep blackness of the young man’s 
hair, eyebroAvs, and long, drooping, silky moustache 
certainly tended to confirm her theory. His manners 
Avere not very good. There AA r as an evident restraint 
about him ; and if in an unguarded moment he gave 
nature her head, he became boisterous and vulgar. 
He Avas very careful, hoAvever, and only broke out 
once or tAAuce, recovering himself almost immediately. 
He seemed to find that the safest plan Avas to 
“spoon ” Sarah, and devoted himself to her so assidu¬ 
ously the first evening, that Mr. Fiel listened to his 
Avife’s statement of pros and cons with seriousness 
that night. 

“ I have no doubt his father means Avell by him at 
present,” said he, “ or he Avould hardly shoAv so much 
anxiety about his contracting an unfavorable mar- 




550 


Treasury of Tales. 


riage as to give me almost carte blanche in the cost 
of preventing it. Neither would he name so hand¬ 
some a sum as sixty pounds a month for expenses 
if he intended to leave him penniless at his death. 
But this is all conjecture.” 

“ But rather strong, surely, dear ; and he is cer¬ 
tainly smitten with Sarah,” said Mrs. Fiel. 

“ Don’t you be too sure of that. Very likely he 
carries on with everything in a petticoat, or out of 
one, in those Borneo parts, that he meets ; or it may 
be that he is throwing dust in my eyes, to cover his 
intrigue with this old Calcutta friend.” 

Mr. Fiel felt it to be so important to prevent the 
young man giving him the slip, that he had left his 
other business to the clerks, and took upon him the 
office of showman ; whereby he made acquaintance 
with many London sights that he had never seen be¬ 
fore—the interior of St. Paul’s, to wit ; the top of 
the Monument; Madame Tussaud’s wax-works ; and 
certain bewildering circular pictures, apparently seen 
from the inside, as if one were a figure represented, 
called panoramas—all of which very much interested 
the young man, who nevertheless owned that, on the 
whole, he preferred Calcutta. Mention of that city 
gave the lawyer an opening ; he inquired if there 
were much society there—pleasant society ? And, 
eventually Mr. Lobyear, the son, who of course could 
not be expected to know his father’s discovery and 
communication to his lawyer, took his cicerone into 
confidence. 

He adored the most charming, innocent, per¬ 
secuted saint that ever excited the jealousy of 
a spiteful coterie. Her name was Montacute, and 
she was a widow without encumbrances. She had 
been residing in a quiet part of the Isle of Wight, 
but was now on her way to London ; and he had re¬ 
ceived a letter that very morning directing him where 
to find her ; so he would not trespass on Mr. Fiel’s 
hospitality after that day. Whereabouts was Duke 
Street, Jermyn Street? The complacent Mr. Fiel 
conducted him to that neighborhood, and also, in 
reply to further questions, gave him an outline of the 
steps it was necessary to take before a gentleman and 
lady, inclined that way, could be joined together in 
holy matrimony. There could be no harm done in 
affording him such scraps of information : the first 
cabman passing would have driven him to the ad¬ 
dress, and the charming widow probably had license- 
and-banns formalities at her fingers’ ends. 

“ Of course, you are of age ? ” he threw in at the 
end. 

“ I believe my father would say I was some months 
short of it,” replied the young man, carelessly ; “but 
really his evidence is so little to be trusted in any 
matter not connected with plants or insects, that I 
mean to give myself the benefit of the doubt. That’s 
good law, eh ? ” 

Mr. Fiel proposed a bachelor’s dinner at his club 
that day, and entertained his guest all the evening 
with caustic observations upon widows, and the dan¬ 


gers to which young men were exposed from beautiful 
sirens, whose antecedents would not bear strict ex¬ 
amination, illustrated with numerous apposite anec¬ 
dotes, which the young man seemed to enjoy heartily. 
But he would not apply them to his own case ; so 
that, at last, the lawyer was forced to be more ex¬ 
plicit, and with much apology asked whether the 
young man knew who the late Mr. Montacute was, 
and under what circumstances the fair widow came 
to be alone and unprotected in Calcutta ? But the 
ardent lover would not listen to a hint reflecting 
upon the object of his affections, and got so excited 
and angry, that Mr. Fiel dropped the subject at once. 

Where was the use of talking sense to a man who 
declared that if all the world swore to anything which 
his mistress denied, he should take her word in pref¬ 
erence to the united oath ? To expose his game by 
showing the paternal letter empowering him to for¬ 
bid the marriage, would have been stupid indeed at 
present; that must be kept as the very last resource, 
when, combined with considerations of probable dis¬ 
inheritance, it might have an effect. “ What effect ? ” 
the lawyer asked himself unflinchingly, when quiet 
that night. Probably that of making young Lobyear 
dissemble for the time, and marry his widow else¬ 
where, unknown to the lawyer. And if the agent 
were deceived, the bridegroom might well hope to 
conceal the matter from his butterfly-hunting father ; 
at all events, for a time. Young people, especially 
when in love, never look far forward, but have a con¬ 
fidence in things turning up. Mr. Fiel owned with 
inward chagrin that he was at fault. 

Suddenly an idea flashed upon him like an inspira¬ 
tion. Why not attack the woman ? he had her ad¬ 
dress. 

“Of course,” he said aloud, turning his head on 
the pillow. 

“What, my dear?” responded Mrs. Fiel. 

“ Nothing.” And he went to sleep. 

Next morning, young Lobyear left Mr. Fiel’s 
house, and went to a hotel in Jermyn Street. 

Mr. Fiel possessed a very sharp office-boy, for in 
spite of the trick which had been played him by Tom 
Scott, he liked sharp boys ; only, he never meant to 
give another the chance of abusing his confidence. 
Billy Daw was employed in minor matters alone: his 
master had no intention of pushing him. 

This lad had already seen young Lobyear ; the 
house in Duke Street was now pointed out to him, 
and he was directed to watch it, and let his master 
know when Mr. Lobyear left it. 

So Mr. Fiel waited in his club, which was close 
by, and Billy Daw loafed within sight of Duke Street. 
Billy was good at loafing ; he gleaned amusement 
and instruction from the window of a newspaper and 
caricature shop ; studied natural history at a fish¬ 
monger’s ; set two boys to fight; exasperated a 
drunken man; procured “cuts behind” for several 
youngsters who were riding without paying their fare 
—all without losing sight of the door he was directed 





Fie/'s Delicate Case. 


55i 


to watch. His report at the end of the day was, that 
Mr. Lobyear had left his hotel, and gone to the house 
in Duke Street at eleven a.m. At half-past one a 
servant-girl had come out with an empty dish, and 
returned in ten minutes with oysters. At six o’clock 
Mr. Lobyear had at last come out, accompanied by 
a lady, and they walked together arm in arm to St. 
James’s Hall. 

“ Never mind,” said Mr. Fiel; “he can’t stick so 
close as that to her for long, however desperate his 
condition may be. Try again to-morrow.” 

True enough, at twelve o’clock on the following 
day Billy Daw summoned his master from the glub, 
and informed him that Mr. Lobyear had gone out 
for some time, and the lady was alone. Asked how 
he knew that his absence was not for a few minutes 
only, he replied that the gentleman had lit up his 
“baccy ” as soon as he got outside the door. 

Mr. Fiel wasted no time in further questioning, 
but hastened to the house in Duke Street, knocked 
and rang, and inquired for Mrs. Montacute. Yes, 
the servant-girl said, she lodged there, and was at 
home. What name ? And the lawyer was ushered 
into the front drawing-room. 

A lady with a creamy complexion and golden hair, 
elegantly dressed in half-mourning, closed the novel 
she had been reading, and rose from her lounging- 
chair to receive him. Pretty, thought the visitor, 
decidedly pretty ; but at least ten years older than 
he is. 

“You do not know me, madam, or the object of 
my visit,” he said ; “ so I had better tell you at once 
that my name is Fiel, and that I am the legal ad¬ 
viser of Mr. Lobyear, the father of the gentleman 
who aspires, I believe, to the honor of your hand.” 

Mrs. Montacute bowed, and requested him to be 
seated. 

“ I hope you will pardon me,” continued Mr. Fiel, 
dropping into a chair which faced the lady, and 
looking as conciliatory as he could, “ if what I have 
to say should prove in any way disagreeable ; I am 
but the mouthpiece of my client, you know. Mr. 
Lobyear, senior, has heard, not from his son, but 
through other sources, of this projected marriage, and 
I regret to say that he has conveyed to me his disap¬ 
proval.” 

“ O sir ! ” 

“ His very decided disapproval. He has never 
had the honor and pleasure of seeing you, madam, 
or he would probably view the matter in a different 
light, and hesitate before depriving his only child of 
the felicity so nearly secured to him. But, unfortu- 
* nately, his letter was forwarded to me from Hong- 
Kong, and he was then about to return to Japan, so 
that there are difficulties in the way of a personal 
interview.” 

“ Really, Mr.—Mr. Fiel,” said the widow, glancing 
at the card which had been given her, “ I hardly 
know what to make of all this. I was certainly aware 
that Mr. Lobyear had a father very much devoted to 


various branches of natural history, who, if alive, 
was supposed to be somewhere in Japan ; but that 
he takes any notice of his son’s affairs, or professes 
to exercise any authority over him, is quite a new 
idea to me.” 

“To me also, madam ; and I believe it to be a 
very unusual proceeding on his part. But marriage 
is an exceptionally important thing, and as his son 
is under age ”- 

“ Under age ! Thomas under age ! Impossible ! ” 
cried the widow. 

“It is a fact, madam; but were it otherwise, it 
would be of no importance, since Mr. Lobyear is 
entirely dependent upon his father, who is deter¬ 
mined to discontinue his allowance, and cut him out 
of his will, if he marries without his consent and ap¬ 
proval.” 

Mrs. Montacute remained in pensive contemplation 
of a very pretty foot for some little time before she 
replied : “ Excuse me for being over-cautious, Mr. 
Fiel ; but you are an utter stranger, you know, and 
I should like to see the letter from Mr. Lobyear’s 
father, if you have it about you.” 

“ Certainly, madam,” replied the lawyer. “A very 
natural and proper precaution on your part. I might 
be a rival, prompted by motives of jealousy. Here 
is the letter, which, however, I fear may give you 
pain. Evil tongues,” he continued, as the widow 
took the document and ran her eyes rapidly over it 
—“ evil tongues have evidently traduced you. Alas ! 
the best and fairest cannot escape slander ! Indeed, 
the greater the merit, the more virulent the envy.” 

“ Evidently genuine. Thank you,” said the widow, 
returning the letter with extraordinary composure, 
considering how she was treated in it, and then once 
more fixing her gaze upon her boot, which she fidg¬ 
eted about, she relapsed into silence and meditation. 
At length she raised her eyes slowly to the lawyer’s, 
and looking at him quietly, but very fixedly, she 
said : “ Mr. Fiel, you have come to me treating this 
affair as a pure matter of business, and therefore I 
will not speak to you of my affections ; it would pro¬ 
long this interview ; and probably you would not 
understand me. I will speak of the marriage en¬ 
gagement between myself and Mr. Thomas Lobyear, 
then, precisely as if it were a mere commercial trans¬ 
action. In order to fulfil my part, I have left India, 
where I had a home, and have come to England 
to live on my meagre pension. For all his threats, 
I consider it very unlikely that Mr. Lobyear will 
really disinherit his only child.” 

“ Pardon my interrupting you, madam ; nothing 
is mare probable. The ardor with which he pur¬ 
sues his favorite science amounts to mania, and I 
fear that he would be hardly sorry for an excuse to 
devote his entire fortune to the building and founda¬ 
tion of a museum.” 

“ There is a certain force in what you say,” replied 
the widow calmly ; “ and I do not conceal from my¬ 
self that it would be a very great misfortune indeed 








552 


Treasury of Tales. 


for both of us if Mr. Thomas Lobyear were to be 
deprived of his income upon our marriage. Still, it 
would be worse for me to break it off, and remain 
here, far from my friends, penniless.” 

“ Nay, madam, not penniless ; some compensa¬ 
tion would be your due.” 

“Mourn, ye Yenuses and Cupids”—if they didn’t 
come presently to fair up-and-down bargaining ! The 
matter was finally settled thus: Mrs. Montacute was to 
start for New York by the next mail, Mr. Fiel taking 
and paying for her passage ; she was to write a fare¬ 
well letter to young Lobyear, breaking the match, 
and keeping silence about where she was going to. 
Mr. Fiel was to accompany her on board the ship, 
and then to place in her hands the sum of one thou¬ 
sand pounds. 

When this treaty, with “No Trust! ” for its basis, 
was concluded, Mr. Fiel took his leave ; and as he 
stepped into the street, Jack Florner alone could ap¬ 
preciate his sensations. Never had so delicate a case 
been so skilfully handled ! Three days afterward 
Mr. Fiel escorted the fair widow to Liverpool ; ac¬ 
companied her on board the American steamer ; 
stayed with her till the last moment, gave her the 
thousand pounds, and returned to the bosom of his 
family, having himself sealed and posted a most 
satisfactory letter of farewell to poor young Lobyear, 
which was put in his hands unfastened, that he 
might assure himself that the contents were accord¬ 
ing to treaty. 

Next day, the deserted lover came to him in a fury 
—storming, upbraiding, beseeching him to tell him 
where his charmer had flown to ; threatening murder 
and suicide when the lawyer remained obdurate. 
Finally, he rushed away, declaring that he would 
never speak to him again. 

“Yes, you will, when you want money,” said Mr. 
Fiel, as the other banged the door behind him. 

He was right. In less than a fortnight young Lob¬ 
year returned, pale, calm, and haughty, and coldly 
intimated that he was about to return to the East, 
and required funds. After some discussion about 
necessary expenses, passage-money, outfit, what his 
father usually allowed him, etc., Mr. Fiel let him 
have five hundred pounds, and saw him depart with 
infinite relief—for now the edifice of his diplomacy 
was crowned. Commissioned to separate a young 
couple, he had despatched one to the east, the other 
to the west. What success could be more complete ? 
He had always estimated his own acuteness very 
highly, but now he felt as if he should “ strike the 
stars with his sublime top,” as a schoolboy friend of 
ours once translated a familiar line of Horace. This 
state of extreme self-satisfaction lasted some months, 
during which he looked forward to the letter of thanks 
and admiring approval which he expected from Mr. 
Lobyear the father. 

It came a mail sooner than he expected. One 
morning, on entering his office, he found two foreign 
letters awaiting him—one from an unknown corre- I 


spondent, the other in the familiar handwriting of his 
client in Japan. He opened this latter eagerly, and 
prepared for praise. 

Dear Sir —I can’t make out the meaning of all this 
rigmarole you have written to me about a son and a 
marriage. I had a son once, a lieutenant in the —th, but 
the poor boy fell a victim to the climate of China ten 
years ago. You refer to a letter of mine, dated from 
Hong-Kong, and it is true that I was there about the 
time you mention, but certainly I never wrote to you 
during my stay. If you are in your senses, you have 
been grossly imposed upon by some rogue or another. I 
wish you would have the goodness to call upon Pinum of 
the British Museum, and tell him ; etc.—(The rest all 
about bugs and beetles.) 

Mr. Fiel staggered to his desk, took out the letter 
he had last received, and compared it with this 
present one : the imitation of the handwriting was 
cunningly executed, but a palpable forgery. Had he 
entertained the ghost of a suspicion at the time, he 
could not have mistaken it. 

It was a good hour before he partially recovered 
from the effects of this blow, and then, in a bewil¬ 
dered, mechanical way, he opened the second foreign 
letter. It was dated from New York, and ran thus : 

Sir —When I was a clerk in your office, you tried to 
get too much out of me, but I managed to turn the tables, 
and pay myself for time and trouble expended on your 
behalf—that was one to me. You caught me, and got 
me two years—that was one to you. With the aid of my 
clever little wife, I have drawn about fifteen hundred and 
eighty pounds out of you, winning two events out of 
three. Never mind ; it was improbable that I, who alone 
knew the details of your business relations with Mr. 
Lobyear, should have chanced upon that gentleman in 
Hong-Kong, and procured a specimen of his hand-writing; 
and in the walnut-stained young man, with jet-black hair 
and moustache, you could hardly be expected to recognize 
the fair, smooth-faced, red-headed Tom Scott. 

P. S. —Love to Sarah. I regret that we could not 
square matters by a matrimonial alliance, but bigamy is 
not one of my little games—at present. 

Mr. Fiel threw this letter on the ground, pounded 
it with his heel, buried his face in his hands, and in 
a tone of agony which might have melted the heart 
of his bitterest enemy, exclaimed : “Done ! ” 


AN AMATEUR LETTER-CARRIER. 

BY JUDGE T. C. HALIBURTON. 

W HEN we set out for Halifax, everything 
portended a change of weather ; the sky 
was clear but not transparent, the snow, 
which had lain so pure and unsullied, looked yellow 
and dirty, and although there was a total absence of 
clouds, the sun was obscured. A south wind which 
had blown fitfully at intervals, increased to a gale 
before we had progressed far ; a few loose dark 
flakes of uncommon size began to fall around us, 







An Amateur Letter-Carrier. 


553 


and soon the snow assumed, in its rapid and com¬ 
pact descent, the appearance of a dense cloud. 

The clear sound of the sleigh bells became dull 
and heavy, and finally ceased. We put our horses 
to their full speed, till the rapidity of the motion 
through the white and dazzling downfall nearly de¬ 
prived us of the power of vision. Enormous drifts 
lay across the track like waves of the sea; and, at 
times, our noble animals appeared perfectly buried, 
and could only proceed by rearing and plunging 
forward. The last drift terminated like a wall, the 
wind, passing between the house and the outbuild¬ 
ings, which were situated on opposite sides of the 
road at Mount Hope, had rolled up a precipitous 
bank impossible to pass in harness. We released 
our horses, and by a circuitous route managed to 
reach the inn, and were shown into a room warmed 
by one of the large, blazing glorious wood-fires of 
Nova Scotia. 

After a capital dinner, we drew up to the cheer¬ 
ful hearth, and were soon joined by other travel¬ 
lers who had been compelled by the storm to take 
shelter. The company consisted of six or eight 
persons ; Miss Lucy Neal, the manager of the house¬ 
hold, a fine, hearty, blooming, good-natured country 
girl of about thirty years of age ; and Mr. Stephen 
Richardson, a tall, muscular, awkward-looking man, 
with a slight stoop in the shoulder, a knowing and 
comical expression of face, free and easy manners, 
and a dress of light blue homespun, were prominent 
in the circle. A small thin man with a sour, bilious 
face, and dressed in a suit of black, began to enter¬ 
tain us with his grievances. He had been at Hali¬ 
fax to solicit some petty office, which he found to his 
dismay had been disposed of to an earlier applicant. 

“I don’t pity you a bit,” said Stephen Richard¬ 
son ; “ there is nothing so mean to farmers like you 
and me as office-seeking, unless it be wearing broad¬ 
cloth instead of homespun, as if a man were above 
his business. I’ll tell you what, when sitiatio/is in 
the country fall vacant, folks to Halifax know it as 
well as can be ; for the town is just like a salt-lick at 
the fall of the moon ; it’s filled with stray cattle.” 

The little man in black, though evidently accus¬ 
tomed to these rough rustic remarks, appeared to 
wince under their application before strangers, and 
made an attempt to turn the conversation by taking 
a letter out of his pocket-book and asking Richard¬ 
son “ if he would do him the favor to allow him to 
make him the medium of transmitting it to Halifax, 
having unfortunately forgotten to deliver it him¬ 
self.” 

“Which means, in plain English,” said Stephen, 
“ you fetched it back by mistake. Why the devil 
can’t you talk plain ? There is nothing like home- 
spun talk and homespun cloth for a farmer. I’ll 
take a hundred of them, if you like. Let’s see it! ” 

He then took the letter and examined the address, 
and, reversing it, looked at the seal, and returned 
it, saying : 


“ Open that letter and read it to me, or I can’t 
take it. I’ve made a vow never to carry a paper for 
any man, unless I know what’s in it. I got into an 
awful scrape once by carrying a letter that had a 
wafer in it to Sir Hercules Sampson, the governor 
that used to be here a good while ago. I’ll tell you 
how it was, so that you may see it ain’t because I 
don’t want to oblige you, but just to keep out of a 
scrape myself when I know I am well off. One fall, 
just as I was a-starting from home for Halifax in a 
vessel loaded with apples and cider I raised on my 
own farm, and the matter of five hundred boxes of 
smoked herrings (which I caught and cured myself), 
who should come along but Pete Balcom, with a 
letter in his hand. 

“‘Steve,’ says he, ‘just leave this at Government 
House, will you, that’s a good fellow, as soon as you 
arrive in town, and I will do as much for you some 
other time.’ 

“ ‘ Certainly,’ says I ; ‘ but, as my hands are sort 
of dirty, do you take my pocket-book out of my 
jacket and stow it away snug,’ and he did so. Well, 
one day, after I got to Halifax and unloaded the 
vessel, as I was a-going along the street with my 
working clothes on, who should I see a-galloping 
along from parade but the governor and a couple 
of other officers, with their spurs a-jangling, and 
their swords a-dangling, and their plumes a-nod- 
ding, talking and a-laughing away like anything. 
Thinks I, I’ll just follow on to Government House 
and give Pete Balcom’s letter to one of his hired 
men. 

“ So away I goes into one of the great stone 
gates, and there was trees, and gravel-walks, and 
little bushes, and a sort of garden-looking place, 
and a great big front door. So I backed out and 
went up the hill, and turned into t’other gate, and, 
as I am a living sinner, there was another pleasure- 
garden-looking-place, and a front door there, too. 
Thinks I, goodness me ! where’s the back porch that 
common folks like me go into ! These places are 
only meant for great men and office-seekers, like our 
friend Broadcloth here. So I took a circuit all rotmd 
the house, till I came back to where I started from, 
like a fellow lost in the woods, when I saw a baker 
drive in. 

“ ‘ Come, ‘ says I to myself,’ I’ll ax no questions, for 
that looks as if you didn’t know ; but I’ll just follow 
old Dough, for where the bread goes he that raises 
the flour has the right to go also.’ Well, out he 
jumps from his cart, and takes a basket of loaves 
on his arm, and dives down behind an iron rail¬ 
ing alongside of the street-door, and I after him. 
Though he knew the way and I didn’t, I kept close 
up to him for all that; for a man that can overhaul 
a moose ain’t easy left behind by a baker chap, I 
tell you. Well, we no sooner got into the lower re¬ 
gions than Sixpenny Loaf lays down his basket, ups 
with his whip, knocks at the door, and off like a 
shot, leaving me and the basket there. 


i 





554 


Treasury of Tafcs. 


“ ‘ Hullo,’ said I, ‘ Mister, deliver your own freight 
yourself, will you, if you please ? it’s enough for me 
to hand in Pete Balcom’s letter. And besides, I am 
a stranger here.’ 

“ But crack went the whip, and away went the 
wheels ; and the only answer I got was, ‘ Come in.’ 
So I opened the door, and there was a little, thin 
old lady, with spectacles on, and her two daughters, 
handsomely dressed. Mother was writing in a big 
book that looked to me like a merchant’s ledger, 
and the two young women were making a bit of car¬ 
pet with colored yarns, in a small-sized quilting 
frame. Thinks I to myself, I won’t say nothing 
about that trick the feller played me with the bread. 
If he don’t choose to stop for his pay, he may go 
without it. So says I : 

“ ‘ Marm, I’ve a letter for the Governor, that a 
neighbor of mine, one Pete Balcom, asked me to 
leave here for him ; ’ and I out pocket-book and 
gave it to her, and she handed it to one of the gals, 
who went out to hand it to some one else. 

“‘Take a chair and sit down,’ said old mother, 
quite sociable like. ‘ Be so good as to wait a mo¬ 
ment, perhaps his excellency the governor may have 
an answer for you ; ’ and then she went on writing 
as before.” 

“ That must have been the housekeeper you saw,” 
said Miss Lucy, with the patronizing air of a person 
who thinks she knows the world ; “ and what you 
call bits of carpet in frames was rug-work.” 

“ I don’t know who the plague she was,” said 
Stephen, “ nor don’t care. I never saw her before, 
and I never want to see her again. 

“Well, as I was a-saying, that gave me time to 
cast my eye round and think a bit upon things in 
general; and when I seed these nice-dressed women, 
and well-furnished room, and flowers, and what not, 
thinks I, ‘ if this is your kitchen-room, what must 
your parlor be ? ’ And then I looked at my clothes 
all covered with dust, a little more nor half-worn, 
and looking none the better for the tar of the vessel. 
I won’t say I wished for broadcloth, for I didn’t; 
but I did long for my new suit of homespun, for I 
feel sort of proud of it, seeing I raised the stuff, and 
my old woman wove it and made it, as I said before. 

“Well, just then in come a servant with a pair of 
red breeches on, and gold garters, and white stock¬ 
ings pulled up tight over a pair of legs about as big 
as—as big as—what shall I say ? why, about as big 
as your drumsticks, Broadcloth. The fellow looked 
as much like a gentleman, and was as well dressed, 
as an eddy-gong , or chaplain, or whatever they call 
them, and as impudent too, for says he, ‘Follow 
me ! ’ quite short, like a chap that has received so 
many orders that he begins to think at last he has 
a right to give them himself. Thinks I, Natur is 
Natur, whether it’s on a farm or in a governor’s 
kitchen-room, for everything gets sarcy that’s well- 
fed and has nothing to do. 

“ Well, he takes me through a long stone passage 


as cold as the nateral ice-house on Granville Moun¬ 
tain, and as dark too, then up a pair of stairs, and 
then turn to the right, and then to the left, and then 
to the right again, as folks tell you when you don’t 
know the road. It sort of crossed my mind as I 
followed the critter, who seemed most too lazy td 
carry his shoes, ‘ I suppose the Governor is going to 
offer me a glass of grog for fetching that letter, and 
that I’ll take, for that’s sociable and civil-like, though 
I wouldn’t take all the money in his house, for that’s 
mean and don’t become Homespun.’ 

“ At last Breeches showed me into a large unfur¬ 
nished room, without a carpet or a curtain, as bare 
as my thrashing floor, with nothen in it but two un¬ 
stuffed wooden sofas, and a table with a large writ¬ 
ing-book and an inkstand on it. On one side sat a 
sergeant with his sword on, and on the other a thir¬ 
teen-penny soldier with his baggonet on, and there 
he left me standing in the middle of the room, with¬ 
out saying as much as, ‘ By your leave,’ or anything 
else. In less than half a minute out come the Gov¬ 
ernor, a great, tall, thin,' bony man, like myself, with 
a bald head, a nose as big as a brass knocker, and a 
pair of eyes as sharp, bright, and wicked, as a Luci¬ 
fer’s, with his great big sword by his side, and his 
spurs on, jist as I saw him in the street, only he had 
his hat with its white feathers in his hand. As soon 
as he came in, up jumps the sergeant and the sol¬ 
dier, and stood as straight as two ramrods. 

“ ‘ How dare you hand me such a letter as that, 
Mr. Balcom ? ’ said he. 

“ ‘ Governor ! ’ says I. 

“ ‘ Silence ! ’ says he. ‘ It admits of no excuse.’ 

“ I never heard no more after that, I was so taken 
aback, and me with my old working-clothes on, 
looking like Old Scratch himself ; but on he went, 
foaming and roaring like a freshet, and klomping, 
klomping round on the board floor, and waving his 
arms like a wind mill. Thinks I to myself, this is 
what I call an indictment, and they are a-going to 
send me to the guard-house as sure as the world; 
and then I looked first at the sergeant, and then at 
Thirteen-pence, and I seed I could pitchfork them 
fellers out of the window as easy as a sheaf of wheat; 
but then there was the Governor. If I was to lay 
hands on him , even in self-defence, I knew it would 
be rebellion, besides going agin the grain, for I am 
a loyal man, and so was my father before me ; and 
besides that, I wa’n’t sure I could handle him either 
if I was to try. Then I thought I’d make a run 
for it, and if I had known the way, I think I should; 
but what in the world can you do in a house that 
has as many doors in it, a’most, as there are days in 
the year ? So I made up my mind to face it like a 
man. 

“ ‘ Governor,’ says I, ‘will you just answer me one 
question ? ’ 

“ ‘ Silence, Mr. Balcom ; ’ says he ; ‘ I have noth¬ 
ing to say to you.’ 

“ ‘ Man alive,’ says I, ‘ do you call all this saying 




The G. B. C. 


555 


nothing? Besides, my name ain’t Balcom, and 
never was, I tell you. You have got in a wrong 
pew, you may depend.’ 

What the devil is your name, then ? ’ says he. 

“ ‘ Why, folks call me Stephen Richardson when 
I am at home,’ says I ; ‘ and I know no more about 
that letter than the man in the moon. I only 
brought it just to oblige you and Pete Balcom.’ 

“ ‘ Why didn’t you tell me that before! ’ says he. 

“ ‘ Because you wouldn’t let me,’ says I. 

“ With that he had turned and waved his hand, 
and the sergeant and the soldier sprung forward, 
and as I thought they were a-going to seize me, and 
I knowed I hadn’t done nothing wrong, except not 
dressing myself decent, I stepped back as quick as 
wink two paces, and squared off. 

“ ‘ Stop ! ’ says I. ‘ The first man that lays a 
hand on me, I’ll level him as flat as a pancake: so 
stand clear.’ 

“ The Governor laughed right out at that, and the 
two soldiers opened the front door to let me out, 
instead of leading me all round by the kitchen, the 
way I came in ; and up steps Sir Hercules, and says 
he— 

“ ‘ You are a fine, manly fellow, and I admire 
your spirit. I wish I had a battalion of such men 
as you are. I am very sorry for the mistake. I beg 
your pardon,’ and so on. 

“Well, when a great man like a Governor conde¬ 
scends that way to humble himself to a poor man, to 
say he begs his pardon, it kind of overcomes you, 
and cools you down as quick as a cup of water does 
a kettle of boiling maple sap. 

“ ‘ I don’t blame you a morsel,’ says I, ‘ Governor ; 
but I blame Pete Balcom, though : he hadn’t ought to 
have made a fool of me after that fashion. This is the 
first office ever I filled in my life, and that was none 
of my seeking, being a letter-carrier ; and when I 
get home I’ll give Pete Balcom the first quarter’s 
salary in shape of as good a licking as ever he got 
since he was born, and then I’ll resign the commis¬ 
sion.’ 

“‘No, no, my good friend,’ said the Governor, 
patting me good-naturedly on the shoulder, ‘pray 
don’t break the peace ; I should be very sorry to be 
the cause of any further annoyance to you.’ 

“ But I didn’t promise him, for when I promise I 
keep my word ; and, besides, he sort of looked at 
me as if he wouldn’t care much if I did give him a 
quilting. Well, the first time I met Mr. Pete Bal¬ 
com after I returned home, I just up and says : 

“‘Pete,’ says I, ‘what was in that letter of yours 
that you gave me to take to the Governor ? ’ 

“ ‘ What is that to you ? ’ says he. 

“ ‘It is a good deal to me,’ said I ; ‘ for I want to 
know what sort of business I was a partner in.’ 

“ ‘ Well, ask about it and find out,’ said he, quite 
sarcy. 

“ ‘ I’ll get it out of you as I get my wheat out of the 
ear, by thrashing it out,’ says I. ‘ So here’s at you ; ’ 


and I turned to, and I gave him such a tanteening 
as he never had since he was raised, I know. The 
postage of that letter came to a round sum, you may 
depend. I got sued for an assault, was dragged 
through two courts, and got cast in ten pounds’ 
damage, and twenty pounds’ cost; and what’s more, 
after all, never found out to this day what was in 
that letter. Since then I have made a vow never to 
carry a paper for any man, unless he first shows me 
what’s in it. If you don’t think proper, therefore, 
to break the seal of that one, and read it to me, you 
may send it by some one else, and there is an end 
of it.’’ 


THE G. B. C. 

A TALE OF A TELEGRAM. 

BY JAMES PAYN. 

I DO not as a rule engage in commercial specu¬ 
lation ; but my dear friend Jones insisted with 
such eloquence upon the success that must 
indubitably follow upon the establishment of the 
Great Butter Company—an association formed for 
the manufacture of that commodity out of a mate¬ 
rial which shall be nameless, but which was by no 
means so precarious and open to adulteration as 
cream, and the supply of which was practically in¬ 
exhaustible—that I suffered the name of Martingale 
to appear, for a consideration, on the list of di¬ 
rectors. 

It is a name well known in society, and was, up to 
that time, untainted by connection with trade; unless, 
indeed, the swapping and sale of chargers—for which 
I will back myself against any cavalry officer in Her 
Majesty’s service—may be considered by the pe¬ 
dantic as coming under that head. I had three hun¬ 
dred a year for directing the Butter Company ; and 
it was far easier work, I am bound to say, than were 
the old duties in my regiment, for which I was paid 
a precisely similar sum. 

Once a month the chairman called for me in his 
brougham, and deposited me at the offices in Corn- 
hill, where, after an excellent luncheon (of which 
our butter formed no ingredient), I attached my 
autograph to certain documents ; a proceeding which 
is technically termed “ passing the accounts.” I 
believe the Butter would have stuck to me, had it 
not been for my own fault—if I can call that a fault 
which was the most extraordinary piece of ill-fortune 
that ever befel a fellow, and solely through another 
fellow’s being too clever by half. 

Well, I say the G. B. C.—as we who belong to it 
were accustomed to call it, as the chairman said, 
“ out of affection and euphony,” but so far as I was 
concerned, for mere shortness—was a little “ talked 
about ” ; it had its detractors, and even its enemies. 
People shook their heads at it (especially when they 
tasted the butter), and prophesied we should not 
last; and it was necessary to advertise considerably 








556 


Treasury 

to get new customers. Our business lay rather with 
new ones than old ones, perhaps ; but it was grad¬ 
ually getting spread over the country—though thinly 
spread, like butter upon bread at school. 

“ Let only the Great Butter Company be true to 
itself,” said our chairman, during the peroration 
of the most powerful speech I ever remember to 
have heard from any man sitting, “ and 1 do not 
hesitate to affirm that the days of dairymen are 
numbered.” For though I am still under an obli¬ 
gation of secrecy as to the material of which our 
butter was composed, I may say it had nothing in 
common with dairies—except a little water. Enough, 
however, of commercial details. 

When playing at pool in the early autumn one 
night at the Club, I had the misfortune to lose— 
neither my money nor my life, for I am amazingly 
careful of both, but—my self-possession, and some¬ 
how or other got inveigled into a promise to go 
down to old Slowcombe’s to shoot upon the first of 
October. It was a foolish thing to do, for Slow- 
combe is a bore, and I happened to owe him a little 
money ; and when a man is both a bore and a cred¬ 
itor, it is intolerable to be under the same roof with 
him, more especially if it be his own. There were 
some excuses for me, for in the first place there were 
so few men in town that we were obliged to ask Slow- 
combe to make up the pool, and secondly, when one 
owes a fellow money one is bound to be civil to him. 

We got talking of pheasants, and the old fellow 
asked me if I liked pheasant-shooting, and when 
I said yes, “ Then come,” said he, “ and have a shy 
at mine.” I no more suspected Slowcombe of 
having any pheasant-shooting to give away than of 
keeping a roulette-table at Hampton Court races. 
Still, when a man farms his own land, there is 
always a temptation to get sofnething out of it, and 
it seemed he had grown pheasants. I ought to have 
been more prudent, and I will another time, or my 
name is not Martingale. 

I am, however, a man of my word, and I never 
thought of breaking my promise to Slowcombe, 
until I heard him ask another man, and then another, 
to come down and enjoy themselves among his 
covers, and both of them ref used point-blank. They 
did not owe him money, as I did ; but it struck me 
that they were more decided in their negatives than 
the occasion demanded. 

“Why don’t you go down to poor old Slow¬ 
combe’s ? ” said I to one of them, a man I should 
have liked as a companion in such an expedition : 
“ he means well and is quite harmless.” 

“ Harmless ! By Jove ! that is just what he isn’t,” 
was the unexpected reply. “ Why, last year was the 
first, according to his own confession, that he ever 
took gun in hand, and he shot Brooks of ours in 
the leg at fifteen yards in one of his own turnip- 
fields. You don’t mean to say you never heard 
Brooks tell the story about his leg, and how Slow¬ 
combe made game of it ? ” 


of Tales. 

I did not like to say that I myself had promised 
to go down to Slowcombe’s, but I made up my mind 
from that moment that I wouldn’t go. I am not a 
family man, but I respect myself, I hope, as much as 
if I was ; and I wasn’t going to be blown to pieces 
by an old rhinoceros like that, in a field of swedes. 
My difficulty was to find an excuse ; for the other 
men’s refusals—and his own knowledge perhaps of 
why they wouldn’t come—had made Slowcombe 
“touchy” ; and when I had hinted that I couldn’t 
be quite sure of being with him on the First, he had 
made an allusion to the little matter of business 
between us, which I felt to be equivalent to “play 
or pay ”—Come to Ploughshire (for he lived among 
the clodhoppers), or settle my account. 

At last I hit upon a plan. He knew that I was 
connected with the Great Butter Company, and had 
often sounded me as to its prospects ; but I could 
never persuade him to invest in it. “ If it’s such a 
real good thing, you had better stick to it yourself, 
Martingale, and let nobody else in.” I didn’t like 
the remark about letting people in ; but I was not 
in a position to quarrel with Slowcombe. He parted 
from me on the last da but oney of September, 
telling me he wanted twenty-four hours to get his 
guns ready, and impressing upon me the best train 
by which to start for Ploughshire on the morrow. 
The next morning (the 30th), I wrote him this letter 
from the Club : 

My dear Slowcombe,—I am exceedingly sorry to disap¬ 
point you—and still more so to disappoint myself—but I 
regret to say that my proposed visit to you has been 
knocked on the head. The enclosed telegram will explain 
itself. Nothing but the most urgent business would have 
prevented my keeping my engagement ; and I feel confi¬ 
dent, from the ideas you have often expressed to me 
respecting the necessity of attending strictly to the G. B. 
C., I need no further apology for my absence. You will, 
doubtless, have many another gun with you, and if the 
phrase of “ the more the merrier” can be applied to 
pheasant-shooting, that of ‘‘the fewer the better cheer” 
is certainly still more to the purpose. A fuller bag will, I 
hope, compensate for the absence of yours, most faith¬ 
fully, Marmaduke Martingale. 

Then leaving the envelope open, I proceeded to 
concoct the telegram : 

From the Secretary of the Great Butter Company 
(Limited), Cornhill, to Marmaduke Martingale, Esq., Mil¬ 
itary, Naval, and Militia Club, Pall Mall. Defalcations 
have been discovered in the Company’s accounts. I am 
therefore compelled to summon an extraordinary meeting 
of the Board of Directors for Wednesday next, when 
your presence will be indispensable. 

I gave this composition to the Club commission¬ 
aire, an active, intelligent fellow whom I had often 
employed, and sent him off to the nearest telegraph 
office. I calculated that it would return to me—in 
telegraphic form—in about a quarter of an hour at 
furthest. But as it happened, it did not. I had an 
engagement for that afternoon at Hurlingham, and 




Doubts and Fears. 


55 7 


was obliged to leave the Club before the arrival of 
the expected document. However, as I knew it 
must come, and could place the utmost confidence 
in the porter, I left my letter with him, instructing 
him to place the telegram inside it as soon as it came 
to hand, and then to post it. 

The next morning, I found upon inquiry that this 
had been done, and thought no more about the mat¬ 
ter. The day after, a note, as I had expected, ar¬ 
rived from Slowcombe ; the contents of which, 
however, I did not expect: 

Sir,—I am astonished that you should have the as¬ 
surance to send me that telegram from your place of 
business. If you imagine because your secretary has 
“ bolted,” and the “ blessed concern ” (as your friend 
terms what I had understood from you to be a sound 
commercial association) has “ burst up,” that I shall not 
be disposed to press for my hundred pounds, you are very 
much mistaken. I have placed the matter in the hands 
of my solicitor, and remain—Yours obediently, 

Thomas Slowcombe. 

Had I taken leave of my senses, or had Slow¬ 
combe taken leave of his ? “ Bolted,” “ burst 

up,” “blessed concern”? No such words, I am 
sure, had ever been contained in my telegram. 
What on earth did it all mean ? I did a thing which 
I had never done before, except upon the first Mon¬ 
day in every month—I hurried to our place of bus¬ 
iness in the City as fast as a hansom could take me ; 
and found the shutters up. The office of the G. B. 
C. was closed—just as though the Company had 
been defunct. Up-stairs, however, I found the 
chairman looking at a heap of bills and gnawing his 
moustache. 

“ This is a pretty piece of work, Captain Martin¬ 
gale,” said he ; “ and we have to thank you for it.” 

“ To thank me ? ” cried I. “ What do you mean ? 
Is everybody gone mad ? I have done—nothing— 
nothing .” 

“ Perhaps you didn’t send a telegram to our sec¬ 
retary about ‘defalcations’? Here it is.” And 
he tossed me over the message I had sent from the 
secretary to myself— transposed. That respectable 
and intelligent commissionaire had, it seemed, taken 
it for granted that I had made a mistake in sending 
a telegram to myself, and substituted the word 
“ from ” for “ to,” and “ to ” for “ from.” He 
thought, doubtless, he was doing a very clever 
thing, and one for which I should be much in¬ 
debted to him. 

The secretary really had, it seems, “ defalcated ” 
in a small way, and getting my telegram (instead 
of my getting his) he thought all was discovered, so 
laid his hands on everything he could, and decamped. 
It was the chairman himself who had wired the 
news to me in that familiar style, which had so in¬ 
censed Slowcombe : “ Our secretary has bolted, and 
the blessed concern has burst up.” 

The Great Butter Company, in fact, was nowhere, 
thanks to my little device for avoiding pheasant¬ 


shooting. The secretary would probably never have 
fled ; but only have gone on defalcating slowly, but 
for my alarming message : as it was, everything was 
precipitated, including the compulsory payment of 
my debt to Slowcombe. It was altogether a miser¬ 
able fiasco ; and when I hear fellows talking about 
the splendid results of civilization, and “ Look at 
the electric telegraph, for example ! ” and “ the corps 

of commissionaires ! ” I say to myself-But never 

mind what I say. I have told enough to make it 
understood why I should not agree with them. 


DOUBTS AND FEAP(S. 

Y own dear, dear, little Maggie ! ” 

I was Maggie. As to whether or not I 
was dear, is not for me to say, but detrac¬ 
tion itself acknowledged me little. Hence, with the 
usual contentment of gentle English maidens, I 
greatly desired to be tall. Tall and fair, with deli¬ 
cate features, and a well-cut nose. Such was my re¬ 
fined taste. Men, I conceived, should, without ex¬ 
ception, be dark ; women, without exception, fair. 

But I and my theories had got somehow into a 
sort of muddle. 

Here was I, Maggie, short, dark, plump (I forgot 
to mention that, in my standard of beauty, women 
were ethereally slight. I admire, indeed, the scrag¬ 
giest specimens), with arms over which I had fre¬ 
quently sighed, they were so round and so plump, 
and meant to remain so. I derived no comfort from 
their dimpled appearance. 

Then, again, he who called me his dear little 
Maggie was fair. Decidedly fair, understand ! No 
sort of compromise. Yellow hair, whiskers, mous¬ 
tache, all quite golden. No doubt he had some 
good points. Handsome sleepy blue eyes, brill¬ 
iantly white teeth, and that sort of thing. But the 
one fact remained—he was fair. 

We had had the most orthodox courtship. All ad¬ 
jectives on his part, all modest depreciation on mine. 
It had had only one drawback. It had left us where 
we began. We were neither of us any nearer to the 
old sweet end of courtship. Marriage was still but 
a lovely perspective. The fact is that among the 
many mistakes the fairies made at my birth, they 
forgot to endow me with wealth. That and the 
fair skin had both been omitted. My lover also 
was poor, existing at present on an officer’s pay, but 
with fabulous riches shining in the future. 

His mother was a very rich woman, and we 
had always supposed she meant to provide for her 
only child ; but it had lately been rumored that she 
would not do so, unless he married to please her. 
And soon my lover showed me a letter, where the 
rumor turned to a threat. 

To inherit her money, he must indeed marry to 
please her, and she appeared to have herself selected 
his wife. 







558 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Oh, Bernard, how unfortunate ! ” 

It did seem unfortunate. But I was so happy in 
the possession of a lover, and so proud of that 
lover being Bernard, that I don’t at all think I real¬ 
ized the extent of the misfortune. Bernard, 
however, was filled with indignation against his 
mother. 

“ My own dear, dear little Maggie ! Maggie, you 
do not doubt me? You are not in the least afraid 
—this letter I mean ? ” 

“ Why, Bernard, no.” 

“ You do not think it could ever influence me,” 
he went on excitedly ; “ that I would ever take a 
wife of my mother’s choosing, that I would ever 
marry any one— any one —but you, Madge ? ” 

As I have said before, I did not at all admire my 
arms, but that was no reason why they should not 
be made of use. They were of use now, for they 
crept round his neck, and Bernard became quiet. 

We said so little in the course of the next few min¬ 
utes that I am not going to repeat it. Besides, we 
had said it so often before. How happy we were in 
the month that succeeded ! Bernard and I threw 
the threat to the winds. Such lovely long walks in 
the Staffordshire lanes, such reckless plucking of the 
Staffordshire roses ! 

Ah ! how easily I conjure up the lanes and the 
fields. Cool and fresh, with the smell of grass in 
the air, and the drone of insects. The heat of the 
day passing in vapor, the flower-cups filling with 
dew. A lark soaring upward, like a speck in the 
light. A golden rain of sunbeams falling warm from 
heaven to earth. 

“ At present, Madge,” said Bernard, with his arm 
round my waist, “I am the happiest pauper that 
breathes on the earth.” 

This would be, perhaps, at the top of a gate ; a 
quickset hedge just before us, a speculative cow 
looking over. I would reply, contentedly : 

“ Dear, we are very happy so.” 

This could not last forever. I don’t mean sit¬ 
ting on the gate, because that would have been very 
undesirable, but the peace, the quiet, the sense of 
being alone. Even the gods had to come down 
from Olympus, and I found that my presence was 
requested on earth. 

“ Madge,” said my father at breakfast one morn¬ 
ing, throwing me a letter across the table, “ read this. 
Maze Hill is quite full, and Florence has asked to 
come here.” 

He had a newspaper before him, which he pre¬ 
tended to be reading while really he waited for my 
answer. 

“ Oh, my dear papa!” I remonstrated. 

“ I know, I know, my dear,” he said, hurriedly ; 
“but it can’t be helped. Just tell Flo’ that you and 
Bernard are—in fact, that you sometimes like to 
be alone, and I am sure she will be too good-natured 
to worry you. You can give her a book, you know, 
or an antimacassar to do.” 


But I did not at all think she would work antima¬ 
cassars, and I felt my brown skin flush up an¬ 
grily. 

“ Write to her nicely, Madge,” my father hinted, 
“ and be sure that your letter is posted before five.” 

After which little speech, compliance on my part 
was expected. 

Ah, Staffordshire ! Staffordshire that till now I 
had so loved ! I wished now we were in some 
other county. For in Staffordshire there lived Miss 
Florence Burnand. So at least said Staffordshire ; 
but Staffordshire was mistaken. Going to Paris at 
the height of the season, you sat at the Louvre next 
Miss Florence Burnand. If you leaned on the rails 
of the drive at Hyde Park, the prettiest face was 
Miss Florence Burnand’s. On the top of Mont 
Blanc, with a long crooked stick, there once had 
been seen Miss Florence Burnand. In fact Flor¬ 
ence was everywhere, and did everything. Still, in 
Staffordshire there did exist a certain Maze Hill, 
and at the top of Flo’s epistles, posted, perhaps, 
from some place up the Nile, there always appeared 
an impossible monogram, with Maze Hill very fine 
and large with gilt letters underneath. 

On the strength of which Staffordshire put forth 
its claims to Florence, that young lady dancing the 
while in London ball-rooms, or admiring the sea 
from the chain pier at Brighton. 

Said the fashionable paper : 

“ Suddenly she disappeared from the world of 
fashion. The capricious little lady grew tired of in¬ 
cense. She dropped the laurels that were offered 
her at her pretty feet, and took the train for Staf¬ 
fordshire.” 

“ And I wish that the train had carried her past,” 
I grumbled to Bernard ; but Bernard for once did 
not heed me. 

“ Burnand,” he said, “ Burnand, Burnand ! Now 
where have I heard that name ? ” 

That evening I wrote to Florence, telling her how 
intensely stupid she would find us, and hoping she 
would not allow it to keep her away. 

Florence wrote back. She should certainly come, 
and no place could seem stupid after London. 

“ Every one to his taste,” said Bernard, shrugging 
his shoulders. “ If she finds us amusing I shall think 
she has a fund of amusement within herself. Little 
lady, why don’t you mend your gloves?” And so 
we glided away gracefully from Florence. 

But all too soon Miss Burnand arrived. 

Now, I was myself not at all acquainted with my 
cousin. All that I knew of her I knew from report. 

“Too pretty for the place,” I commented in¬ 
wardly, and then I was very angry with myself, and 
begged Bernard’s pardon in my heart, and could 
find no words strong enough to condemn my want 
of faith, and tried very hard to like my pretty 
cousin. In fact, she was a mere slip of a girl, very 
slight and light looking, with very undeniable eyes 
and a very undeniable mouth. A little girl, with 





Doubts and Fears. 


559 


little delicate ears, slim feet, and long-fingered hands 
with pink palms. 

That night I looked long and earnestly at myself 
in the glass. I believe it is not uncommon for 
young ladies so to do, and with me it had grown 
rather a habit. I was always so anxious to see if, 
haply, I appeared one shade fairer, and I know that 
I turned my whole hair inside out, that so I might 
get at the lightest tints. That night, however, I 
played no such freaks. I simply stood and examined. 
I saw in the glass a well-shaped girl, a brown face 
brilliantly colored, a plump white neck, round plump 
arms decorated with dimples, little fat hands also all 
over dimples but grievously brown, and with fingers 
ungracefully short. 

Now, looking back on what I saw, I highly ap¬ 
prove of the image in the glass ; but Maggie in 
those days was not satisfied. 

“ Brown ! ” I sighed discontentedly. “ Brown is 
no word for it. Mahogany is nearer the color.” 

Next morning on entering the breakfast-room I 
found Florence already down before me, looking 
fresh and sweet as an English girl should, at some¬ 
thing before eight in the morning. 

My father was an artist and had a true artist’s 
reverence for beauty. He looked with admiration 
at her elegant little figure, at her classically shaped 
head with its glossy, wavy hair simply and prettily 
confined. Bernard was not so artistic. I glanced 
at him over my teacup, but his handsome blue eyes 
were half asleep and his face a blank wall for ex¬ 
pression. 

At length, as I watched him, I saw the man 
change ; his sleepy blue eyes woke up, and some in¬ 
telligence flashed in his face. Turning to Florence, 
and for the first time addressing her, he said : 

“You have just come from London, Miss Bur- 
nand. Where have you lately been visiting ? ” 

“ Kensington,” said Florence, “ twenty - nine 
Anonymous Terrace. It’s very pretty about there.” 

“ It is so,” he replied, laconically ; and turning 
from her he chatted gayly to me all through breakfast. 

I was filled with a horrible dread. Twenty-nine 
Anonymous Terrace ! And Bernard’s mother, I 
knew well, lived at Twenty. Could it be possible 
that Florence was the lady she had selected for his 
wife ? 

Oh dear, how I wished that Bernard and I might 
but run down to the station after breakfast and see 
her off politely by the train. Not so, however. 

I see my father shut himself up in his studio; I 
watch Bernard saunter slowly down the garden, 
waiting as usual for me to join him ; I wonder how 
on earth I shall get rid of Miss Burnand. 

I think of papa’s little hint—the antimacassars— 
but I feel intuitively that, though a crochet-needle 
may be very well in my little short fingers, Miss 
Burnand’s pretty hands are not turned to such ac¬ 
count. Then Bernard whistles, and I flush, and 
Florence looks round her—a well-bred girl much 


amazed. I feel hot and indignant. What ridicu¬ 
lous lovers she must think us ! 

I twitch my old hat from a peg, and half make as 
though I would put it on. To put it on entirely 
I have not courage. Florence catches the idea con¬ 
veyed by my hat. 

“ I am going to write letters,” she says ; “don’t 
mind me.” 

I place pens and ink before her with the rapidity 
of an experienced clerk, and dance out into the 
sunshine down our gay little garden up to Bernard. 
A long, happy morning ; a lovers’ long talk. We 
go out of the garden and into the fields, and sit on 
a great yellow haystack. Bernard goes up first and 
I climb up after. Bernard talks rubbish, and I talk 
rubbish after him. 

He tells me where, when we are married, he in¬ 
tends to take me. We are to touch, it would seem, 
at all the loveliest spots of the earth ; we are just to 
touch and pass on. I am very inexperienced, and 
I have never been out of Staffordshire. Still, I 
vaguely feel that this touching and passing on may 
be expensive. 

“That will require money?” I say, modestly in¬ 
terrogative. 

“ Beyond a doubt, Madge.” 

Bernard’s face clouds. I feel sure he is filial, and 
thinking of his mother. Some subtle association of 
ideas places Florence before me. 

“ What do you think of her, Bernard ? You ad¬ 
mire her, of course ? ” 

“ Of course I do,” he said. “Who could help it ? ” 

I was mortally ashamed, but little jealous thrills 
ran down my dreadfully plump arms, and I felt 
myself striving to slide out of his grasp. 

Bernard would not hear of the arrangement. He 
took no notice of my discomposure, only held me 
all the faster, and talked as if I, Maggie, were at 
once the quaintest and sweetest little lady in all the 
land. This was so far pleasant that I partially re¬ 
covered ; but I could not quite lay aside a restless 
fear, a horrible dread, of—something. 

To my father she talks pictures, and to Bernard— 
but Bernard does not praise her now to poor jealous 
little me. 

So things go on, and I do not like her in the least, 
and I say hasty rude things, and repent and am 
sorry, and, in fact, am Maggie all over. Florence, 
being sweet-tempered herself, does not know I am 
not sweet-tempered, and joins in our walks with a 
quiet persistence and an absence of tact that render 
politeness on my part an impracticable theory. 
Every time she tacks herself on to us I mount swiftly 
up to a white heat of impatience. 

All of no use. I seem to hear Bernard saying : 
“We cannot leave her alone, Maggie; you >vould 
not leave the poor little girl alone ? ” And I feel 
he is right, and I clinch my teeth hard and walk 
along silent until the tones of my voice are pitched 
to my liking. 






560 


Treasury of Tales. 


At length, however, things take one turn too 
many. “ There are limits to everything,” I inform 
myself, as I stand at one of the pretty French win¬ 
dows that open on our lawn, brilliantly green after 
the rain. That lawn was a picture—red with gera¬ 
niums in white stone baskets and overflowing with 
beauty. In the centre, a fine old oak threw dark 
shadows on the ground ; and there, in the shade, 
hidden away from the sun’s hot glare, sat Florence 
Burnand—and my Bernard ! 

Flo’ was looking up and laughing. Her hat lay 
beside her, and through the thick boughs a sunbeam 
■was sprinkling her brown hair with gold-dust and 
sparkling on her pretty teeth. Blue butterflies were 
settling on her white dress, and Bernard’s blue eyes 
were looking straight into hers ! 

I flounce about angrily all the morning, and will 
not go near them. I can see Bernard looking up at 
the house, and I know very well he is looking for 
me ; but the whistle that generally brings me to his 
side dies away on the air, and I don’t go to him. 
Then they come in to lunch, Flo’ with her delicate 
cheeks like rose-leaves, effect of sitting in the open 
air. I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass over 
my head, and my features are all twisted up to look 
sarcastic, and do not by any means add to my beauty. 

I am very angry with Miss Burnand, and experi¬ 
ence a childish desire to retaliate by giving her the 
drumstick of a fowl. Manners prevail, and I give 
her a wing. 

Bernard sees that something is wrong, but is, of 
course, too grand to try to set it right. He stretches 
his long legs and stares at us both—rather lazily. 

This is our first tiff, and I feel there is something 
exciting in it, though I am conscious of a vague sus¬ 
picion that smooth sailing was much better. Ah 
me! how the small waves rise and swell ! Shall I 
never again see the calm water ? 

I had only meant to be dignified and stately, and 
I soon grew tired of that, and would very gladly 
have come round, but—to my horror—there was a 
barrier. An invisible one, but none the less a barrier, 
and I could not break it down. I found, when I would 
have again addressed Bernard in the old familiar 
manner,.a shade on the face that had so long been 
my own. I do not think he was aware of it. He 
was gayer than usual, and nobody else seemed to 
notice his constraint; but where Bernard is con¬ 
cerned my senses are quickened, and to me it was 
too clear. This change in Bernard, arising from the 
change in me, was reflected in my voice, and so we 
went on affecting each other until at length we were 
rapidly drifting apart. And all outwardly was the 
same. Only now, instead of the old sweet whisper, 
“ Come into the woods, Maggie ! ” there would be 
Bernard, hard and metallic, simply awaiting our 
pleasure to start. And Florence would fit on cream- 
tinted gloves. And I, foolish and jealous, could not 
stand it, and would let them go out into the quiet 
beauty of the woods without me. 


Of course it was I who suffered most. Bernard 
had his sense of ill usage and an Englishman’s 
pleasure in sulking, but I was beyond such help. In 
the depths of my misery, I threw myself at full 
length on the floor, and was instantly half stunned 
by a projecting nail. Physical pain did me good ; 
I crawled up again, and then, glad of the excuse 
to be extracted from my headache, I went off to 
bed. 

In bed, instead of sleep, I find wisdom. On one 
point I am quite determined : I will not expose my¬ 
self to Florence. 

Presently she comes up to me, bringing her sweet 
face and her wonderful absence of tact into my sick 
room. She pities me very much, and tries in her 
small way to do me good. 

“ Such a lovely walk ! ” she breathes melodiously, 
though to me her voice sounds like any old raven’s. 
I become at once uncomplimentary and inaudible. 

“ It depends very much on one’s thoughts, though,” 
she remarks, “whether one enjoys things or no. I 
was thinking of him.” 

At this juncture my newly gained wisdom serves 
me nothing. I jump up in bed, straight as an ar¬ 
row, and the hot blood paints my face in streaks 
from brow to chin. In the midst of my passion I 
try to be sarcastic. 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” I say ; “ and he, I suppose, was 
thinking of you ? ” 

I laugh at what I intend to be an incredulous 
manner, but even to my own ears it sounds weird 
and wretched, and I feel that there are great tears 
in my eyes. Through them, through that mist of 
unshed tears, I look up at her. And she looks down 
at me amazed. 

“ How strange you are ! ” she says ; “ and I didn’t 
think you knew ! Yes, we have been engaged these 
three years, but we are to be married almost di¬ 
rectly now ; he is coming down here next month.” 

She blushes. Her face fills with color until it is 
as red as the berries on a mountain ash, and her 
little delicate ears became scarlet. 

I lean back on my pillows ecstatically happy. 

It does not even occur to me to inquire to whom 
she is engaged, or anything about it. She is evi¬ 
dently nothing to Bernard, and beyond that nothing 
signifies. I think she is hurt by my want of sym¬ 
pathy, for she goes away sadly. 

The instant she is gone I jump off the bed, plunge 
my flushed face into a basin of water, brush up all 
the wet hair into a great bunch of curls, shake out 
my dress into folds, and go down-stairs, trusting to 
my composure for not telling tales. 

I edge up to Bernard and propose a walk. 

He agrees at once, although, poor fellow, he has 
but just come from a walk. He looks hard at my 
eyes. 

Our walk is, of course, to the haystack, and, sitting 
on the top of that golden edifice, the last wave of 
trouble recedes from my heart. 






Mr. Flintshire s Marriage. 


Says Bernard to a person who is sobbing in his 
arms : 

“ Poor little Madge. What was it, Maggie ? ” 

But I cannot at first explain what it was. I lift 
up my tear-stained face and then hide it away mod¬ 
estly in the stubble. 

Presently it transpires. Maggie has been jealous. 
Bernard opens his sleepy blue eyes wide at this in¬ 
telligence and reflects aloud. 

“ How strange,” he says ; “jealous of Flo’ ! ” 

I tell myself how natural it is, that he should call 
my cousin—“ Flo’.” 

“ Quite absurd, wasn’t it ? ” I ask, nervously. 

“ Poor little girl,” he says, “ I am so sorry for 
her. She has been so constant to that scamp of a 
man. Only to-day she was telling me how thankful 
she should be when they really were married. And 
I dare say she will be, poor little thing, for what 
with his wretched health and his endless suspicions, 
her life is at present not too easy.” 

I undergo pricks of conscience which send me 
clambering up on the stool of repentance. 

“ Oh, Bernard, I have been so unkind. But what 
a different sort of girl she looks. And if she cares 
about him, how can she be so nice to other people ?” 

“Other people! Mean me, I suppose?” says 
Bernard, giving me a little squeeze and bending 
down to try to see my face. “ But she wasn’t par¬ 
ticularly nice, Maggie. I was very sorry for her, of 
course, but I think I would sooner have strolled 
with my own little girl in the woods this afternoon.” 

This is as it should be. I compose myself to 
listen and Bernard leaves off. I don’t care. I am 
so very happy now. 

When I go in I catch Florence round the waist 
and astonish my pretty cousin with some very warm 
kisses. 

“ I am so sorry for you and so very, very glad, and 
I am sure you will be happy when you’re married.” 

Florence, the adaptable, fits into my new mood. 
Exchanging confidences, we compare notes. Her 
Bob and my Bernard might be twin brothers. The 
virtues of both are so excellent, and they are so very 
equally exempt from faults ! 

The Staffordshire roses are still scenting the air, 
though their petals begin to lie thick on the ground. 
Every one speaks of a fair little bride whose statu¬ 
esque figure shows soft through her veil, but the sen¬ 
sation she makes is lost upon me. I am dimly con¬ 
scious of the white buds and blossoms in my own 
dark hair, of Bernard unusually solemn beside me, 
and all else is but a dream, from which I awake to 
find Florence married, and on my own hand a link 
of shining gold that binds me forever to Bernard. 

We have risked ali, and have married without his 
mother’s wealth. 

“ Madge,” he says, as he takes me away easily 
through a crowd that is wrapped up and absorbed 
in Florence, “of whom now in the future do you 
mean to be jealous ? ” 


56l 

I whisper up softly, “ Of all those whom I think 
you love better than me.” 

Bernard lifts his hands and eyes like a prophet 
seeing backward. 

“ Madge, I see in the distance a host of such ri¬ 
vals, misty shadows in the background, softly turn¬ 
ing into air.” 

I laugh at this conceit. 

“ Before what, then, have they vanished ? ” 

Then Bernard, looking in my eyes, stoops down 
before me and kisses the ring on my finger. 


MI\. FLINTSHIRE’S MARRIAGE. 

FROM “ TRUTH.” 

M R. FLINTSHIRE retired from the Indian 
Civil Service at the age of fifty, and returned 
to England with the fixed intention of mar¬ 
rying for money. Being a bachelor, his pension was 
more than sufficient for his wants, and his savings 
amounted to a considerable fortune. But he was a very 
careful man, to say the least; and he had always cher¬ 
ished the idea of finding a rich wife who would keep 
him. Hitherto he had been unsuccessful, because he 
had, to a limited extent, allowed sentiment to inter¬ 
fere with his choice. But now that his income had 
diminished in consequence of his retirement, he re¬ 
solved to be guided entirely by expediency, and to 
permit neither age nor any other disqualification to 
balk his design. 

It is hardly surprising that with such broad views 
as this he had comparatively little difficulty in dis¬ 
covering his opportunity. He was chatting one day 
with his doctor in rather a despondent mood, in 
consequence of the unsatisfactory state of his liver, 
when the medical gentleman, to cheer him, re¬ 
marked : 

“ My dear sir, you need not feel uneasy. You 
will be well in a month, and you will live to be as 
brisk and lively at eighty-four as old Mrs. Mumble, 
wood.” 

“Who is Mrs. Mumblewood?” inquired Mr. 
Flintshire. 

“ A patient of mine—a wonderful old lady. As 
I tell you, she is eighty-four, and yet comes to see 
me in an omnibus to save a cab fare,” said the doc¬ 
tor, laughing. “You-will hardly believe it when I 
tell you she is enormously wealthy.” 

“ Is she a widow ? ” inquired Mr. Flintshire, prick¬ 
ing up his ears. 

“ Yes. Her husband was old Mumblewood, the 
contractor, who died worth, as they say, a quarter of 
a million. The old fellow came from nothing, but 
the widow is a shrewd, clever old lady, as brisk as 
you or I.” 

“ She can’t last much longer, I suppose ? ” re¬ 
marked Mr. Flintshire, absently. 

“Well, that is a professional secret,” said the 






562 


Treasury v r ales. 


doctor, laughing again. “ However, it is safe to 
predict that she has lived the best part of her life.” 

“ I should like to see her,” said Mr. Flintshire, in 
quite a hearty tone for him. “ The sight of her will 
do one more good than a course of medicine.” 

“ It will be cheaper, at any rate,” said the doctor, 
with unconscious irony. “ Let me see—I should 
like to have a look at you next week. Now, 
Tuesday morning at twelve o’clock is old Mrs. 
Mumblewood’s hour, and you might arrange your 
visit accordingly.” ; 

Probably the doctor had no other designs in his 
mind than the wish to secure another fee, and in 
this he succeeded, for Mr. Flintshire at once under¬ 
took to call on the day and at the hour mentioned. 

It seems incredible that any man should seriously 
think of paying court to an old lady of eighty-four. 
Yet Mr. Flintshire was quite prepared to do so if it 
turned out that Mrs. Mumblewood was anything 
like as rich as was supposed, and he made the ap¬ 
pointment with the most deliberate intentions. 

He had no difficulty in learning all about the old 
lady, who resided in Sloane street, and was well 
known in the neighborhood. The result of his 
inquiries was highly satisfactory, for though the de¬ 
ceased contractor had not left anything like a 
quarter of a million, the widow had inherited a large 
f01 tune, which must have considerably increased in 
consequence of her penurious habits. She lived in 
a small house, attended only by two old servants 
who had been, respectively, cook and butler to her 
late husband. She could hardly be spending ^500 
a year, to judge from the stories that were told about 
her, and the natural inference was that her savings 
must alone amount to a fortune. 

Under these circumstances Mr. Flintshire did not 
fail to keep his appointment. He considered the 
widow an excellent chance, and though her miserly 
propensities rather interfered with his original de¬ 
sign of being supported free of expense, this draw¬ 
back was counterbalanced by the probability of her 
speedy demise. He therefore quite made up his 
mind to marry her, nor did his purpose waver when 
he found Mrs. Mumblewood an illiterate old lady, 
with a skin like parchment, a face that might have 
been carved from a block of wood, and a tongue 
that was constantly saying bitter things. 

The meeting at the doctor’s house, which was 
their first introduction, soon ripened into intimacy. 
Singular as it may appear in an old lady of eighty- 
four, Mrs. Mumblewood was evidently flattered by 
his attentions, and though she soon intimated to him 
that she suspected he had designs on her fortune, 
she readily accepted his assurance that his polite¬ 
ness arose from pure friendship. Before long, Mr. 
Flintshire got into the habit of calling nearly every 
day, and though the hospitality he received was of 
a very meagre kind, he could not help admiring 
the strict economy which the widow practised in her 
domestic arrangements. 


It was only natural, however, that the old proverb 
about the course of true love never running smooth 
should have been exemplified in Mr. Flintshire’s 
case. If the widow received his attentions with 
complacent satisfaction, he was much less favorably 
regarded by another member of the household. He 
perceived that he had an enemy in the butler from 
the first moment that ancient retainer opened the 
door to him. This individual was a surly, not over¬ 
clean old man of sixty, or thereabouts, whose chief 
duties appeared to be to keep off intruders from his 
mistress, since he apparently discharged no other 
functions. It was perfectly obvious that old Numb 
was jealous of every one who entered the house, and, 
probably, had an eye to his mistress’s fortune. He 
was never polite to Mr. Flintshire, though the latter, 
from motives of policy, took great pains to make 
himself agreeable, even going to the length of an 
occasional gratuity. Unfortunately the man ap¬ 
peared to have considerable influence with the old 
lady, who was evidently a little afraid of him. Mr. 
Flintshire, who did not intend to be refused when 
he made his proposal of marriage, realized that he 
must not leave Mr. Numb out of his calculations. 
The consequence was that, after mature delibera¬ 
tion, he one day asked the butler to give him a few 
words in private, and thus delivered himself:— 

“ Mr. Numb,” he said, mysteriously, “ has the pos¬ 
sibility of your mistress marrying again ever oc¬ 
curred to you ? ” 

“No, it hain’t,” said the man, shortly. 

“Well, Mr. Numb, perhaps not, though you could 
hardly have imagined that I could see so much of 
that excellent lady as I have done lately without 
conceiving a very great regard for her. Now, sup¬ 
posing,” said Mr. Flintshire, quite jocosely, “sup¬ 
posing I were to aspire to gain your mistress’s hand, 
what would you say ? ” 

“ I should say, don’t you wish you may get it,” re¬ 
turned Numb, calmly. 

“ I am quite ‘serious,” said Mr. Flintshire, frown¬ 
ing a little.- “ Of course, I know it is not usual for 
a gentleman to consult a lady’s butler before pro¬ 
posing marriage to her. Indeed, the idea is ridicu¬ 
lous. But you have lived in your mistress’s service 
so long that she regards you as a friend and adviser, 
and under the Circumstances I think it only right to 
mention the matter to you. A word from you, Mr. 
Numb, might prove very useful.” 

“ Very likely,” said Mr. Numb, in an oracular tone. 

“Well, now, come, Mr. Numb. Just consider. I 
am not a foolish and extravagant man who would 
play ducks and drakes with your mistress’s money. 
On the contrary, I am a careful man, arid not a poor 
one either. I think we should live a little better, 
Numb, if I were master here ; your wages might be 
raised ; and—and—well, Numb, on my wedding 
day I dare say I might give you a five-pound note. 
What do you say to that ? ” 

Mr. Flintshire spoke in his most earnest and per- 




Mr. Flintshire s Marriage. 


563 


suasive tone, but failed to move a muscle of Mr. 

' Numb’s stolid face. 

“Or—or ten. Shall we say ten, Numb?” said 
Mr. Flintshire, eagerly. 

“ Make it fifty,” said the butler, with a perfectly 
impassive countenance. 

“ Fifty ! Bless my soul. Ahem ! It’s a very 
large sum,” gasped Mr. Flintshire. “ Can’t we split 
the difference and meet half way—say twenty or 
twenty-five ? ” 

“ Fifty,” repeated Numb, stubbornly. 

“ Well, well ! fifty, then,” said Mr. Flintshire, with 
resignation. “ It is a large sum, but-. How¬ 

ever, say fifty.” 

The butler said fifty, apparently rather to oblige 
Mr. Flintshire than from any interest he felt in the 
discussion—judging, at least, from his tone and 
manner. Nothing more passed at this remarkable 
interview, but the next day Mr. Flintshire proposed 
to Mrs. Mumblewood and was immediately ac¬ 
cepted. 

After this matters went smoothly enough, and 
though Mr. Flintshire fretted a good deal about the 
fifty pounds he had promised to Numb, he did not 
consider the money thrown away. The alacrity with 
which Mrs. Mumblewood had accepted him plainly 
revealed that he owed his success to the butler’s in¬ 
terference. When once he was married he flattered 
himself that Mr. Numb’s dominion would soon come 
to an end. Meanwhile it was prudent to be polite 
to him, for, since he acted as the old lady’s confi¬ 
dential adviser, he might make himself disagreeable 
by suggesting settlements and other undesirable 
complications. 

Nothing of the kind occurred, however, and the 
marriage was performed in a neighboring church 
without fuss or ceremony. Mr. Numb received his 
fifty pounds, together with a promise of a rise in 
his wages, which Mr. Flintshire intended in his own 
mind as a preliminary to dismissing him. The wed¬ 
ding banquet and the auspicious event in no way dis¬ 
turbed the even tenor of the household. The only 
change that occurred was that from henceforth Mr. 
Flintshire was promoted to the dignity of paymaster 
of the establishment, the widow stopping all supplies 
with promptitude the moment she had changed her 
name. 

Mr. Flintshire did not trouble to announce his 
wedding in the papers. There was nothing to be 
gained by doing so, and his wife did not appear to 
desire it. He settled down readily enough to his 
new state of life, and devoted himself to ministering 
to his wife’s comfort in a very laudable manner. 
The chief aim he had in view was to prevent her 
from making a will. He strongly suspected that she 
had made one before her marriage, in which the 
name of Mr. Numb figured conspicuously ; but that 
document was now null and void by operation of 
law. If his wife, therefore, did not make a fresh 
one, he would, at her death, inherit everything as 


her husband, and he was, accordingly, quite content 
to leave matters where they were at present. 

If Mr. Flintshire deserved domestic happiness as 
a reward for his perseverance, he certainly did not 
attain that desirable consummation. To begin with, 
his wife was crotchety and fractious, as old people 
generally are, but, in addition to these failings, she 
possessed a remarkably vigorous temper. Mr. 
Flintshire, to serve his own purposes, stayed by her 
side from morning till night, and she made a perfect 
slave of him. Being morbidly fearful of offending 
her, he dared not venture to retaliate, and never was 
an unhappy husband more henpecked than he. 
Another source of annoyance was that the whole 
household seemed to be in league to plunder him. 
The simple domestic arrangements which had suf¬ 
ficed when the old lady held the purse were no 
longer sufficient. His wife was the first to propose 
a more liberal table, and Mr. Numb manifested a 
perfectly fiendish ingenuity in suggesting costly little 
dishes for her. In a word, the housekeeping ex¬ 
penses increased to an enormous extent, and all 
attempts at introducing economy proved unavailing. 

The last, but not the least, of the bridegroom’s 
troubles was the presence in the house of Numb, the 
butler. So long as this man remained, Mr. Flint¬ 
shire felt that he was only the nominal head of the 
establishment. Mr. Numb did precisely as he 
pleased, and his influence with his mistress showed 
no signs of diminishing. Yet Mr. Flintshire did not 
see his way to getting rid of him. If he attempted 
to exercise his authority, his wife might be driven to 
take some desperate course. He ventured on one 
occasion to hint that Numb’s services might with 
advantage be dispensed with, but the suggestion 
called forth such a torrent of reproaches and invec¬ 
tives, that Mr. Flintshire trembled at his temeiity. 
Numb stayed on, and haunted him like a veritable 
Old Man of the Sea, drawing high wages, increasing 
the weekly bills, and, what was far worse, enjoying 
the larger share of his wife’s confidence. 

The one bright spot in the midst of Mr. Flint¬ 
shire’s tribulation was that his wife evinced no 
desire to make a will. He therefore felt tolerably 
secure about the future, which was a great consola¬ 
tion to him. Nevertheless a year of this anxious 
life so undermined his constitution, that in all 
probability another twelvemonth would have either 
killed him or rendered him hopelessly imbecile. 
Fortunately for him, these dreadful contingencies 
were averted by the sudden death of the old lady, 
who expired in her sleep without having given the 
slightest indication of her approaching end. 

The sad event had much the same effect upon the 
bereaved husband as a summer shower has upon a 
parched garden. It revived him instantly and called 
forth all his former energy and vitality. His first 
step was to make a minute and careful examination 
of the deceased lady’s effects, without, as he had 
anticipated, finding a trace of a will. The precaution 







564 


Treasury of Tales. 


was hardly necessary, for he was certain shi_ had not 
made one, but the search satisfied his mind, and he 
lost no time in venting his revengeful feelings against 
Mr. Numb. He nursed his resentment until the day 
of the funeral, but immediately upon his return from 
following his wife to the grave he summoned the 
butler to his presence. The man shuffled into the 
room with a hang-dog look, as though he anticipated 
his fate, but Mr. Flintshire remarked that his expres¬ 
sion was insolent and defiant. 

“Numb,” said his master, sharply; “you will be 
good enough to leave this house within an hour. I 
won’t stand any more of your insolence, and it was 
only out of consideration for the poor lady who has 
gone that I have borne with you so long. I will pay 
you a month’s wages, and I warn you not to attempt 
to make off with any of my property.” 

“Two can play at that game,” snarled the butler, 
fumbling in his pocket, and producing a document. 
“ Suppose this house and everything in it was my 
property, and I was to ask you to clear out; what 
would you say then ? ” 

“ It is a perfectly idle proposition,” said Mr. 
Flintshire, loftily. “ What is that paper ? ” 

“ It is a copy of the old lady’s will. My law¬ 
yer has the original.” 

“ Is it dated since my marriage ? ” inquired Mr. 
Flintshire, with a shade of anxiety. 

“ Oh, no !—long before,” answered the butler, with 
a grin. 

“ Then it is not worth the paper it is written on,” 
said Mr. Flintshire, waving aside the document. “I 
don’t want to see it. It is of no consequence what¬ 
ever.” 

“ I shouldn’t be too sure if I was you,” returned 
Numb, maliciously, as he put the paper back in his 
pocket. “ I fancy you will laugh the other side of 
your mouth before the day is out.” 

“ Get out of my sight this instant ! ” cried Mr. 
Flintshire, losing his temper. “ If you have not 
left the house within an hour I shall send for the 
police.” 

The butler appeared quite unmoved by this threat, 
and disappeared with perfect self-possession. His 
confident air troubled Mr. Flintshire a little, though 
he hardly knew why. It was obvious that the 
man did not believe that the will he spoke of 


was void, but that was only his ignorance. Never¬ 
theless Mr. Flintshire resolved to call immediately 
upon the firm of solicitors who had been in the 
habit of acting as his wife’s legal advisers, and 
accordingly he hailed a passing hansom, and drove 
to Lincoln’s Inn. 

“ Are you Mr. Flintshire ? ” inquired the senior 
member of the firm—“ the gentleman who recent¬ 
ly married our late client, Mrs.—Mrs. Mumble- 
wood ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Mr. Flintshire, struck with un¬ 
easiness at something strange in the lawyer’s tone 
and manner. “ Possibly you were unaware of our 
marriage.” 

“ I never heard of it till to-day. I regret to say 
I have to make a most extraordinary and painful 
communication to you,” said the lawyer, speaking as 
though he could hardly realize what he was about to 
say. “ I have had Mr. Numb here this morning, 
and it was from him I heard of your—your mar¬ 
riage.” 

“ Good heavens, what is the matter ? ” gasped Mr. 
Flintshire, beside himself with nervous apprehen¬ 
sion. 

“I really hardly like to break the news to you, but 
the fact is our late client was secretly married to this 
Mr. Numb some years ago. I had no idea of it till 
this morning. It is the most extraordinary state of 
things I ever heard of in my life,” said the lawyer, 
leaning back in his chair. 

“ It’s a lie—a base, infamous conspiracy ! ” cried 
Mr. Flintshire, foaming at the mouth. 

“ I’m afraid it is true. In fact, since seeing Mr. 
Numb I have inspected the marriage registry at 
Somerset House,” said the lawyer. “The most 
startling thing is that this old lady, whose meanness 
amounted to a mania, deliberately committed bigamy 
with her husband’s concurrence in order to save 
money.” 

“ If it is true he shall hang for it ! He shall re¬ 
fund every farthing and pay me damages. I will in¬ 
form against him before the nearest magistrate,” 
cried Mr. Flintshire, gesticulating wildly, and look¬ 
ing very odd and excited. 

He did not carry out any of these threats, how¬ 
ever, for the melancholy reason that he straightway 
went raving mad. 







5 6 5 


By the Night Rxpyess. 



BY THE NI Gift: EXPRESS. 

BY MARY CECIL HAY. 

A BITTER December midnight, and the up- 
express panting through its ten minutes’ rest 
at Rugby. What with passengers just arriv¬ 
ing and passengers just departing—what with the 
friends who came to see the last of the departing 
passengers, or to meet the arriving ones—the plat¬ 
form was full enough, I can assure you ; and I had 
some difficulty in making my way from carriage to 
. carriage, even though I generally find that people 
(almost unconsciously, perhaps) move aside for the 
guard when they see him walking up or down close 
to the carriage doors. 

This difficulty was increased, too, by the manoeu¬ 
vres of my companion, a London detective, who had 
joined me to give himself a better opportunity of 
examining the passengers. Keenly he did it, too, in 
that seemingly careless way of his, and, while he 
appeared to be only an idle, lounging acquaintance 
of my own, I knew that under his unsuspected scru¬ 
tiny it was next to impossible for the thieves he was 
seeking to escape—even in hampers. I didn’t troub¬ 
le myself to help him, for I knew it wasn’t neces¬ 
sary ; yet I was as anxious as hundreds of others 
were that those practised thieves, whom the police 
had been hunting for the last two days, should be 
caught, as they deserved. 

Sometimes we came upon a group which my com¬ 
panion could not take in at a glance, and then he 
always found himself unusually cold, and stopped 
to stamp a little life into his petrified feet. Of 
course, for me, this enforced standing was the signal 
for an attack of that persistent questioning with 
which railway guards are familiar; and, in attend¬ 
ing to polite questioners who deserved answering, 
and unpolite ones who insisted on it, I had not 
much time for looking about me; but presently I 
did catch myself watching one girl who stood alone 
at some distance—a girl very pretty and pleasant to 
look upon, I thought, though her face, and her dress, 
and her attitude were all sad : a tall, slight girl, in 
deep mourning, with a quantity of bright, fair hair 
plaited high upon her head, as well as hanging 
loosely on her shoulders ; and a childishly innocent 
face, with pretty, bewildered eyes. She stood just 


at the door of the booking office, and I wished I 
could have gone straight to her and put her into one 
—the most comfortable—of the line of carriages at 
which she gazed so timidly. 

Just as I hesitated, a very remarkable figure el¬ 
bowed its way to me—a stout, grandly-dressed old 
lady, panting painfully, and almost piercing me with 
a pair of restless, half-opened eyes, that looked out 
through the gold-rimmed spectacles perched on her 
sharp nose. Two porters followed her, laden with 
bags, cloaks, umbrellas, and flowers—the only flow¬ 
ers in the station, I expect, on that winter night— 
and one of the men winked at me over her head, 
while the other guarded her treasures with a face of 
concentrated anxiety, and thoughts engrossed by 
possible fees. 

“ This is the London train, is it, gua’d ? ” she 
asked, peering sharply into my face with her half- 
dosed eyes, as if she found it difficult to distinguish 
me even through her spectacles. 

From her whole attitude I guessed her to be deaf, 
but I never guessed how deaf until, after yelling my 
answer so loud that the engine-driveV must have 
heard it eighteen carriages off, she still remained 
stonily waiting for it. 

“ Deaf as a dozen posts,” remarked the detective, 
aloud, giving the old lady an expressive little nod 
in the direction of the train. 

“ Slow train ? ” she asked, in that plaintive tone 
which the very deaf often use. 

“ Mail ! ” I shouted, putting my mouth as close 
to her cheek as I fancied she would like. 

“ Ale! ” she shrieked back at me, the spectacles 
shaking a little on her thin nose. “Why should 
you want ale for listening to civil questions that you 
are paid to answer ? Ale, indeed ! I believe rail¬ 
way-men think of nothing else.” 

Then she shook her head angrily, and waddled 
off, looking as acid an old party as one would ever 
care to see. In at every door she peered through 
the glittering glasses, the two porters following her, 
until she made a stop before an empty second-class 
carriage near my van, and, with much labor and as¬ 
sistance, got herself and her packages into it. 

When I passed, a few minutes afterward, she was 
standing in the door-way, effectually barring the 
door to any other passenger by her own unattract- 






















































566 


Treasury of Tales. 


ive appearance there, and prolonging with an evi¬ 
dent relish the anxiety of the obsequious porters. 
I fancy that though the purse she fumbled in was 
large, the coin she wanted was but small, for I passed 
on and left her still searching, and still asking 
questions of the men, but hearing nothing either 
of their replies or of the loud asides in which they 
indulged to each other. I had reached the other 
end of the train, and was just about making my 
way back to my own van, when the young lady 
I had before noticed went slowly in front of me, 
toward the empty first-class compartment near which 
I stood. 

“ Am I right for Euston ? ” she asked me, gently, 
as she hesitated at the door. 

“ All right, miss,” I said, taking the door from 
her, and standing while she got in. “ Any luggage ? ” 
For from that very moment I took her, in a sort of 
way, into my charge, because she was so thoroughly 
alone, you see, not having any friends there even to 
see her off. 

“ No luggage, thank you,” she answered, putting 
her little leather satchel down beside her on the 
seat, and settling herself in the corner farthest from 
the open door. “ Do we stop anywhere between 
here and London ? ” 

“ Don’t stop again, miss, except for a few minutes 
to take tickets.” Then I looked at her as much as 
to say, “You’re all right, because I’m the guard,” 
and shut the door. 

I suppose that, without exactly being aware of it, 
I kept a sort of watch over this carriage, for I was 
perfectly aware of a lazy young gentleman who per¬ 
sistently kept hovering about it and looking in. His 
inquisitive eyes had of course caught sight of the 
pretty face iff there alone, and I could see that he 
was making up his mind to join her ; but he seemed 
doing it in a most careless and languid manner. He 
was no gentleman for that reason, I said to myself ; 
yet his dress was handsome, and the hand that 
played with his long, dark beard was small and 
fashionably gloved. 

Glancing still into the far corner of that one first- 
class compartment, he lingered until the last mo¬ 
ment was come ; then, quite leisurely, he walked up 
to the door, opened it, entered the carriage, and in 
an instant the door was banged to behind him. With¬ 
out the least hesitation I went up to the window, 
and stood near it while the lamp was fitted in the 
compartment. The gentleman was standing up 
within, drawing off a dark overcoat ; the young 
lady in the distant corner was looking from the 
window, as if even the half-darkness was better to 
look at than this companion. Mortified a good deal 
at the failure of my scheme for her comfort, I went 
on to my van, beside which the detective waited for 
me. 

“ No go, you see,” he muttered, crossly ; “ and 
yet it seemed to me so likely that they’d take this 
train.” 


“ I don’t see why it should seem likely,” I an¬ 
swered, for I hadn’t gone with him in the idea. “ It 
doesn’t seem to me very likely that three such skil¬ 
ful thieves as you are dogging, who did their work 
in this neighborhood so cleverly two nights ago, 
should leave the station any night, by the very train 
which the police watch with double suspicion.” 

“ Doesn’t it ? ” he echoed, with most satirical 
knowingness. “ Perhaps you may have got it quite 
clear in your mind how they will leave the town, for 
it’s sure enough that they haven’t left it up to now. 
That they’ll be in a hurry to leave it, is sure enough, 
too, for this isn’t the sort of place they’ll care to 
hide in longer than necessary. Well, what’s the 
hardest place for us to track them in ? London. 
And what’s the easiest place for them to get to sea 
from ? London. Then, naturally enough, to Lon¬ 
don they’ll want to go. Isn’t this a fast train ? and 
shouldn’t you choose a fast train if you were running 
away from the police ? ” 

I didn’t tell him what sort of a train I should 
choose, because I hadn’t quite made up my mind ; 
and he was looking cross enough for anything, in 
that last glimpse I caught of him. 

Having nothing better to do, I wondered a good 
deal how these thieves could arrange their getting 
away, while the walls were covered with the descrip¬ 
tion of them, and every official on the line was up 
in it. There was no doubt about their being three 
very dexterous knaves, but then our detective force 
was very dexterous, too, though they weren’t knaves 
(and I do believe the greater dexterity is generally 
on the knavish side) ; and so it was odd that the 
watching still was ineffective, and the offered reward 
unclaimed. I read over again the handbill in my 
van, which described the robbers. “ Edward Capon, 
alias Captain Winter, alias John Pearson, alias Dr. 
Crow: a thick-set, active man, of middle height, 
and about fifty years of age ; with thick, iron-gray 
hair and whiskers, dark gray eyes, and an aquiline 
nose. Mary Capon, his wife: a tall woman of 
forty, with a handsome, fair face, a quantity of very 
red hair, and a cut across her under lip. Edward 
Capon, their son : a slight-built youth of not more 
than fifteen or sixteen, with closely-cut black hair, 
light gray eyes, and delicate features.” 

We all knew this description well enough, and 
for two days had kept our eyes open, hoping to 
identify them among the passengers. But our scru¬ 
tiny had all been in vain ; and as the train rushed 
on, I felt how disappointed the police at Euston 
would be when we arrived again without even tidings 
of them. 

I was soon tired of this subject, and went back to 
worrying myself about the sad-looking, yellow¬ 
haired girl, who had so evidently wished to travel 
alone, and been so successfully foiled in the attempt 
by that intrusive fop with the handsome beard. 
Foolishly I kept on thinking of her, until, as we 
were dashing almost like lightning through the wind 





567 


By the Night Express. 


and darkness, only fifteen or twenty miles from 
Chalk Farm, the bell in my van rung out with a 
sharp and sudden summons. I never wondered for 
a moment who had pulled the cord ; instinctively I 
knew, and—it was the carriage farthest from my 
van ! I left my place almost breathlessly, as the 
engine slackened speed, and, hastening along the 
foot-board, hesitated at no window until I reached 
the one from which I felt quite sure that a fright¬ 
ened young face would be looking out. My heart 
literally beat in dread as I stopped and looked into 
the carriage. What did I see ? Only the two pas¬ 
sengers buried in their separate corners. The young 
lady raised her head from the book she held, and 
looked up at me astonished—childishly and won- 
deringly astonished. 

“ Has anything happened to the train ? ” she asked, 
timidly. 

The gentleman roused himself from a seemingly 
comfortable nap. 

“What on earth has stopped us'in this hole?” 
he said, rising, and pushing his handsome face and 
his long beard past me at the window. 

It was only too evident that the alarm had not 
been given from this carriage ; yet the feeling had 
been such a certainty to me that it was long before 
I felt quite convinced to the contrary ; and I went 
on along the foot-board to other carriages very much 
more slowly than I had gone first to that one. Utter 
darkness surrounded us outside ; but from the lamp- 
lit compartments eager heads were thrust, searching 
for the reason of this unexpected stoppage. No 
one owned to having summoned me until I reached 
the second-class carriage near my own van (which I 
had hastened past before), where the fidgety, deaf old 
lady who had amused me at' Rugby sat alone. I 
had no need to look in and question her, Her head 
was quite out of the window, and, though she had 
her back to the light and I couldn’t see her face, 
her voice was cool enough to show that she was not 
overpowered by fear. 

“ What a time you’ve been coming ! ” she said. 
“ Where is it ? ” 

“Where’s what ? ” 

But, though I yelled the question with all my 
might and main, I believe I might just as hopefully 
have questioned the, telegraph-post which I could 
dimly see beside us, and have expected an answer 
along the wires. 

“ Where’s the small luncheon basket ? ” she in¬ 
quired, pulling out her long purse with great fussi¬ 
ness—“ a small luncheon-basket, my good man, and 
make haste! ” 

Shall I ever forget the sharp expectancy of the 
old lady’s eyes as they looked into mine—first over, 
then under, then through, her gold-rimmed specta¬ 
cles ? What surprised me most particularly was the 
fact of her decidedly not being—as any one might 
suppose—a raving lunatic. 

“ Be quick with the small luncheon-basket, please !” 


she said, resignedly sitting down, and pouring the 
contents of her purse out into her lap ; “ I’m as hun¬ 
gry as I can be.” 

I suppose that when she looked up at me from 
the silver she was counting she saw my utter bewil¬ 
derment (I didn’t try now to make her hear, for I 
knew it to be hopeless), for she raised her voice to 
a shrill pitch of peevishness, and pointed with one 
shaking hand to the wall of the carriage. 

“ Look there ! Doesn’t it say Small Luncheon- 
baskets. Pull down the Cord ? I want a small, 
luncheon-basket, so I pulled down the cord. Make 
haste and get me it, or I’ll report you to the man¬ 
ager ! ” 

Seeing now that she was almost as blind as she 
was deaf, I began to understand what she meant. 
On the spot to which she pointed, above the seat 
opposite her, two papers were posted in a line—one, 
the advertisement of “ Small luncheon-baskets sup¬ 
plied at Rugby;” the other, the Company’s direc¬ 
tions for summoning the guard and stopping the 
train in cases of danger. As they happened to be 
placed, the large letters did read as she had said : 

Small Luncheon-baskets. Pull down the Cord. 

While I was gazing from her to the bills, getting 
over a bit of my astonishment, and she was giving 
me every now and then a sharp touch on the shoul¬ 
der to recall me to my duty and hasten me with her 
refreshment, we were joined by one of the directors, 
who happened to be going up to town by the ex¬ 
press. But his just and natural wrath, loud as it 
was, never moved the hungry old lady—no, not in 
the slightest degree. She never heard one word of 
it, and only mildly insisted in the midst of it that 
she was almost tired of waiting for her small lunch¬ 
eon-basket. 

With a fierce parting shot, the director tried to 
make her understand that she had incurred a pen¬ 
alty of five pounds ; but he couldn’t, though he 
bawled it at her until the poor old thing—perhaps 
mortified at having taken so much trouble for noth¬ 
ing—perhaps overcome by her hunger—perhaps 
frightened at the commotion she saw, but didn’t 
hear—sank back in her seat in a strong fit of hys¬ 
terics, and let the shillings and sixpences roll out of 
her lap and settle under the seats. 

It seemed to me a long time before we started 
on again, but I suppose it was only six or seven 
minutes’ delay after all. I expect I should have 
waited to explain the stoppage to the pretty young 
girl of whom I considered myself a sort of protector ; 
but, as I said, she was at the very opposite end of 
the train, and I was in haste now. There must have 
been a good laugh in several of the carriages when 
the cause of our stoppage got whispered about. As 
for me, when I shut myself up again into my van, I 
chuckled over it until we stopped at Chalk Farm to 
take tickets. 

It seemed to me that the train was taken into 
custody as soon as it stopped here. 




568 


Treasury of Tales. 


“ Of course you have the carriage-doors all locked, 
and I’ll go down with you while you open them one 
by one. My men are in possession of the platform.” 

This was said to me by Davis, the detective offi¬ 
cer, whom I knew pretty well by this time, having 
had a good bit to do with him about this Warwick- 
shire robbery. 

“ It is no use,” I said ; “ before we started the 
train was searched, as you may say, at Rugby. 
Every passenger has undergone a close scrutiny, I 
can tell you. What causes such scientific prepara¬ 
tions for us here ? ” 

“ A telegram received ten minutes ago,” he an¬ 
swered. “ It seems that two of the thieves we are 
dogging are in this train in clever disguises. We 
have had pretty full particulars, though the discov¬ 
ery wasn’t made until after you left the junction. 
Have you noticed”—he dropped his voice a little— 
“ a young lady and gentleman together in any car¬ 
riage ?” 

I felt a bit of ar> odd catching in my breath as he 
spoke. 

“ No,” I said, quite in a hurry ; “no young lady 
and gentleman belonging together ; but there may 
be plenty in the train. What if there are, though ? 
There was no young lady or gentleman among the 
robbers ! ” 

“ Among the robbers,” rejoined Davis, with sup¬ 
pressed enjoyment, “was a woman who’d make her¬ 
self into anything ; and you must own that a gentle¬ 
man with a dark, long beard isn’t bad for a lady 
known to us pretty well by her thick red hair and a 
cut on her under lip.” 

“ But the young lady ?” I asked, cogitating. 

“Ah, the young lady ! True enough ; well, what 
should you say now if I told you she grew out of 
that boy we’re after, with the closely-cut dark hair?” 

I remembered the pretty plaits and the loosely- 
falling hair ; I remembered the bewilderment in the 
eyes which entirely hid their natural expression, and 
I didn’t answer this at all. 

“ I wish I had as good a chance of catching the 
old fellow as I have of catching the woman and 
boy,” continued Davis, as we moved slowly past the 
locked luggage-van. “ I know they're here, and that 
I shall recognize them under any disguise; but 
we’ve no clew yet to the older rascal. It’s most 
aggravating that, by some means, we’ve lost sight of 
the biggest rogue of all. Come along ! ” 

I did come along, feeling very stupidly glad that 
there was all the train to search before we could 
reach that carriage at the other end, where sat the 
girl whom I had, in a way, taken under my protec¬ 
tion. 

“ When are we to be allowed to leave this train, 
pray ? Call me a cab ! ” cried the deaf old lady, 
plaintively, as we reached her carriage, and found 
her gazing out in most evident and utter ignorance 
of all that was going on around her. “ I am locked 
in, gua’d—do you hear ! ” 


I heard—ay, sharp enough ; I only wished she 
could hear me as readily. Davis stood aside watch¬ 
ing, while I unlocked her door and helped her down. 
Then, seeing her helplessness and her countless 
packages, he beckoned a porter to her, winking ex¬ 
pressively to call his attention to a probable shilling. 

Carriage after carriage we examined, and, though 
Davis detected no thief, he turned away only more 
and more hopeful from each. He was so sure they 
were there, and that escape was impossible. We 
reached the last carriage in the line—and now my 
heart beat in the oddest manner possible. 

“ Is this compartment empty, then ? ” asked Davis,, 
while my fingers were actually shaking as I put my 
key into the door of the centre one—“empty and 
dark ? ” 

“ Even if it had been empty, it wouldn’t have been 
left dark,” I muttered, looking in. “ Halloo ! what’s 
come to the lamp ? ” 

I might well ask what was come to the lamp, for 
the compartment was as dark as if it had never been 
lighted ; yet had not I myself stood and watched 
the lighted lamp put in at Rugby ? And—the car¬ 
riage was empty, too ! 

“Why was this?” asked the detective, turning 
sharply upon me. “ Why was not the lamp lighted ?” 

But the lamp was lighted, and burning now as 
sensibly as the others—if we could but have seen it. 
As we soon discovered, the glass was covered by a 
kind of tarpaulin, intensely black and strongly ad¬ 
hesive, and the carriage was as completely dark as 
if no lamp had been there at all. Davis’s perplexity 
was as great as my own when I told him who had 
travelled here. “ They couldn’t have left the train 
here , at any rate,” he said ; and I knew that as well 
as he did. 

But you have guessed the end. During those few 
minutes that we stopped on the line, the two thieves 
—darkening the lamp even after I had left them, and 
using their own key—had left the carriage under 
cover of the darkness ; managing their escape, in 
their black dresses, out into the darkness of the 
night, as cleverly as they had managed their theft 
and subsequent concealment. But how could they 
have depended on this unusual delay—this exquisite 
opportunity given them in the utter darkness, close 
to the city, yet at no statioji ? When I officially 
made my deposition, and explained the absurd cause 
of our stoppage, and the length of it, the truth broke 
upon us all ; and it wasn’t long before it settled into 
a certainty. Clear enough it was to everybody, then, 
that the older scoundrel had duped us more ingen¬ 
iously than the younger ones. As the incapable old 
lady (deaf as a stone, and so blind that she had to 
peer through her glittering glasses with eyes always 
half closed, and so hungry that she had to stop the 
train for a luncheon-basket, while the confederates 
escaped), he had played upon us the neatest trick of 
all. Where on earth were the thick iron-gray hair 
and whiskers by which we were to identify him ? But 




William Wilson. 


569 


by the time the police saw the whole thing clearly 
it was too late to follow up any clew to him. 

I he cab which had taken the eccentric old lady 
and her parcels and flowers from Euston was lost in 
the city, and could not be traced. A high reward 
was offered for information, but no one ever won it. 
My firm belief is that it was no legitimately licensed 
cab at all, but one belonging to the gang, and part 
of the finished fraud. I verily believe, too, that 
sometimes now—though perhaps on the other side 
the Channel—those three practised knaves enjoy a 
hearty laugh over that December journey by the 
night-express. 


WILLIAM WILSON. 

BY EDGAR A. POE. 

L ET me call myself, for the present, William 
Wilson. The fair page now lying before me 
need not be sullied with my real appellation. 
This has been already too much an object for the 
scorn—for the horror—for the detestation of my 
race. To the uttermost regions of the globe have 
not the indignant winds bruited its unparalleled in¬ 
famy ? Oh, outcast of all outcasts most abandoned! 
—to the earth art thou not forever dead ? to its 
honors, to its flowers, to its golden aspirations ?—and 
a cloud, dense, dismal, and limitless, does it not 
hang eternally between thy hopes and heaven ? 

I would not, if I could, here or to-day,, embody a 
record of my later years *)f unspeakable misery and 
unpardonable crime. This epoch—these later years 
—took unto themselves a sudden elevation in turpi¬ 
tude, whose origin alone it is my present purpose to 
assign. Men usually grow base by degrees. From 
me, in an instant, all virtue dropped bodily as a 
mantle. From comparatively trivial wickedness I 
passed, with the stride of a giant, into more than the 
enormities of an Elah-Gabalus. What chance—what 
one event brought this evil thing to pass, bear with 
me while I relate. Death approaches; and the 
shadow which foreruns him has thrown a softening 
influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through 
the dim valley, for the sympathy—I had nearly said 
for the pity—of my fellow-men. I would fain have 
them believe that I have been, in some measure, the 
slave of circumstances beyond human control. I 
would wish them to seek out for me, in the details I 
am about to give, some little oasis of fatality amid 
a wilderness of error. I would have them allow— 
what they cannot refrain from allowing—that, 
although temptation may have erewhile existed as 
great, man was never thus, at least, tempted before— 
certainly, never thus fell. And is it therefore that 
he has never thus suffered ? Have I not indeed 


been living in a dream ? And am I not now dying 
a victim to the horror and the mystery of the wildest 
of all sublunary visions? 

I am the descendant of a race whose imaginative 
and easily excitable temperament has at all times 
rendered them remarkable ; and, in my earliest 
infancy, I, gave evidence of having fully inherited 
the family character. As I advanced in years it 
was more strongly developed ; becoming, for many 
reasons, a cause of serious disquietude to my friends, 
and of positive injury to myself. I grew self-willed, 
addicted to the wildest caprices, and a prey to the 
most ungovernable passions. Weak-minded, and 
beset with constitutional infirmities akin to my own, 
my parents could do but little to check the evil 
propensities which distinguished me. Some feeble 
and ill-directed efforts resulted in complete failure 
on their part, and, of course, in total triumph on 
mine. Thenceforward my voice was a household 
law ; and at an age when few children have aban¬ 
doned their leading-strings, I was left to the guid¬ 
ance of my own will, and became, in all but name, 
the master of my own actions. 

My earliest recollections of a school-life are con¬ 
nected with a large, rambling, Elizabethan house, 
in a misty-looking village of England, where were a 
vast number of gigantic and gnarled trees, and where 
all the houses were excessively ancient. In truth, it 
was a dream-like and spirit-soothing place, that 
venerable old town. At this moment, in fancy, I 
feel the refreshing chilliness of its deeply shadowed 
avenues, inhale the fragrance of its thousand shrub¬ 
beries, and thrill anew with undefinable delight at 
the deep hollow note of the church-bell, breaking, 
each hour, with sullen and sudden roar, upon the 
stillness of the dusky atmosphere in which the fretted 
Gothic steeple lay imbedded and asleep. 

It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure as I can 
now in any manner experience, to dwell upon minute 
recollections of the school and its concerns. Steeped 
in misery as I am—misery, alas ! only too real—I 
shall be pardoned for seeking relief, however slight 
and temporary, in the weakness of a few rambling 
details. These, moreover, utterly trivial, and even 
ridiculous in themselves, assume, to my fancy, ad¬ 
ventitious importance, as connected with a period 
and a locality when and where I recognize the first 
ambiguous monitions of the destiny which afterward 
so fully overshadowed me. Let me, then, remember. 

The house, I have said, was old and irregular 
The grounds were extensive, and a high and solid 
brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and broken 
glass, encompassed the wdiole. This prison-like ram¬ 
part formed the limit of our domain ; beyond it we 
saw but thrice a week—once every Saturday after¬ 
noon, when, attended by two ushers, we were per¬ 
mitted to take brief walks in a body through some 
of the neighboring fields—and twice during Sunday, 
when we were paraded in the same formal manner 
to the morning and evening service in the one church 







5/0 


Treasury of Tales. 


of the village. Of this church the principal of our 
school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of 
wonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him 
from our remote pew in the gallery, as, with step 
solemn and slow, he ascended the pulpit! This 
reverend man, with countenance so demurely benign, 
with robes so glossy and so clerically flowing, with 
wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast,— 
could this be he who, of late, with sour visage and 
in snuffy habiliments, administered, ferule in hand, 
the Draconian Laws of the academy ? Oh, gigantic 
paradox, too utterly monstrous for solution ! 

At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more 
ponderous gate. It was riveted and studded with 
iron bolts, and surmounted with jagged iron spikes. 
What impressions of deep awe did it inspire ! It was 
never opened save for the three periodical egressions 
and digressions already mentioned ; then, in every 
creak of its mighty hinges, we found a plenitude of 
mystery—a world of matter for solemn remark, or 
for more solemn meditation. 

The extensive inclosure was irregular in form, 
having many capacious recesses. Of these, three or 
four of the largest constituted the play-ground. It 
was level, and covered with fine hard gravel. I well 
remember it had no trees nor benches, nor any thing 
similar within it. Of course it was in the rear of the 
house. In front lay a small parterre, planted with 
box and other shrubs ; but through this sacred di¬ 
vision we passed only upon rare occasions indeed— 
such as a first advent to school or final departure 
thence, or perhaps, when a parent or friend having 
called for us, we joyfully took our way home for the 
Christmas or Midsummer holidays. 

But the house !—how quaint an old building was 
this !—to me how veritably a palace of enchantment! 
There was really no end to its windings—to its in¬ 
comprehensible subdivisions. It was difficult, at 
any given time, to say with certainty upon which of 
its two stories one happened to be. From each 
room to every other there were sure to be found 
three or four steps either in ascent or descent. Then 
the lateral branches were innumerable—inconceiv¬ 
able—and so returning in upon themselves, that our 
most exact ideas in regard to the whole mansion 
were not very far different from those with which 
we pondered upon infinity. During the five years 
of my residence here, I was never able to ascertain 
with precision in what remote locality lay the little 
sleeping apartment assigned to myself and some 
eighteen or twenty other scholars. 

The school-room-was the largest in the house—I 
could not help thinking, in the world. It was very 
long, narrow, and dismally low, with pointed Gothic 
windows and a ceiling of oak. In a remote and ter¬ 
ror-inspiring angle was a square inclosure of eight 
or ten feet, comprising the sanctum , “ during hours,” 
of our principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was 
a solid structure, with massy door, sooner than open 
which in the absence of the “ Dominie,” we would 


all have willingly perished by the peine forte et dure. 
In other angles were two other similar boxes, far 
less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly matters of 
awe. One of these was the pulpit of the “ classical ” 
usher, one of the “ English and mathematical.” In¬ 
terspersed about the room, crossing and recrossing 
in endless irregularity, were innumerable benches 
and desks, black, ancient, and time-worn, piled 
desperately with much-bethumbed books, and so be- 
seamed with initial letters, names at full length, 
grotesque figures, and other multiplied efforts of the 
knife, as to have entirely lost what little of original 
form might have been their portion in days long de¬ 
parted. A huge bucket with water stood at one 
extremity of the room, and a clock of stupendous di¬ 
mensions at the other. 

Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable 
academy, I passed, yet not in tedium or disgust, the 
years of the third lustrum of my life. The teeming 
brain of childhood requires no external world of in¬ 
cident to occupy or amuse it; and the apparently 
dismal monotony of a school was replete with more 
intense excitement than my riper youth has derived 
from luxury, or my full manhood from crime. Yet 
I must believe that my first mental development had 
in it much of the uncommon—even much of the 
outrd. Upon mankind at large the events of very 
early existence rarely leave in mature age any defi¬ 
nite impression. All is gray shadow—a weak and 
irregular remembrance—an indistinct regathering of 
feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric pains. With 
me this is not so. *In childhood I must have felt with 
the energy of a man what I now find stamped upon 
memory in lines as vivid, as deep, and as durable as 
the exergues of the Carthaginian medals. 

Yet in fact—in the fact of the world’s view—how 
little was there to remember ! The morning’s awak¬ 
ening, the nightly summons to bed ; the connings, 
the recitations; the periodical half-holidays, and 
perambulations ; the play-ground, with its broils, its 
pastimes, its intrigues ;—these, by a mental sorcery 
long forgotten, were made to involve a wilderness of 
sensation, a world of rich incident, a universe of 
varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate 
and spirit-stirring. “ Oh, le bon temps , que ce siecle de 
fer ! ” 

In truth, the ardor, the enthusiasm, and the im¬ 
periousness of my disposition, soon rendered me a 
marked character among my schoolmates, and by 
slow, but natural gradations, gave me an ascendancy 
over all not greatly older than myself—over all with 
a single exception. This exception was found in the 
person of a scholar, who, although no relation, bore 
the same Christian and surname as myself ;—a cir¬ 
cumstance, in fact, little remarkable ; for, notwith¬ 
standing a noble descent, mine was one of those 
every-day appellations which seem, by prescriptive 
right, to have been, time out of mind, the common 
property of the mob. In this narrative I have there¬ 
fore designated myself as William Wilson—a fictiti- 






William Wilson. 


5 7i 


ous title not very dissimilar to the real. My name¬ 
sake alone, of those who in school phraseology 
constituted “ our set,” presumed to compete with me 
in the studies of the class—in the sports and broils 
of the play-ground—to refuse implicit belief in my 
assertions, and submission to my will—indeed, to in¬ 
terfere with my arbitrary dictation in any respect 
whatsoever. If there is on earth a supreme and 
unqualified despotism, it is the despotism of a mas¬ 
ter-mind in boyhood over the less energetic spirits 
of its companions. 

Wilson’s rebellion was to me a source of the great¬ 
est embarrassment; the more so as, in spite of the 
bravado with which in public I made a point of 
treating him and his pretensions, I secretly felt that 
I feared him, and could not help thinking the equality 
which he maintained so easily with myself a proof 
of his true superiority ; since not to be overcome 
■cost me a perpetual struggle. Yet this superiority— 
even this equality—was in truth acknowledged by 
no one but myself ; our associates, by some unac¬ 
countable blindness, seemed not even to suspect it. 
Indeed, his competition, his resistance, and especially 
his impertinent and dogged interference with my 
purposes, were not more pointed than private. He 
appeared to be destitute alike of the ambition which 
urged, and of the passionate energy of mind which 
enabled me to excel. In his rivalry he might have 
been supposed actuated solely by a whimsical desire 
to thwart, astonish, or mortify myself; although 
there were times when I could not help observing, 
with a feeling made up of wonder, abasement, and 
pique, that he mingled with his injuries, his insults, 
or his contradictions, a certain most inappropriate, 
and assuredly most unwelcome affectio?iate?iess of 
manner. I could only conceive this singular behav¬ 
ior to arise from a consummate self-conceit assuming 
the vulgar airs of patronage and protection. 

Perhaps it was this latter trait in Wilson’s conduct, 
conjoined with our identity of name, and the mere 
accident of our having entered the school upon the 
same day, which set afloat the notion that we were 
brothers among the senior classes in the academy. 
These do not usually inquire with much strictness 
into the affairs of their juniors. I have before said, 
or should have said, that Wilson was not, in the 
most remote degree, connected with my family. But 
assuredly if we had been brothers we must have been 
twins; for, after leaving Dr. Bransby’s, I casually 
learned that my namesake was born on the nineteenth 
of January, 1813—and this is a somewhat remarkable 
coincidence ; for the day is precisely that of my own 
nativity. 

It may seem strange that in spite of the continual 
anxiety occasioned me by the rivalry of Wilson, and 
his intolerable spirit of contradiction, I could not 
bring myself to hate him altogether. We had, to be 
sure, nearly every day a quarrel, in which, yielding 
me publicly the palm of victory, he, in some manner, 
contrived to make me feel that it was he who had 


deserved it ; yet a sense of pride on my part, and a 
veritable dignity on his own, kept us always upon 
what are called “ speaking terms,” while there were 
many points of strong congeniality in our tempers, 
operating to awake in me a sentiment which our po¬ 
sition alone, perhaps, prevented from ripening into 
friendship. It is difficult, indeed, to define, or even 
to describe, my real feelings toward him. They 
formed a motley and heterogeneous admixture ;— 
some petulant animosity, which was not yet hatred, 
some esteem, more respect, much fear, with a world 
of uneasy curiosity. To the moralist it will be un¬ 
necessary to say, in addition, that Wilson and myself 
were the most inseparable of companions. 

It was no doubt the anomalous state of affairs ex¬ 
isting between us, which turned all my attacks upon 
him (and they were many, either open or covert) 
into the channel of banter or practical joke (giving 
pain while assuming the aspect of mere fun), rather 
than into a more serious and determined hostility. 
But my endeavors on this head were by no means 
uniformly successful, even when my plans were the 
most wittily concocted ; for my namesake had much 
about him, in character, of that unassuming and 
quiet austerity which, while enjoying the poignancy 
of its own jokes, has no heel of Achilles in itself, and 
absolutely refuses to be laughed at. I could find, 
indeed, but one vulnerable point, and that, lying in 
a personal peculiarity, arising, perhaps, from consti¬ 
tutional disease, would have been spared by any 
antagonist less at his wit’s end than myself ;—my 
rival had a weakness in the faucial or guttural organs, 
which precluded him from raising his voice at any 
time above a very low whisper. Of this defect I did 
not fail to take what poor advantage lay in my 
power. 

Wilson’s retaliations in kind were many ; and there 
was one form of his practical wit that disturbed me 
beyond measure. How his sagacity first discovered 
at all that so petty a thing would vex me, is a ques¬ 
tion I never could solve ; but having discovered, he 
habitually practised the annoyance. I had always 
felt aversion to my uncourtly patronymic, and its 
very common, if not plebeian prsenomen. The words 
were venom in my ears ; and when, upon the day of 
my arrival, a second William Wilson came also to the 
academy, I felt angry with him for bearing the name, 
and doubly disgusted with the name because a 
stranger bore it, who would be the cause of its two¬ 
fold repetition, who would be constantly in my pres¬ 
ence, and whose concerns, in the ordinary routine of 
the school business, must inevitably, on account of 
the detestable coincidence, be often confounded with 
my own. 

The feeling of vexation thus engendered grew 
stronger with every circumstance tending to show 
resemblance, moral or physical, between my rival 
and myself. I had not then discovered the remark¬ 
able fact that we were of the same age ; but I saw 
that we were of the same height, and I perceived 





572 


Treasury of Tales. 


that we were even singularly alike in general contour 
of person and outline of feature. I was galled, too, 
by the rumor touching a relationship which had 
grown current in the upper forms. In a word, noth¬ 
ing could more seriously disturb me (although I 
scrupulously concealed such disturbance) than any 
allusion to a similarity of mind, person, or condition 
existing between us. But, in truth, I had no reason 
to believe that (with the exception of the matter of 
relationship, and in the case of Wilson himself) this 
similarity had ever been made a subject of comment, 
or even observed at all by our school-fellows. That 
he observed it in all its bearings, and as fixedly as I, 
was apparent; but that he could discover in such 
circumstances so fruitful a field of annoyance, can 
only be attributed, as 1 said before, to his more than 
ordinary penetration. 

•His cue, which was to perfect an imitation of my¬ 
self, lay both in words and in actions ; and most 
admirably did he play his part. My dress it was an 
easy matter to copy ; my gait and general manner 
were, without difficulty, appropriated ; in spite of his 
constitutional defect, even my voice did not escape 
him. My louder tones were, of course, unattempted, 
but then the key, it was identical ; and his singular 
whisper, it grew the very echo of my own. 

How greatly this most exquisite portraiture har¬ 
assed me (for it could not justly be termed a carica¬ 
ture), I will not now venture to describe. I had but 
one consolation—in the fact that the imitation, ap¬ 
parently, was noticed by myself alone, and that I 
had to endure only the knowing and strangely sar¬ 
castic smiles of my namesake himself. Satisfied with 
having produced in my bosom the intended effect, he 
seemed to chuckle in secret over the sting he had in¬ 
flicted, and was characteristically disregardful of the 
public applause which the success of his witty en¬ 
deavors might have so easily elicited. That the school, 
indeed, did not feel his design, perceive its accom¬ 
plishment, and participate in his sneer, was, for many 
anxious months, a riddle I could not resolve. Per¬ 
haps the gradation of his copy rendered it not so 
readily perceptible ; or, more possibly, I owed my 
security to the masterly air of the copyist, who, dis¬ 
daining the letter (which in a painting is all the ob¬ 
tuse can see), gave but the full spirit of his original 
for my individual contemplation and chagrin. 

I have already more than once spoken of the dis¬ 
gusting air of patronage which he assumed toward 
me, and of his frequent officious interference with 
my will. This interference often took the ungra¬ 
cious character of advice ; advice not openly given, 
but hinted or insinuated. I received it with a re¬ 
pugnance which gained strength as I grew in years. 
Yet, at this distant day, let me do him the simple 
justice to acknowledge that I can recall no occasion 
when the suggestions of my rival were on the side 
of those errors or follies so usual to his immature age 
and seeming inexperience ; that his moral sense, at 
least, if not his general talents and worldly wisdom, 


was far keener than my own ; and that 1 might, to¬ 
day, have been a better, and thus a happier man, 
had I less frequently rejected the counsels embodied 
in those meaning whispers which I then but too cor¬ 
dially hated and too bitterly despised. 

As it was, I at length grew restive in the extreme 
under his distasteful supervision, and daily resented 
more and more openly what 1 considered his intol¬ 
erable arrogance. I have said that, in the first years 
of our connection as schoolmates, my feelings in re¬ 
gard to him might have been easily ripened into 
friendship : but, in the latter months of my^residence 
at the academy, although the intrusion of his ordi¬ 
nary manner had, beyond doubt, in some measure 
abated, my sentiments, in nearly similar proportion, 
partook very much of positive hatred. Upon one 
occasion he saw this, I think, and afterward avoided, 
or made a show of avoiding me. 

It was about the same period, if I remember aright,, 
that, in an altercation of violence with him, in which 
he was more than usually thrown off his guard, and 
spoke and acted with an openness of demeanor 
rather foreign to his nature, I discovered, or fancied 
I discovered, in his accent, his air, and general ap¬ 
pearance, a something which first startled, and then 
deeply interested me, by bringing to mind dim vis¬ 
ions of my earliest infancy — wild, confused, and 
thronging memories of a time when memory herself 
was yet unborn. I cannot better describe the sensa¬ 
tion which oppressed me, than by saying that I could 
with difficulty shake off the belief of my having been 
acquainted with the being who stood before me at 
some epoch very long ago—some point of the past 
even infinitely remote. The delusion, however, 
faded as rapidly as it came ; and I mention it at all 
but to define the day of the last conversation I there 
held with my singular namesake. 

The huge old house, with its countless subdivisions,, 
had several large chambers communicating with each 
other, where slept the greater number of the students. 
There were, however (as must necessarily happen in 
a building so awkwardly planned), many little nooks 
or recesses, the odds and ends of the structure ; and 
these the economic ingenuity of Dr. Bransby had 
also fitted up as dormitories ; although, being the 
merest closets, they were capable of accommodating 
but a single individual. One of these small apart¬ 
ments was occupied by Wilson. 

One night, about the close of my fifth year at the 
school, and immediately after the altercation just 
mentioned, finding every one wrapped in sleep, I 
arose from bed, and, lamp in hand, stole through a 
wilderness of narrow passages from my own bedroom 
to that of my rival. I had long been plotting one of 
those ill-natured pieces of practical wit at his expense 
in which I had hitherto been so uniformly unsuccess¬ 
ful. It was my intention, now, to put my scheme in 
operation, and I resolved to make him feel the whole 
extent of the malice with which I was imbued. Hav¬ 
ing reached his closet, I noiselessly entered, leaving 




William Wilson. 


573 


the lamp, with a shade over it, on the outside. I 
advanced a step, and listened to the sound of his 
tranquil breathing. Assured of his being asleep, I 
returned, took the light, and with it again ap¬ 
proached the bed. Close curtains were around it, 
which, in the prosecution of my plan, I slowly and 
quietly withdrew, when the bright rays fell vividly 
upon the sleeper, and my eyes at the same moment 
upon his countenance. I looked ;—and a numbness, 
an iciness of feeling instantly pervaded my frame. 
My breast heaved, my knees tottered, my whole 
spirit became possessed with an objectless yet intol¬ 
erable horror. Gasping for breath, I lowered the 
lamp in still nearer proximity to the face. Were 
these —these the lineaments of William Wilson ? I 
saw, indeed, that they were his, but I shook as if 
with a fit of the ague in fancying they were not. 
What was there about them to confound me in this 
manner ? I gazed ;—w'hile my brain reeled with a 
multitude of incoherent thoughts. Not thus he ap¬ 
peared—assuredly not thus —in the vivacity of his 
waking hours. The same name ! the same contour 
of person ! the same day of arrival at the academy ! 
And then his dogged and meaningless imitation of 
my gait, my voice, my habits, and my manner ! Was 
it, in truth, within the bounds of human possibility 
that what I now saw was the result, merely, of the 
habitual practice of this sarcastic imitation ? Awe¬ 
stricken, and with a creeping shudder, I extinguished 
the lamp, passed silently from the chamber, and left, 
at once, the halls of that old academy, never to enter 
them again. 

After a lapse of some months, spent at home in 
mere idleness, I found myself a student at Eton. 
The brief interval had been sufficient to enfeeble my 
remembrance of the events at Dr. Bransby’s, or at 
least to effect a material change in the nature of the 
feelings w T ith which I remembered them. The truth 
—the tragedy—of the drama was no more. I could 
now find room to doubt the evidence of my senses ; 
and seldom called up the subject at all but with 
wonder at the extent of human credulity, and a 
smile at the vivid force of the imagination which I 
hereditarily possessed. Neither was this species of 
skepticism likely to be diminished by the character 
of the life I led at Eton. The vortex of thoughtless 
folly into which I there so immediately and so reck¬ 
lessly plunged, washed away all but the froth of my 
past hours, ingulfed at once every solid or serious 
impression, and left to memory only the veriest levi¬ 
ties of a former existence. 

I do not wish, however, to trace the course of my 
miserable profligacy here—a profligacy which set at 
defiance the laws, while it eluded the vigilance of 
the institution. Three years of folly, passed without 
profit, had but given me rooted habits of vice, and 
added, in a somewhat unusual degree, to my bodily 
stature, when, after a week of soulless dissipation, I 
invited a small party of the most dissolute students 
to a secret carousal in my chambers. We met at a 


late hour of the night; for our debaucheries were to 
be faithfully protracted until morning. The wine 
flowed freely, and there were not wanting other and 
perhaps more dangerous seductions ; so that the 
gray dawn had already faintly appeared in the cast, 
while our delirious extravagance was at its height. 
Madly flushed with cards and intoxication, I was in 
the act of insisting upon a toast of more than wonted 
profanity, when my attention was suddenly diverted 
by the violent, although partial unclosing of the door 
of the apartment, and by the eager voice of a servant 
from without. He said that some person, appar¬ 
ently in great haste, demanded to speak with me in 
the hall. 

Wildly excited with wine, the unexpected inter¬ 
ruption rather delighted than surprised me. I stag¬ 
gered forward at once, and a few steps brought 
me to the vestibule of the building. In this low and 
small room there hung no lamp ; and now no light 
at all was admitted, save that of the exceedingly 
feeble dawn which made its way through the semi¬ 
circular wfindow. As I put my foot over the thresh¬ 
old, I became aware of the figure of a youth about 
my own height, and habited in a white kerseymere 
morning frock, cut in the novel fashion of the one I 
myself wore at the moment. This the faint light 
enabled me to perceive ; but the features of his face 
I could not distinguish. Upon my entering, he 
strode hurriedly up to me, and, seizing me by the 
arm with a gesture of petulant impatience, whispered 
the words “ William Wilson ! ” in my ear. 

I grew perfectly sober in an instant. 

There was that in the manner of the stranger, and 
in the tremulous shake of his uplifted finger, as he 
held it between my eyes and the light, which filled 
me with unqualified amazement; but it was not this 
which had so violently moved me. It was the preg¬ 
nancy of solemn admonition in the singular, low, 
hissing utterance ; and, above all, it was the charac¬ 
ter, the tone, the key , of those few, simple, and fa¬ 
miliar, yet whispered syllables, which came with a 
thousand thronging memories of by-gone days, and 
struck upon my soul with the shock of a galvanic 
battery. Ere I could recover the use of my senses 
he was gone. 

Although this event failed not of a vivid effect 
upon my disordered imagination, yet was it evanes¬ 
cent as vivid. For some weeks, indeed, I busied 
myself in earnest inquiry, or was wrapped in a cloud 
of morbid speculation. I did not pretend to dis¬ 
guise from my perception the identity of the singu¬ 
lar individual who thus perseveringly interfered with 
my affairs, and harassed me with his insinuated coun¬ 
sel. But who and what was this Wilson ?—and 
whence came he ?—and what were his purposes ? 
Upon neither of these points could I be satisfied— 
merely ascertaining, in regard to him, that a sudden 
accident in his family had caused his removal from 
Dr. Bransby’s academy on the afternoon of the day 
on which I myself had eloped. But in a brief period 






574 


Treasury of Tales. 


I ceased to think upon the subject, my attention 
being all absorbed in a contemplated departure for 
Oxford. Thither I soon went, the uncalculating 
vanity of my parents furnishing me with an outfit 
and annual establishment, which would enable me 
to indulge at will in the luxury already so dear to 
my heart—to vie in profuseness of expenditure with 
the haughtiest heirs of the wealthiest earldoms in 
Great Britain. 

Excited by such appliances to vice, my constitu¬ 
tional temperament broke forth with redoubled ardor, 
and I spurned even the common restraints of decency 
in the mad infatuation of my revels. But it were 
absurd to pause in the detail of my extravagance. 
Let it suffice, that among spendthrifts I out-Heroded 
Herod, and that, giving name to a multitude of novel 
follies, I added no brief appendix to the long cata¬ 
logue of vices then usual in the most dissolute uni¬ 
versity of Europe. 

It could hardly be credited, however, that I had, 
even here, so utterly fallen from the gentlemanly 
estate as to seek acquaintance with the vilest arts of 
the gambler by profession, and, having become an 
adept in his despicable science, to practise it habitu¬ 
ally as a means of increasing my already enormous 
income at the expense of the weak-minded among 
my fellow-collegians. Such, nevertheless, was the 
fact. And the very enormity of this offence against 
all manly and honorable sentiment proved, beyond 
doubt, the main if not the sole reason of the impu¬ 
nity with which it was committed. Who, indeed, 
among my most abandoned associates, would not 
rather have disputed the clearest evidence of his 
senses, than have suspected of such courses the gay, 
the frank, the generous William Wilson—the noblest 
and most liberal commoner at Oxford—him whose 
follies (said his parasites) were but the follies of 
youth and unbridled fancy—whose errors but inimi¬ 
table whim—whose darkest vice but a careless and 
dashing extravagance ? 

I had been now two years successfully busied in 
this way, when there came to the university a young 
parvenu nobleman, Glendinning—rich, said report, 
as Herodes Atticus—his riches, too, as easily ac¬ 
quired. I soon found him of weak intellect, and, of 
course, marked him as a fitting subject for my skill. 
I frequently engaged him in play, and contrived, 
with the gambler’s usual art, to let him win con¬ 
siderable sums, the more effectually to entangle him 
in my snares. At length, my schemes being ripe, I 
met him (with the full intention that this meeting 
should be final and decisive) at the chambers of a 
fellow-commoner (Mr. Preston), equally intimate 
with both, but who, to do him justice, entertained 
not even a remote suspicion of my design. To give 
to this a better coloring, I had contrived to have 
assembled a party of some eight or ten, and was 
solicitously careful that the introduction of cards 
should appear accidental, and originate in the pro¬ 
posal of my contemplated dupe himself. To be brief 


upon a vile topic, none of the low finesse was omitted,, 
so customary upon similar occasions, that it is a just 
matter for wonder how any are still found so be¬ 
sotted as to fall its victim. 

We had protracted our sitting far into the night, 
and I had at length effected the manoeuvre of get¬ 
ting Glendinning as my sole antagonist. The game, 
too, was my favorite tcarte. The rest of the-com¬ 
pany, interested in the extent of our play, had 
abandoned their own cards, and were standing around 
us as spectators. The parvenu, who had been in¬ 
duced by my artifices in the early part of the even¬ 
ing to drink deeply, now shuffled, dealt, or played 
with a wild nervousness of manner for which his in¬ 
toxication, I thought, might partially, but could not 
altogether account. In a very short period he had 
become my debtor to a large amount, when, having 
taken a long draught of port, he did precisely what 
I had been coolly anticipating—he proposed to 
double our already extravagant stakes. With a well- 
feigned show of reluctance, and not until after my 
repeated refusal had seduced him into some angry 
words which gave a color of pique to my compliance, 
did I finally comply. The result, of course, did but 
prove how entirely the prey was in my toils ; in less 
than an hour he had quadrupled his debt. For some 
time his countenance had been losing the florid tinge 
lent it by the wine ; but now. to my astonishment, I 
perceived that it had grown to a pallor truly fearful. 
I say, to my astonishment. Glendinning had been 
represented to my eager inquiries as immeasurably 
wealthy ; and the sums which he had as yet lost, 
although in themselves vast, could not, I supposed, 
very seriously annoy, much less so violently affect 
him. That he was overcome by the wine just swal¬ 
lowed, was the idea which most readily presented 
itself ; and, rather with a view to the preservation of 
my own character in the eyes of my associates, than 
from any less interested motive, I was about to insist, 
peremptorily, upon a discontinuance of the play, 
when some expressions at my elbow from among the 
company, and an ejaculation evincing utter despair 
on the part of Glendinning, gave me to understand 
that I had effected his total ruin under circumstances 
which, rendering him an object for the pity of all, 
should have protected him from the ill-offices even 
of a fiend. 

What now might have been my conduct it is diffi¬ 
cult to say. The pitiable condition of my dupe had 
thrown an air of embarrassed gloom over all ; and 
for some moments a profound silence was main¬ 
tained, during which I could not help feeling my 
cheeks tingle with the many burning glances of scorn 
or reproach cast upon me by the less abandoned of 
the party. I will even own that an intolerable 
weight of anxiety was for a brief instant lifted from 
my bosom by the sudden and extraordinary inter¬ 
ruption which ensued. The wide, heavy folding 
doors of the apartment were all at once thrown open, 
to their full extent, with a vigorous and rushing im- 






William Wilson. 


petuosity that extinguished, as if by magic, every 
candle in the room. Their light, in dying, enabled 
us just to perceive that a stranger had entered, about 
my own height, and closely muffled in a cloak. The 
darkness, however, was now total ; and we could 
only fed that he was standing in our midst. Before 
any one of us could recover from the extreme 
astonishment into which this rudeness had thrown 
all, we heard the voice of the intruder. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, in a low, distinct, and never- 
to-be-forgotten whisper which thrilled to the very 
marrow of my bones, “ Gentlemen, I make no apology 
for this behavior, because in thus behaving I am but 
fulfilling a duty. You are, beyond doubt, unin¬ 
formed of the true character of the person who has 
to-night won at ecarte a large sum of money from 
Lord Glendinning. I will therefore put you upon 
an expeditious and decisive plan of obtaining this 
very necessary information. Please to examine, at 
your leisure, the inner linings of the cuff of his left 
sleeve, and the several little packages which may 
be found in the somewhat capacious pockets of his 
embroidered morning wrapper.” 

While he spoke, so profound was the stillness that 
one might have heard a pin drop upon the floor. In 
ceasing, he departed at once, and as abruptly as he 
had entered. Can I—shall I describe my sensations ? 
Must I say that I felt all the horrors of the damned ? 
Most assuredly I had little time for reflection. 
Many hands roughly seized me upon the spot, and 
lights were immediately re-procured. A search en¬ 
sued. In the lining of my sleeve were found all the 
court cards essential in darte\ and, in the pockets of 
my wrapper, a number of packs, fac-similes of those 
used at our sitting, with the single exception that 
mine were of the species called, technically, arrondees; 
the honors being slightly convex at the ends, the 
lower cards slightly convex at the sides. In this dis¬ 
position, the dupe who cuts, as customary, at the 
length of the pack, will invariably find that he cuts 
his antagonist an honor ; while the gambler, cut¬ 
ting at the breadth, will, as certainly, cut nothing 
for his victim which may count in the records of the 
game. 

Any burst of indignation upon this discovery 
would have affected me less than the silent con¬ 
tempt or the sarcastic composure with which it was 
received. 

“ Mr. Wilson,” said our host, stooping to remove 
from beneath his feet an exceedingly luxurious cloak 
of rare furs, “Mr. Wilson, this is your property.” 
(The weather was cold ; and, upon quitting my own 
room, I had thrown a cloak over my dressing-wrap¬ 
per, putting it off upon reaching the scene of play.) 
“ I presume it is supererogatory to seek here ” (eying 
the folds of the garment with a bitter smile) “ for any 
further evidence of your skill. Indeed, we have had 
enough. You will see the necessity, I hope, of quit¬ 
ting Oxford—at all events, of quitting instantly my 
chambers. ” 


Abased, humbled to the dust as I th 
probable that I should have resented this 
guage by immediate personal violence, 
whole attention been at the moment a 
fact of the most startling character, 
which I had worn was of a rare descrip 
how rare, how extravagantly costly, I sh 
ure to say. Its fashion, too, was of n 
tastic invention ; for I was fastidious, t 
degree of coxcombry, in matters of t 
nature. When, therefore, Mr. Preston 
that which he had picked up upon the fit 
the folding-doors of the apartment, it \ 
astonishment nearly bordering upon ten 
perceived my own already hanging on my arm 
(where I had no doubt unwittingly placed it), and 
that the one presented me was but its exact counter¬ 
part in every, in even the minutest possible particu¬ 
lar. The singular being who had so disastrously ex¬ 
posed me, had been muffled, I remembered, in a 
cloak ; and none had been worn at all by any of the 
members of our party, with the exception of myself. 
Retaining some presence of mind, I took the one of¬ 
fered me by Preston ; placed it, unnoticed, over my 
own ; left the apartmen f with n resolute scowl of 
defiance ; and, next morn. 

menced a hurried journo; ' , . Oxford - u 

continent, in a perfect agon; o; Vi, >, . j . :*■ 

shame. 

I fled in vain. My evil destiny pursued me as it 
in exultation, and proved, indeed, that the exercise 
of its mysterious dominion had as yet only begun. 
Scarcely had I set foot in Paris, ere I had fresh evi¬ 
dence of the detestable interest taken by this Wilson 
in my concerns. Years flew, while I experienced no 
relief. Villain !—at Rome, with how untimely, yet 
with how spectral an officiousness, stepped he in be¬ 
tween me and my ambition! At. Vienna, too—at 
Berlin—and at Moscow ! Where, in truth, had I 
not bitter cause to curse him within my heart ? From 
his inscrutable tyranny did I at length flee, panic- 
stricken, as from a pestilence ; and to the very ends 
of the earth I flci /V mi, » V 

And again ar, ith 

my own spirit, \\ ho 

is he?—whence camt i - n •> ob¬ 

jects?” But iK nswer was thei\, found. Anu now 
I scrutinized, with a minute scrutiny, the forms, and 
the methods, and the leading traits of his imperti¬ 
nent supervision. But even here there was very 
little upon which to base a conjecture. It was no¬ 
ticeable, indeed, that in no one of the multiplied 
instances in which he had of late crossed my path, 
had he so crossed it except to frustrate those 
schemes, or to disturb those actions, which, if fully 
carried out, might have resulted in bitter mischief. 
Poor justification this, in truth, for an authority so 
imperiously assumed ! Poor indemnity for natural 
rights of self-agency so pertinaciously, so insult¬ 
ingly denied ! 






/ 

Treasury of Tales. 


id also been forced to notice that my tor- 
r, for a very long period of time (while scru- 
dy and with miraculous dexterity maintaining 
im of an identity of apparel with myself), had 
trived it in the execution of his varied inter- 
> with my will, that I saw not at any moment 
tures of his face. Be Wilson what he might, 
least, was but the veriest of affectation or of 
Could he, for an instant, have supposed that, 
admonisher at Eton—in the destroyer of my 
at Oxford,—in him who thwarted my ambition 
te, my revenge at Paris, my passionate love at 
Na t -o, or what he falsely termed my avarice in 
Egypt—that in this, my arch-enemy and evil genius, 
1 could fail to recognize the William Wilson of my 
school-boy days,—the namesake, the companion, the 
rival—the hated and dreaded rival at Dr. Bransby’s ? 
Impossible !—But let me hasten to the last event¬ 
ful scene of the drama. 

Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this im¬ 
perious domination. The sentiment of deep awe 
with which I habitually regarded the elevated char¬ 
acter, th° maiestic wisdom, the apparent omnipres¬ 
ence ar :nce of Wilson, added to a feeling 

of even :en h which certain other traits in his 

nature * )tions inspired me, had operated, 

hithertc to ss me with an idea of my own 

utter A' d helplessness, and to suggest an 

implici bitterly reluctant submission to 

his arl But, of late days, I had given 

myself > d. ly to wine ; and its maddening in¬ 
fluence u hereditary temper rendered me 

more a; >re 'inpatient of control. I began to 
murmur, - hi tate,—to resist. And was it only 
fancy which induced me to believe that, with the 
increase of my own firmness, that of my tormentor 
unr roportional diminution ? Be this as it 

ma v\ ! gan to feel tfte inspiration of a burn¬ 
ing .1 at length nurtured in my secret 

tho i s ern and desperate resolution that I 

wo i 10 longer to be enslaved. 

I t Borne, during the carnival of 18—, that 

I a 1 asquerade in the palazzo of the Nea- 

pol ' )ul v Di Broglio. I had indulged more 
free al in the excesses of the wine-table ; 

and ffocating atmosphere of the crowded 

rooi i.i me beyond endurance. The diffi¬ 
culty o. of ircing my way through the mazes of 
the company u mtributed not a little to the ruffling 
of my temper; for I was anxiously seeking (let me 
not say with what unworthy motive) the young, the 
gay, the beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di 
Broglio. With a too unscrupulous confidence she 
had previously communicated to me the secret of 
the costume in which she would be habited, and 
now, having caught a glimpse of her person, I was 
hurrying to make my way into her presence. At 
this moment I felt a light hand placed upon my 
shoulder, and that ever-remembered, low, damnable 
whisper within my ear. 


In an absolute frenzy of wrath, I turned at once 
upon him who had thus interrupted me, and seized 
him violently by the collar. He was attired, as I 
had expected, in a costume altogether similar to my 
own ; wearing a Spanish cloak of blue velvet, begirt 
about the waist with a crimson belt sustaining a 
rapier. A mask of black silk entirely covered his 
face. 

“ Scoundrel ! ” I said, in a voice husky with rage, 
while every syllable I uttered seemed as new fuel to 
my fury ; “ scoundrel ! impostor ! accursed villain ! 
you shall not—you shall not dog me unto death ! 
Follow me, or I stab you where you stand ! ”—and I 
broke my way from the ball-room into a small ante¬ 
chamber adjoining, dragging him unresistingly with 
me as I went. 

Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. 
He staggered against the wall, while I closed the 
door with an oath, and commanded him to draw. 
He hesitated but for an instant ; then, with a slight 
sigh, drew in silence, and put himself upon his de¬ 
fence. 

The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with 
every species of wild excitement, and felt within my 
single arm the energy and power of a multitude, in 
a few seconds I forced him by sheer strength against 
the wainscoting, and thus, getting him at mercy, 
plunged my sword, with brute ferocity, repeatedly 
through and through his bosom» 

At that instant some person tried the latch of the 
door. I hastened to prevent an intrusion, and then 
immediately returned to my dying antagonist. But 
what human language can adequately portray that 
astonishment, that horror which possessed me at 
the spectacle then presented to view ? The brief 
moment in which I averted my eyes had been 
sufficient to produce, apparently, a material change 
in the arrangements at the upper or farther end of 
the room. A large mirror,—so at first it seemed to 
me in my confusion—now stood where none had 
been perceptible before; and, as I stepped up to it 
in extremity of terror, mine own image, but with 
features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced to 
meet me with a feeble and tottering gait. 

Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my 
antagonist—it was Wilson, who then stood before 
me in the agonies of his dissolution. His mask and 
cloak lay, where he had thrown them, upon the floor. 
Not a thread in all his raiment—not a line in all the 
marked and singular lineaments of his face which 
was not, even in the most absolute identity, mine 
oiun ! 

It was Wilson ; but he spoke no longer in a whis¬ 
per, and I could have fancied that I myself was 
speaking while he said : 

“ You have conquered , and I yield. Yet , hencefor¬ 
ward art thou also dead—dead to the World , to 
Heaven , and to Hope ! In me didst thou exist — and , 
in my death , see by this image , which is thine own , how 
utterly thou hast murdered thyself." 


LbJa 16 









































































































































































